‘Sometimes, this world really wants for sense,’ she muttered, steeling herself for the walk to the door.
A few minutes later she was leaning against her bedchamber doorframe, fighting another wave of pain, but feeling a lot steadier on her feet. Carefully, she twisted the handle, and squinted into the murky, panelled corridor. It smelled of boot polish and lavender, while a pale stream of moonlight danced along a scarlet carpet. A week ago, she might have been deterred by the thought of the viscount’s ghostly ancestors, but right now her thirst was past ignoring.
She stepped outside, the carpet muffling the pad of her booties as she crept along the corridor, which turned into a small staircase, which turned into a longer corridor. Yet she could tell she was approaching the main part of the house because the viscount’s gilt-edged relations were getting younger.
Finally, she paused at the top of a grand staircase, lit only by a pair of flickering chandeliers, and peered down into the viscount’s hallway. She rolled her eyes. Everything from the dark, moody paintings, to the display of majestic antlers, to the polished mahogany floor was just like him: cold, arrogant, gleaming.
‘I expect he levitates over the floor with the help of the fountain cherubs,’ she muttered as she gripped the banister.
Slowly, she began easing her way down the wide marble stairs, until she reached the ground floor, where a suit of armour loomed out of the shadows to greet her. Phoebe gasped, and instantly felt ridiculous. She could hardly claim to seek adventure, and then faint at the slightest thing.
‘Mary Shelley wouldn’t look twice!’ she muttered to herself.
She’d borrowedFrankensteinfrom Fred during one of his long summer holidays, and it had made such a welcome change from her usual library novels that she was minded to keep it. Sadly, Fred had other ideas.
Quickening her pace, she crept along the corridor and past numerous closed doors, until at last she reached a large, moonlit kitchen. Then, mumbling pithy comments about the number of preserving pantries any viscount might reasonably need, she downed two glasses of water before holding a cold, damp compress to her wound. The relief was immediate, calming her fractious mood and soothing her nerves until, armed with a full jug and fresh compress, she felt like starting back.
Carefully, and with one eye on her jug, she made her way back along the corridor. It was only as she reached the foot of the stairs that she heard the creak – not the creak of an old house fast asleep, but rather the creak of a body very awake. Phoebe froze, feeling every hair on the back of her neck and arms start to rise, and while she knew it to be utterly impossible, she couldn’t help but turn her wide-eyed stare towards the suit of armour, watching from the shadows.
‘Would you like some help?’ it asked softly.
She inhaled sharply, mesmerised by its glinting, jointed arms, reaching out towards her in the gloom. If she’d been the shrieking type she would have put any self-respecting ghoul to shame, but instead she simply dropped the jug, which fell with a resounding crash, emptying its contents all over the floor.
‘Hellfire and damnation!’ it swore.
‘Excuse me?’ Phoebe frowned, uncertain which rules of etiquette applied, yet recalling her mother’s distinct instruction about manners being important at all times.
‘I was thirsty,’ she added swiftly, for the avoidance of any doubt.
There was a soft laugh, which only made her frown harder; it would be just her luck to run into a sardonic ghost.
‘Not for a quart of devil’s brew, I trust?’ it returned, looming forward out of the murky darkness.
For one swift moment, Phoebe wondered if she might still be under the brain-fogging influence of Briggs’s cider. Then the puddle of ice water began reaching through her woollen booties, and she was forced to concede that not only was she extremely sober, but that any sardonic ghost was much more likely to be the one living person she least wished to see in the world.
‘Obviously not!’ she retorted, wondering what on earth he thought of her now he knew she wasn’tFred.
She clenched her fingers, wondering why she hadn’t just stolen a horse, and put as many miles between them as possible while she still could.
‘Your feet are wet,’ he observed calmly, shrugging off his fine brocade dressing-gown, and throwing it over the puddle. ‘Come into the library, where you can dry off. The fire is still alight.’
Then he turned without waiting for a response, revealing a faintly-lit doorway just behind.
Phoebe stared, thinking furiously. She was obliged to accept her host’s invitation, of course – though in this case it was arguably an order – and he was quite correct that her booties seemed to have decided to become theactualpuddle. But, in removing his dressing gown the viscount had also revealed himself to be entirely shirtless, and distractingly golden.
She flushed. She was no prude, she’d grown up with four brothers who’d spent every summer trying to drown one another in Knightswood’s lake, but she also knew that that was vastly different from spending time alone, in a suspiciously frilly nightgown, with a half-naked viscount.
Phoebe swallowed so hard her throat burned, but she could hardly stand in the corridor all night, especially since some might say she owed him a debt of thanks – no matter how regrettable. So ignoring the faint squelch of her wet booties, she followed him through the doorway.
Moments later, she was looking around at a surprisingly warm and cosy library.
She inhaled deeply, savouring the familiar scents of old paper and sealing wax, as her gaze settled on the viscount, stoking the embers of the fire. A small burst of flames responded, and briefly she wondered if everything in his life always did as he bid it.
‘Come and sit. I’ll help you take those off.’
He nodded at her feet, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be standing in his library at midnight, in a borrowed nightgown and soggy booties.
‘Is your shoulder paining you?’
