Shades of Midnight (11 page)

"Together we will send her home," he assured her.

Viola cried out, practically screamed, and across the room the sound of a spring giving out—that damned unreliable specter-o-meter—came on the tail end of the ghost's cry. Lucien tensed. Because this was a private moment between two lovers thirty years dead? Or because he wanted to make Evie scream like that and he didn't know if he'd ever get the chance?

Eve's eyes were drawn to the sofa once again, as she leaned to the side to peek past him. "Mrs. Markham was right, Lucien. Alistair does look a little bit like you." Her hand brushed against her own cheek. "Something about the shape of the face, perhaps, and the hair is definitely similar. He could use a haircut, too." She frowned. "Good heavens, what is she doing to him?"

Lucien glanced into the parlor. Alistair was now on the couch, and Viola knelt before him. "Tea," he said once again.

"Oh!" Eve's eyes went wide. She was definitely not distracted by his offer of refreshment. "I think she's"—again she cocked her head to one side. This time she squinted—"doing to him what he did to her." Alistair moaned. The room shimmered and shook. "Well, not exactly," Eve continued, "but... mercy! I didn't know such a thing was possible." She blushed bright red.

This time Lucien forcibly turned Eve about, his firm hands on her shoulders. "Tea," he said. "Now." He didn't dare look back.

Chapter 7

Eve stared at the ceiling, blaming Lucien for the fact that she couldn't sleep even though it was well past midnight. Oh, he was the most aggravating man! He'd humiliated her, kissed her, pretended to be possessed by the spirit of a murderer so he could... Well it was best if she didn't think too much about what had happened this afternoon, even though when she allowed it she could still feel Lucien's hands and his mouth on her breasts, his warmth seeping through her. If she forgot who he was and that he had left her standing at the altar, she might even concede, only to herself, that she had liked it. She had loved it! Lucien was exciting and tender and she missed him terribly. More than that, she missed what might have been. No, she shouldn't think of a few lovely moments from an unusual afternoon. It was best to concentrate on Lucien's many faults.

Lucien Thorpe was easily distracted, forgetful, and socially inept. He stood out in a crowd, even when people didn't know what he did for a living. Like it or not, he was simply different, and always would be. Mundane matters, and mundane people, bored him. And he talked to ghosts! He not only talked to ghosts, he preferred the dead to the living, found them more interesting. He certainly preferred spirits to her.

After Viola and Alistair had vanished for the evening, Lucien had only grudgingly made his way to town and his own room in the boarding house, leaving her here alone as she wished. As she had
insisted.
He hadn't wanted to stay here for her sake, she was certain, but wanted to be close by in case Alistair and Viola returned. He didn't want to miss a moment with her ghosts. Tossing Lucien out on his ear had been a pleasure.

But now the house was so quiet. Too quiet. Eve had lived alone since her father's passing more than four years ago. Being alone never bothered her, and she normally
liked
the quiet!

She rolled onto her side and pulled the quilt to her chin. Yes, Lucien had his faults. Many, many faults. So why, as she lay here longing for sleep, did she remember most clearly of all that tonight when Viola had died, Lucien had gathered her to his chest and once again covered her eyes with a large, tender hand.

At the time she hadn't minded that he shielded her eyes from a sight he thought she should be protected from. The pain of watching Viola die was excruciating, and Lucien knew it. He felt that pain with her, for her, he tried to take away the grief. It was his way of protecting her, she knew, and maybe—in spite of her insistence that she did not need or want the man in her life ever again—that was a good thing. She didn't have many places to hide, and in Lucien's arms was as good a place as any. Better than most. The best.

Eve sighed and rolled onto her back again. She only had a few hours until sunrise, and she needed to sleep. She needed to rest her mind and her body.

"Viola," she whispered, "how do you do it? How do you set aside something so horrible?" It amazed Eve that the woman could pardon her husband for taking her life. That she not only
forgave
him, she still loved him.

Eve didn't consider herself to be unyielding, but she didn't easily forgive and forget. To her way of thinking, it made a woman weak to constantly dismiss transgressions. Why, a man would walk all over a woman if he thought he could! If she forgave something so significant as forgetting their wedding day, he would take advantage of her for the rest of her life. Wouldn't he? But she found herself asking again, "How?"

She didn't have Lucien's gift. She could not see or summon a spirit and demand answers to her questions. If Viola didn't choose to show herself, Eve would not see her. She would be jealous of Lucien's gift, if she hadn't seen him suffer for it too many times.

He tried so hard to be scientific, logical, and completely distanced from the emotional aspect of his work. She suspected that was his shield, the way he protected himself.

But it didn't always work. She had seen him take on the pain of a man dead more than a hundred years, seen him suffer when a tormented spirit resisted his assistance. She'd seen him sit on the steps of a haunted house and place his head in his hands, when he thought no one was watching. She'd seen him agonize.

Eve pulled the quilt over her head. "I don't want to sympathize with Lucien Thorpe," she said softly. "And I certainly don't want to love him!"

But the way he had comforted her as Viola died all over again, she couldn't deny that it had been very sweet. Very tender. She finally fell asleep with the memory of arms around her so real, at one point she could almost imagine he was in the bed with her.

* * *

"Mr. Thorpe!" a disgustingly cheerful Miss Gertrude called as he tried to make his escape. After three hours of restless sleep, Lucien was not feeling particularly chipper.

"Good morning," he said, his tone much less than gregarious.

"Surely you're not leaving without breakfast," she said, undaunted by his lack of enthusiasm.

"Breakfast." His stomach growled.

"I have eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes, my very best biscuits, and peach preserves."

His stomach growled again. It was possible that Eve didn't intend on feeding him this morning. She hadn't been particularly happy with him as he'd left her house last night. She might be perfectly content to watch him starve. "Perhaps I should eat," he conceded.

Miss Gertrude led Lucien to the dining room, where everything was laid out in warming dishes on the sideboard. "Mr. Camden, a traveling salesman who passes through often, has already eaten and taken his leave, but Mr. Adler and Mr. Latham are still abed." She shook her head. "Why, they miss the best part of the day, those lazybones."

Lucien didn't tell Miss Gertrude that if he'd had his way he would have been in bed until past noon. His need to get back to the house had awakened him too early. No, the memory of Eve and the need to get to her had awakened him. Would she be glad to see him so early in the day? Probably not.

His landlady saw him settled at the table with a full plate and a steaming cup of coffee, and when he was suitably settled, she sat in the chair directly across from him. "I do hope everything is to your liking."

"I'm sure it will be."

"I've won numerous awards for my peach preserves."

"I'm sure it will be delicious."

The older woman straightened her spine as Lucien began to eat, and quickly changed the subject. "You were awfully late getting in last night."

Lucien mumbled an agreement.

"I can't imagine what might keep a man out so late," she continued.

Lucien wondered if the tales had already begun to spread. Justina Markham had told Douglas Hunt that ghosts were in residence at Miss Abernathy's house. One of them had confided in a friend. That friend had shared the information with a few others. By sunset last night, everyone in town had probably heard the exciting news. Eve would not be pleased.

Lucien swallowed the bite of biscuit in his mouth and took a long swig of coffee before answering. "I was visiting a friend."

Miss Gertrude's eyes widened. "Not a lady friend at that hour!" she chastised. "I must tell you, Mr. Thorpe, I consider my guests like family, and like family their actions are a reflection not only on themselves, but on me."

Lucien took another quick bite, going for the eggs this time. "She's a bit more than a lady friend," he said. "I'm going to marry her." He paused with his fork in the eggs, struck by the truth of that statement. He
was
going to marry Eve, if he had to carry her kicking and screaming to the altar. "She just hasn't said yes, yet," he added in a lowered voice. "Well, she did say yes once, but there was a small problem. A big problem actually. Entirely my fault," he added quickly. "But if she said yes once, she will say yes again, right?"

"I have no idea," Miss Gertrude responded. "Who is this lady friend?"

"Eve Abernathy," he said. Immediately he regretted sharing so much with his landlady. If Eve found out he was spreading word that they were going to be married, she'd be furious. "I would appreciate it if you'd keep this between us, for the time being. She hasn't agreed, yet." Of course, he hadn't asked.

"If she allows you to stay in her house until all hours, I would hope she'd accept your proposal!" Miss Gertrude obviously didn't approve.

"She had other guests," he explained. "I didn't leave until they did, since I rightly suspected that she did not want to be left to entertain them on her own." Yes, the guests were long dead, but what difference did that make? "Miss Abernathy and I have never been alone in her home." That was the truth, and perhaps it would protect Eve's precious reputation. Proper, indeed.

Miss Gertrude seemed at least partially mollified. "Miss Abernathy. She bought the Stamper house."

Lucien nodded as he continued to eat. For a moment all was quiet, and he had the hopes that breakfast conversation was over. None too soon. He was wrong.

"That house has a sad history." The older woman shook her head. "Very sad."

Lucien glanced up from his breakfast. Of course! Miss Gertrude should be about the same age as Viola Stamper. Perhaps a few years older, but they certainly must have known one another. "Sad," he said simply. Knowing Miss Gertrude as he already did, that one word should be enough to urge her to continue.

She leaned slightly over the table. "Alistair Stamper murdered his wife and then killed himself. Oh, it was quite a scandal at the time, and every now and then someone will mention the Stampers or the house and then the stories will start all over again."

"Why did he kill her?" Lucien asked calmly as he reached for more preserves.

Miss Gertrude glanced to each side, as if to make sure no one else was about. "Viola Stamper was a... well, I do hate to speak ill of the dead but she was
not
a faithful wife."

"She was involved with another man?"

"Men," the older woman whispered. "Oh, I can't say any more, it wouldn't be appropriate." She sniffled and continued, anyway. "Poor Alistair."

Poor Alistair.
Interesting. "Were you friends with Mr. Stamper?"

For a moment, he thought Miss Gertrude wasn't going to answer. She pursed her lips and leaned back in her chair. Her lower lip trembled. She suddenly looked older than before. Wrung out and tired. "Mr. Stamper and I were engaged to be married, before he met that... that hussy." She fanned herself with one plump hand. "Oh, excuse my language," she said. "It's just that whenever I think about that time I get upset."

"It was certainly not my intention to upset you by asking about the past," Lucien said.

"It isn't your fault," she said, calming down considerably and quickly. "I was the one who mentioned the house's history."

Miss Gertrude, who spent her days feeding strange men, had apparently never married after Alistair had thrown her over for Viola. How angry had she been? How... Lucien shook off the thought. Viola had been killed by a man, of that he was certain. She had thought the attacker to be her husband, so it must have been. And what woman had the strength to stab a man of Alistair's size in the chest? Twice?