sound, and found the bedchamber unlocked. She’d followed the sound into the dressing room, and from there to the clothes press. She’d eased the door open, and…
Seraphina had leapt out, frightening the life of out of her, and Cecilia had chased the cat into the bedchamber, without sparing the clothes press another thought. No, she’d never taken a good look inside. She couldn’t be certain the gown hadn’t been there all along.
Of course, it must have been. It was the only thing that made any sense. The only other explanation—that someone had brought the hairpins and the shoes and the gown into Lady Darlington’s bedchamber since the last time Cecilia had been here—made no sense at all.
Unless…
Cecilia swallowed. Perhaps the villagers had been right about one thing—that the Marchioness of Darlington was back—but they’d been wrong about another.
Perhaps she wasn’t a ghost.
Cecilia didn’t believe in ghosts, or she hadn’t, but there were only two explanations for the events of tonight, both of them appalling.
It was either one nightmare, or the other.
Either ghosts truly did exist, and the White Lady was haunting Darlington Castle, just as the villagers claimed she was, or…
Or Lady Darlington wasn’t dead, after all.
* * * *
She was here.
Gideon couldn’t see her face, and he couldn’t hear her voice or the echo of her footsteps. He didn’t catch her scent floating on the frigid night air, but sight, sound, and scent were no longer of any use to him, now he was chasing a ghost.
Not that they’d ever been much use to him, really. A man’s senses could deceive him, with tragic results. If he’d learned nothing else this past year, it was that.
So, he suspended them all in favor of instinct, intuition, reflex. He knew she was here because he could sense her nearness, feel her lurking in the darkness of the woods, darting between the bare branches of the trees, waiting. He could feel her cold, ghostly fingertips grazing the back of his neck, leaving a chill in their wake.
“You have servants guarding the castle?” Haslemere’s voice was grim.
“Yes. Fraser on the ground floor, Duncan on the second.” Both were young, strong Scotsmen, gentle but fiercely protective of the inhabitants of Darlington Castle. No one, whether ghost or human, would get by either of them without a battle.
Haslemere nodded. “Good. Mrs. Briggs saw the lantern light near the tree line?”
“Past the rose walk, on the south edge of the property.” The villagers’ rumors about the ghost echoed in Gideon’s head as he and Haslemere made their way across the frozen ground.
White gown, white hair, face a deathly white…
He’d never imagined for an instant the rumors could be true. He should have known, should have seen it—
“You couldn’t have known, Darlington,” Haslemere said, as if he’d read Gideon’s mind. “Christ, no one could have predicted she’d come back.”
“It’s been months, Haslemere.” Gideon knew he should hate her for it, but underneath the anger, the confusion, all he felt was a cold, distant kind of pity. “Why now?”
“I’ve thought about that.” Haslemere’s voice was quiet in the darkness, and Gideon glanced at him as they came around the side of the castle. A muted light shone through the kitchen window, illuminating his friend’s unsmiling mouth, his clenched jaw. “There can only be one reason. Your marriage, Darlington. She came to stop it. Nothing else makes sense.”
Gideon’s steps slowed. “But why? She got what she wanted. Why risk it all to return here now?”
Haslemere shook his head. “To punish you? I don’t pretend to understand her reasons. I doubt even she understands them. She’s not rational, and that makes her dangerous.”
Gideon thought of Isabella, and a shudder rolled over him. If all she wanted was to punish him, he’d consider himself lucky. A broken betrothal and another scandal were nothing, nothing compared to what might have happened. “She’s accomplished her goal, then. I’m no longer betrothed.”
“Are you sorry for it?”
Gideon glanced at Haslemere. “You’re asking if I’m devastated to lose my bride?”
“Yes.” Haslemere’s voice was guarded. “Are you?”
Was he? Gideon drew in a sharp breath, let the cold air burn his lungs. The horror on Miss Honeywell’s face, the ugliness in her voice…
You’re a wicked, wicked man.
She truly believed he was a murderer. Perhaps she’d thought so all along.
He’d asked her to marry him. In another four days he would have made her his wife, yet he couldn’t muster a trace of regret on her account. By the time a few weeks passed, he wondered if he’d even