The last thing Darlington Castle needed was another suspicious death.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time Gideon and Haslemere gave up searching the grounds and turned their steps back toward the castle, Gideon’s fingers had gone numb inside his gloves, and Haslemere’slips were blue.
They’d been out for hours, but the White Lady proved as elusive as ever. They’d explored every corner of the formal grounds, peered behind every tree in the forest, and prodded every hedge and shrub in the gardens, and hadn’t spied a fold of a white gown or found a single strandof white hair.
It had been another night wasted, chasing a ghost who vanished at will, and Gideon was weary down to his bones. “It’s strange, Haslemere. The White Lady has appeared before half the villagers in Edenbridge, but until Miss Honeywell, not a single person from Darlington Castle has laid eyes on her, despite daysof searching.”
Haslemere fell into step beside him. “She only appears when she has something to gain by it, and she gains nothing by appearing tous.”
“What do you mean?” Gideon’s brain was so fuzzy with worry and exhaustion, he couldn’t make sense of anything anymore.
“Think about it, Darlington. The rumors about the Murderous Marquess began to fade while you were in mourning, but as soon as you returned to society this ghost appears, wandering about your land and haunting your castle. What better way to revive the gossip? Clever trick, really, conjuring your wife back from her grave to start Edenbridge tongueswagging again.”
Clever, yes. She’d always been clever when it came to getting what she wanted. “The villagers were right about one thing, then. The White Ladyishere to wreakher revenge.”
Haslemere grunted. “They’re wrong about everything else.”
Gideon dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m thinking of closing Darlington Castle, Haslemere.” There was nothing for him here but loneliness, grief, and a vengeful ghost. “London presents its own challenges, but it can’tbe worse than—”
“I’ll be damned.” Haslemere came to a dead stop, his gaze locked on the castle. “Darlington, look. There, on the south side of the castle, near the kitchen garden. I thought Isaw something.”
Gideon peered into the darkness, the skin on his neck prickling.“What was it?”
Haslemere’s gaze met his. “A flash of something white.”
Neither of them said another word as they crept from the far end of the rose walk toward the castle. Closer, and closer—
“There.” Haslemere’s voice was low, urgent. “By the gate.Do you see it?”
Gideon went still, every one of his senses screaming to attention. He squinted into the darkness, waiting, one moment crawling after the next, and then, to one side of the kitchen garden gate, just where Haslemere had said, he caught a glimpse of something white, fluttering in the wind.
He and Haslemere stole forward in silent accord, the frosty grass slippery under their boots, and crept toward the gate.
She was turned away from them, half-hidden in the shadows of the high stone wall surrounding the kitchen garden, invisible but for a blur of white, and strangely still, as if she were…listeningfor something.
Or someone.
Him.
She must have known he’d come after her, that he’d tear apart the grounds and prowl around every inch of the castle until he found her. It was what she wanted.Hewas what she wanted, and she was about to get her wish.
“Wait, Darlington—”
Gideon dimly registered Haslemere’s warning, but it was already too late.
He struck quickly, springing forward, only half-aware he’d moved at all until he caught a handful of her billowing skirts. Her sharp cry pierced the silence, but before she could utter another sound or gather her strength to run, he jerked her back against his chest and covered her mouth with his hand. “Don’t bloody move.”
Gideon was aware Haslemere was shouting something at him, but he heard nothing, was aware of nothing but the soft press of her lips against his palm, the quivering of her slight body, the brush of her hair against the side of his neck.
Full, trembling lips, soft, silky hair…
Cecilia. Not a ghost, not the White Lady, but Cecilia.
He’d only held her once before, had never inhaled her scent, but somehow, he knew the feel of her in his arms. “It’s all right. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you, Cecilia,” he murmured, as she trembled against him. He placed a gentle hand on her jaw to still her, and crooned into her ear until his whispered words penetrated her shock, her heaving breaths calmed, and her body went limp against his.
Let her go, let her go before you can’t.
