Elisabeth Fairchild Read Free

drawer. “Silly thing
     to hang on to.”
    “One cannot simply toss away the past.” Bolton calmly gathered up the breakfast tray.
    Copeland sighed. “Nay. Nor the future. As much as one might wish. One can only—”
    “Prepare for the best Christmas ever, my lord?”
    Copeland smiled. “You are a prize beyond value, my good man.”
    “Do you mean to tell the family, my lord?”
    Copeland straightened his shoulders, stiffened his spine. “Marcus must be told. As
     future heir.”
    Bolton remained expressionless, voice calm. “Miss Gooding?”
    ***
    Henrietta Gooding and her bespectacled companion stepped down from their weather-battered
     and patched-together vehicle as four beautifully matched black horses pulled a black-wheeled
     coach into the wind-driven courtyard of the White Hart Inn.
    Henrietta recognized at once the young man in the coach’s window.
    “Mr. Roberts!” she cried.
    David Roberts leapt down before the wheels had stopped spinning, his cloak kicking
     high in the wind. “Hen! Fancy meeting you here! Can’t bring yourself to call me David
     any more, now that you are a woman grown? Can you believe this wicked weather? Copeland
     will be in a temper. His pet project delayed again.”
    Henrietta fought to hold her bonnet on. “Indeed, I do believe Kirk cares more for
     widows and orphans than for me.”
    Her companion hunched deeper within a wind-whipped black coat of dubious style. “Like
     an evil force, this wind,” the frizzle-haired young woman exclaimed. “Pushing the
     horses to a standstill. Come, we must find the fire and warm ourselves.”
    “Poor Kirk.” Henrietta wore a worried look as David shooed them toward the inn’s door.
     “He’ll be especially disappointed to see his ghost hunt ruined. Obsessed with it,
     he’s been.”
    “Don’t worry. Better luck tomorrow. We’ll be hunting Broomhill’s spirits by Christmas
     Eve, mark my words.”
    “And a fascinating collection of ghosts they may prove to be.” Henrietta’s companion
     looked excited by the idea. “I have thoroughly researched the Copeland estate. It
     is a house plagued by tragedy.”
    Her words were whipped from her mouth by the same energetic wind that shook the ice-frosted
     windows of Broomhill in their ancient leading where Lord Copeland stood regarding
     the whirling white downfall—snow feathers shaken from a heavenly wing—muffling the
     garden, the stable, the drive.
    Bolton watched him, worry in his eyes. “Miss Gooding will be gravely disappoint—”
     His voice cut off.
    Copeland chuckled, amused by the unintentional pun. “Gravely, indeed.”
    “Apologies, my lord. A most unfortunate choice of words. But a clever idea, this ghost
     hunt.”
    Copeland traced a heart upon the fogged window. “Seemed the perfect notion for the
     perfect Christmas.”
    He missed the look of pain that pinched Bolton’s lips.
    The fireplace hummed and moaned, as if to confirm the rumored haunting of Broomhill
     Hall. Gabriel’s ears perked.
    He leapt to his feet, and raced for the door.
    Bolton ignored the skittering toenails. “I have yet to encounter the slightest hint
     of anything otherworldly at Broomhill Hall despite all rumor.”
    A familiar spasm touched his lordship’s chest, the feeling that someone held his heart,
     and now and then they squeezed.
    “Our ghosts? Yes. Well, I like to think there is another world.” Copeland pressed
     the flat of his hand to his sternum and chuckled. “And to prove it to you, I shall
     haunt the place personally when I am gone, Bolton. Look for me. Listen. I vow, on
     my honor, I will give you ghostly signs.”
    Wind whistled beneath the door, a sudden whiff of ash filled the room.
    Bolton allowed his customarily austere façade to offer hint of amusement. “How shall
     I know you, my lord?”
    Copeland tapped his chin, considering his options. “I will whistle down the chimney,
     and bang the door knocker thrice.”
    As if it heard, the lion-faced