The Ghosts of Greenwood Read Free

that’s neither here nor there. My dearest Lavender, I would not ask you to do this little chore for me if it were an errand I could execute for myself.”
    Livvy doubted there was anything the Baroness couldn’t execute herself, or for that matter anyone, providing she wished to do so, which in this case she clearly did not.
    And why was that? Impossible to guess what Dulcie was thinking; which, for the peace of mind of those who loved her, was probably a good thing. Lady Bligh was as stubborn as a donkey, as troublesome as a barrel filled with monkeys, and as close-mouthed as a clam.
    She also had an appalling tendency toward hunches. “Please don’t tell me that you—”
    “I had intended for us to have a quiet country Christmas,” Dulcie interrupted. “Now I begin to fear this house party was spectacularly ill-advised.”
     
Chapter Two
     
    The Solar, situated on the Castle’s uppermost story, was smaller and more comfortable than the Great Hall. Here, the family took their ease amid some of the Baron’s less objectionable acquisitions. Scattered among the more comfortable furnishings were some Gothic pieces, including a fifteenth century cupboard carved with St Peter in the left panel, holding the key to heaven; St. Paul in the right, holding the sword that symbolized his martyrdom; and St. George in the center, slaying the dragon with every evidence of glee. The Baroness professed a fondness for the latter, claiming that the dragon — which had required the daily sacrifice of a maiden until all the young girls in the kingdom had been devoured — reminded her of her spouse.
    A huge rococo mirror hung over the ornate fireplace. Beautiful moldings framed the windows set high in one wall. Casanova was curled up on the hearth, one wary eye fixed on Bluebeard, who had settled on the back of an oak church pew with Gothic-style ecclesiastical designs on each end. Lady Bligh lounged on a backless sofa covered with apple green damask, ignoring the conversation of the two sporting-minded gentlemen with whom she shared the room, which consisted largely of such terms as ‘firing into the brown’, ‘pairing-time’, ‘sewelling’ and ‘jackoop’.
    The younger of the gentlemen, Benedict Trench, Earl of Dorset, left off extoling the pleasures of shooting a pheasant from the saddle at full gallop, to warily regard his aunt. A handsome man of eight-and-thirty, with sun-streaked brown hair and jaded sapphire eyes, Dickon surmised from her silence, as perhaps Sir John Neville did not, that the Baroness had some scheme secreted up her elegant silk sleeve.
    Lord Dorset misjudged his companion. Sir John had not dispensed justice from his office in Bow Street these past many years without gaining a tolerable understanding of the ways of humankind. He, too, feared his hostess was plotting, and harbored an unpleasant premonition that her machinations would once again interfere with his peace of mind.
    Many years ago, he’d wanted to make her his bride. She had refused, and he was grateful to her for it because clearly they didn’t suit. Dulcie had spent much of the intervening time engaged in the frivolous pursuits so enjoyed by the Upper Ten Thousand, while Sir John sat in his Bow Street office and struggled to see justice upheld in spite of corrupt government officials who were largely indifferent to truth, conviction, and even guilt. Though born into its illustrious ranks, he had little but contempt for the haut ton.
    But, Lord help him, he could not help notice that Dulcie still possessed a figure of such superb dimensions that it must be admired by gentlemen of every age between the cradle and the grave.
    She raised one hand to rub the nape of her neck. The Chief Magistrate of Bow Street experienced a sharp and most un-magistrate-like impulse. “I wish,” he said, before Dickon could comment, which Dickon looked as if he meant to do, “that you would tell me, Dulcie, what you are pondering so seriously.”
    She