Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing appeared out of place. Other than the extinguished candle, the room was exactly as he had left it mere moments before.
“I have no notion, but one thing is clear. A ghost—”
He stopped abruptly. The torturous groan emanating from Isabella’s room was accompanied by a range of strange tapping noises. Tristan held onto her hand as he pulled her across the landing.
“Whoever it is, they have us scurrying about
like blasted mice.” His words revealed frustration rather than fear. They entered her chamber, were greeted by an eerie silence. “If only we knew where the sound was coming from,” he whispered.
“Perhaps we should call out.” She straightened her spine yet kept a firm grip of his hand. “Tap once if you want me to leave this house.” Isabella’s sudden request shocked him.
“There are no ghosts—”
“Shush. Just listen.”
The single tap rang through the room, loud and clear.
Tristan attempted to locate the sound. It definitely came from the right-hand side of the room. “Ask something else.”
She nodded. “Tap twice if you are the spirit of Lady Mary Fernall.”
The double tap came from the room across the hall. Tristan had no idea how the person responsible was capable of being in two places at once, but he would not rest until he discovered the answer.
“Do not say any more,” he said, taking her hand and backing out of the room.
They were a few steps from the door when the outline of a figure caught his eye. “Wait. There is someone over there on the bed.”
At first glance, it appeared as though the person was sleeping. Locks of ebony hair lay sprawled over the pillow. The body was shrouded by the coverlet.
“Stay behind me,” he said as they approached with caution. With his clenched fist raised ready to hit out, he dragged the red and gold cover off the bed.
Isabella’s scream rang in his ears. She clutched his shirt. “What is it?”
Tristan stared at the grey dress draped over a line of pillows. “It is nothing more than another attempt to frighten you.”
Stepping closer he picked up the black wig. “Does this belong to you?” he said throwing it back on the bed.
She came to his side. “I have never seen it before. But that is my dress.”
As he moved the dress, he noted the large red circular stain.
“Is it … is it blood?” she stuttered.
Tristan lifted it to his nose, wet his finger and dabbed at the mark. “No. If I am not mistaken, it is wine.”
“Wine?”
“Blood is lighter in colour, the consistency much thicker, even on fabric.”
“You sound as though you speak from experience.”
“In bouts of drunkenness I have spilt more than my fair share of wine,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come. This proves we are not dealing with a spiritual entity. Our best option is to ignore it. Help me tidy the bed. And then you should get some rest. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Her wild gaze darted about the room. “I cannot sleep after all that has occurred.”
Tristan turned to face her fully. He stepped closer and whispered, “Everything we have seen and heard has been a series of incidents conducted with the intention of frightening you from your home. Perhaps the person responsible thinks me just another pompous lord, too preoccupied with the frivolities of life and lacking the ability of good sense and reason. But they have made a dreadful miscalculation.”
Isabella put her hand to her heart. “I do not know what I would have done had you not been here.”