Thea stared into the darkness and huddled deeper under the covers.
No. He would not harm her, or anyone. Lord Luxborough was big and surly, but he had been so gentle with his plants, so gentle with her. He had promised she’d be safe and given her no reason to fear he lied.
The fragments underlined in Katharine’s books were not messages about Luxborough, she told herself. She closed her eyes and turned over, determined to sleep.
But what if they were? What if more of them would tell a full story?
There would be no more messages in Katharine’s books, she told herself.
But what if there were?
Then she would look tomorrow.
But what if Luxborough removed the books tonight?
He would not.
But what if he did?
Oh, a plague on it. Thea knew herself too well. She would not get a wink of sleep if she did not check those books now. She climbed back out of bed, found a wrap and slippers, and lit a candle. Then, feeling as silly as a heroine in a Gothic novel, she slipped out into the hall.
Chapter 13
The silent hallway felt eerie in the aftermath of the rain, and Thea jumped at a distant rumble of thunder and her own flickering shadow cast by the candle. She scolded herself for being fanciful, but when she crept through the portrait gallery toward the staircase, her feet slowed and stilled on the cold wooden floor, and she could not help a prickle of fear.
All around her were white faces, many in white wigs, floating in the darkness like so many ghosts.
And then—a sound.
She froze, breath held, candle raised, ears pricked. Nothing emerged from the darkness, but she swore something moved. She whirled around, and again. Nothing. No sounds but the thumping of her heart. No movement but the shaking of her hand.
For the first time, Brinkley End assumed a sinister air, with these ghostly faces and the darkly gaping doorways. The books could wait, she decided. It was a far-fetched notion, that Luxborough might remove them, and if he did remove them, that was proof he was dangerous. She should definitely return to her room.
Another sound.
It was only the house. That was all. Houses made noises, and she gained nothing by agitating her already fevered imagination. Being silly was fun sometimes, but not, perhaps, when one stood alone in the dark in a room lined with portraits of dead people.
“There are no ghosts here,” she said out loud. “No ghosts.”
Her words sank into the darkness, into a silence that seemed to breathe. Oh, how horrid.
Until that silence was broken.
Even more horrid.
For what broke the silence was a hoarse hiss behind her that sounded like: “Ghostsssssss.”
Thea froze, not daring to turn, wondering if she had imagined that sound. Nothing followed, nothing but dark, brooding silence. Fixing her eyes on the quivering flame of her candle, Thea concentrated on taking a calming breath and swallowed away the dryness in her mouth.
“No,” she told the darkness. “There are no ghosts here.”
“There are ghosts everywhere.”
No mistaking it this time. She had not imagined that whisper, hoarse and masculine. She willed herself to turn, but her legs would not move.
“Do you see them?” the whisper added.
“My lord?” Her voice was quavering, high and hopeful.
Silence. No: not silence. Breathing. Ghosts did not breathe. If they had to exist—and she would really rather they didn’t—they most certainly were not allowed to breathe.
“Luxborough?”
“So many ghosts.”
Forcing her frozen legs into action, Thea turned. And there was Lord Luxborough, barefoot, half dressed, his shirt and breeches white, his hair tousled, his face shadowed. He carried no light, and swayed like a young tree in the wind. She inched closer, holding up the candle to examine his features. His expression was distant, as if he were in a trance.
“My lord?”
He did not respond, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the darkness.
“Lord Luxborough?”
Still nothing.
“Rafe?” she ventured.
Slowly, his eyes tracked to meet hers. He blinked at her, with long, slow blinks.
“Countess,” he said.
“Are you…unwell?”
“You are not a ghost.”
“No.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Um.”
Perhaps he was drunk. She drew closer to surreptitiously smell his breath, but the unfamiliar spicy-sweet tang about him was unlike any liquor in her limited experience. She recalled his curious behavior in the garden the night before; perhaps he had been drunk then too.
“Katharine is a ghost,” he said dreamily. “And John is a ghost. And Philip is a ghost. And Father is a ghost. And Katharine is a ghost.”
If not drunk, then definitely some kind of intoxicated. But his manner was so dreamy, and his presence so solid, that Thea’s anxiety faded, and the notion of terrified messages in books seemed ludicrous.