Sir Frederick asked, “What are you two doing down there at this hour? Or do I not want to know?”
She hated the disapproving, suspicious look on his face—hated that she’d put it there.
“We were ghost hunting,” Thomas said with a wink. “No luck.”
Frederick’s dark brows rose and his eyes shifted to her.
Warmth infused her cheeks. “It was my fault,” she said. “I saw someone in a hooded robe go belowstairs, and I wanted to find out who it was.”
Fredrick frowned. “And you thought it might be ... the abbess?”
Rebecca ducked her head. “I know how foolish that must sound. Especially when there are no nuns in England anymore.”
He said, “Actually, several orders from France have taken refuge in our country, or so I have read. Though I have never seen one in this area.”
“Nor I,” Thomas agreed.
Even so, another shiver passed over her.
Thomas said, “In any case, Miss Lane has had a fright. Why don’t you escort her to her room, Freddy? I am eager for a game of billiards.”
“If she would like,” Frederick solemnly replied.
“Excellent. Join me later.”
When Thomas had gone back downstairs, Rebecca said, “There is no need to walk with me ... at least, not all the way to my room. Perhaps just across the cloisters?”
He studied her face. “Were you really afraid?”
“Again, you will think me foolish, but yes.”
“And yet you followed whoever it was down there anyway?”
Reading censure in his question, she ducked her head once more.
He added, “That is the Miss Lane I remember. Climbing the wall. Riding the horse. Standing up to her brother’s tormentors. Confident, brave Becky.”
She blinked. Not only were his words utterly unexpected but she barely recognized herself in them. Yes, she had climbed things, but confident? Brave? She only vaguely remembered that girl.
“That was all a long time ago now.”
“Not so long,” he said. “Our vicar, Mr. Gilby, attended the canal meeting. He mentioned you climbed a tree to rescue a kite for his children only a few days ago.”
Her face heated anew, but glancing up and seeing his grin, she returned it.
He walked her to the bottom of the night stair. “I shall wait here until you are safe in your room.”
“Thank you.”
Reaching out, he squeezed her hand and said warmly, “Good night, brave Miss Rebecca.”
“Good night,” she replied, still grinning foolishly in the dark.
But as she climbed the stairs, Rebecca’s grin slowly faded. What was she doing? She was not there to flirt with Sir Frederick or to make a fool of herself. She was there to help John. And here she was, about to spend another night in the Swanford Abbey Hotel.
She hated to think how much her bill amounted to already, and she still had not given John’s manuscript to either Mr. Edgecombe or Mr. Oliver. Rebecca wanted to finish what she’d come for and leave, before she made things worse for John or jeopardized her position with Lady Fitzhoward—or, worse yet, before she broke her heart again over Sir Frederick Wilford.
She decided she’d had more than enough of Swanford Abbey, haunted or not.
