“No, er…no.” Haslemere ruffled a hand through his hair until the dark red strands stood on end. “How should I know her?”
“I’ve no idea, but it appearsas if you do.”
“Her name sounds familiar, that’s all, but I suppose there’s more than one Gilchrist in England. She seems an agreeable young woman, in any case.”
“Agreeable enough.” Gideon glared down at his perfectly poured cup of tea. “Not suited to be a housemaid, though.”
Haslemere helped himself to more cream. “Oh? Why is that?”
“She’s too pretty to be a serv—” Gideon broke off, blinking. What the devil? That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. But it was true enough, and it wasn’t as if it were a secret. Haslemere had eyes, and he wasn’t one to overlooka pretty face.
“It would be the height of contrariness for you to start chasing housemaidsnow, Darlington, when you’re a fortnight away from marrying one of London’s darlings. Ceciliaispretty, but I’ll wager she doesn’t compare to Miss Honeywell.”
Gideon wasn’t about to discuss the varying degrees of beauty between his betrothed and his housemaid with Haslemere, but if it was up to him, his friend would lose that wager. There was no question Miss Honeywell had the sort of pale, fair beauty thetonadmired. She caught one’s attention, with her golden hairand blue eyes.
Cecilia was beautiful in a different way—in the same way Cassandra had been. It was a rarer, subtler beauty that had more to do with a woman’s expression than her features…not that he’d paid Cecilia much notice, of course, Gideon reminded himself, clearing his throat. He’d hardly spared her asecond glance.
“What news of our ghost? Any sightings of the old girl?” Haslemere asked, when Gideon remained silent on the question of Cecilia’s beauty.
“No, none.” Gideon drew in a breath, relieved at the change of topic. He didn’t want to discuss Cecilia Gilchrist. He’d do well to put the girl out of his mind entirely. “The villagers claim she haunts the woods, but I didn’t see any sign ofher yesterday.”
“What, nothing? Not a glimpse of a white gown, or a single lock of white hair fluttering on the end of a branch?”
“Not even asingle strand.”
“No footprints?”
“Ghosts don’t leave footprints, Haslemere. Anyway, the ground’s frozen.”
Haslemere drummed his fingers on the table. “Yet the rumors persist. I stopped at the Three Crowns in Lingfield on my way here—they do an excellent meat pie—and at least a half dozen of the grizzled old fellows there claimed they’d seen your ghost with their own eyes.”
Gideon snorted. “Half of Kent’s claimed to have seen her, too. She seems to appear readily enough to those who are either ancient or too deep in their cups to tell what they’re looking at. She’s elusive enough, otherwise. Mrs. Briggs did say she’s seen lantern light in the woods at night. Poachers, most likely.”
“Dashed unpleasant business. Not to worry, Darlington. I won’t leave you to chase your ghost alone. Between the two of us, we’ll get to the bottom ofthis business.”
“I hope so.” Gideon gave his friend a grateful smile. “It’s good of you to come, Haslemere. Once darkness falls, we’ll scour the grounds, and see if we can’t catch the elusive White Lady.”
* * * *
Isabella Olivia Cornelia Rhys, treasured niece of the Marquess of Darlington, had a trickle of drool running down her chin. Her sleepy gaze fixed on Cecilia’s face as Cecilia began another ballad, this one about a beautiful but proud young lady who is called to herdeath too soon.
It wasn’t at all a proper subject for a child, but Cecilia had been singing for the better part of an hour and had exhausted her supply of sweet lullabies. If Isabella minded the shift from lambs frolicking in meadows to grief and graveyards, she kept it to herself. Her big, hazel eyes followed the movement of Cecilia’s mouth, a smile on her pretty lips.
Shall I, who am a lady, stoop or bow
To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?
Do you not know me? I willtell you then…
Cecilia’s voice trailed off as she tried to recall the rest of the verse. “It’s something about conquering the sons of men, and…oh, yes. I have it.‘No pitch of honor from my dart is free, my name is Death! Have you notheard of me?’”
“Me!”Isabellarepeated, with adrowsy giggle.
Cecilia hummed the tune, her brow wrinkling. The music echoed as clearly in her head as if she’d last heard it only moments ago, but she could only recall the words in brief snatches, sung in a soft voice by a mother whose face she could no longer remember.
“I don’t like to spoil the ending for you, but death scorns the proud lady’s offer of bags of gold, inflicts the fatal wound, and hurries her off to her grave. It’s not a pleasant bedtime story, I’m afraid. I hope it doesn’t give you nightmares,Bella.”
It was rather presumptuous of her, really, to address the daughter of the house so familiarly, but she couldn’t bring herself to call the child Lady Isabella, much less her full name. It was a ridiculous number of syllables for such a tiny young lady.
