An Unlikely Match (3 page)

“I admit, Dafydd,” Nickolas answered, his own smile growing to a grin, “I don’t believe Tŷ Mynydd is haunted.” The vicar raised his eyebrow as if amused by Nickolas’s lack of belief. “Perhaps it is simply a matter of inexperience,” Nickolas conceded. “As you pointed out, I have not actually seen the infamous
she
.”

“My understanding of the house’s history makes that hard to believe, Nickolas. Gwen doesn’t usually wait so long to make an appearance.” Nickolas had learned during the last two weeks that Gwen, the ghost, and
she
were not, in fact, three separate individuals but one. “Perhaps she keeps her distance because you are English.”

Dafydd was decidedly
not
English. At times his Welsh inflection was so heavy his words became difficult to discern. His declaration did not, however, sound like a condemnation but merely a guess.

Nickolas chuckled. “Perhaps she has not appeared because she does not exist.”

Dafydd smiled back. “I hope I am here when she proves you wrong, my friend. I daresay the look on your face will be priceless.”

They each raised their glass to the other in amused acknowledgment of the implied challenge Dafydd had issued. Nickolas had declared the ghost nothing more than the overactive imagination of an underentertained neighborhood. Dafydd had declared that Nickolas would eventually have to eat his words.

“I have issued a handful of invitations to a house party I am hosting in a week’s time,” Nickolas said. “I hope you will join us for dinner and other entertainments while my guests are in residence.”

The young vicar’s grin turned into something of a smug smile. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he answered as if privy to some joke Nickolas had not been told about.

“And what is that tone supposed to indicate?”

“You’ve planned a party without
her
approval,” Dafydd said. “Of the party or of you,” he added. “You are either very brave or remarkably unconcerned about your own welfare.”

“The ghost will object?” Nickolas laughed.

“I imagine you will be made to retract your disbelieving evaluations before the end of your party. In fact, I guarantee it.”

“If you weren’t an eminently respectable vicar, I would think you were proposing a wager.”

Dafydd’s mouth twisted in a look of deepest pondering. “A wager?” He even went so far as to rub his chin. “But what should I force you to forfeit when you are proven wrong?”

“That is an awfully cocky statement for a humble servant of the church.”

“If I were as
eminently respectable
as you said, I would no doubt ask for a new roof for the church.” Dafydd didn’t acknowledge Nickolas’s last statement with anything more than a twinkle in his eyes. “But I happen to know your estate is already paying to replace the church roof, so it would rather be a waste of a wager.”

“True.” Nickolas chuckled. Dafydd was enough like him in humor and personality that at times, Nickolas thought him his long-lost, heretofore unknown brother. Of course, one had to overlook the fact that they looked nothing alike. Dafydd’s hair and eyes were dark, while Nickolas’s were fair.

“And my
eminent respectability
prevents me from wagering actual money,” Dafydd continued.

“Naturally,” Nickolas replied with feigned gravity.

“I’ve got it.” Dafydd snapped his fingers. “When I win our little wager, you will be required to wear a lady’s ball gown to dinner.”

“And I suppose when
I
win our ‘little wager,’ you shall be required to wear said ball gown whilst delivering your sermon the following Sunday.”

Both men burst out laughing. Nickolas could just see the very staid citizens of the parish staring in openmouthed shock at their vicar dressed in the very latest in ladies’ fashions.

“I think, for the sake of our neighbors’ faith and eternal welfare, we’d best choose another means of settling this wager,” Nickolas said.

“Not to mention the appetites of your houseguests,” Dafydd replied. “Seeing you in a silk ball gown would put even the hardiest of men off his feed.”

“Something else, then.”

A look of speculation suddenly entered Dafydd’s eyes, even as they shifted to the tall windows of the library. “The Tower,” he said.

“The Tower?” Nickolas allowed his gaze to follow Dafydd’s out the windows and directly to the only remaining piece of what had once been Y Castell. The single stone tower, some two hundred yards from the house, stood as a stark reminder of what, he’d been told, was a rather violent history.

“As you know, I am entirely convinced that the ghost, Gwen, walks the corridors of Tŷ Mynydd,” Dafydd prefaced. Nickolas acknowledged the confession with a look of patronizing understanding that was far too theatrical to be taken as anything other than continued lighthearted banter. Dafydd simply shook his head pityingly. “But there are those who believe The Tower is haunted as well. I propose that if you concede my correctness on this matter, which you will inevitably be forced to do, then you shall be required to spend an entire night in The Tower.”

“And if not, you shall do so?” Nickolas countered.

“Precisely.”

“Is there a time limit on this wager of ours?” Nickolas asked. “I certainly cannot make good on my claim if we must wait until either I concede or you stick your spoon in the wall. Unless I have you entombed in The Tower.”

Dafydd laughed as Nickolas expected him to. “You believe, then, that you will never be forced to acknowledge Gwen’s existence.”

“Certainly not.”

“I declare that you will find yourself unable to further deny her existence
in this very house
before your party reaches its conclusion. That is my wager with one night spent in The Tower as forfeit.”

“Done.” Nickolas grinned and held his hand out to his friend.

Dafydd shook it enthusiastically. “I look forward to seeing you eat your words, Nickolas.”

Chapter Three

As a child, Nickolas had known few constants in life. Not one of his relatives had been willing to keep him longer than a few months. He’d found some stability in returning to Eton at the end of each school holiday. And in Griffith Davis, a student his own age whom he met his first year there, he’d found a friend for life. Thus, when he decided to host a house party as master of his own home, Nickolas hadn’t hesitated to invite Griffith.

The rest of the Davis family was every bit as welcome. They had offered him a place to live in London every Season until Griffith’s sister, Alys, had her come out. Housing an unmarried man who was of no relation to any of them simply couldn’t be done with a marriageable daughter under their roof. No matter that Nickolas and Alys were as romantically indifferent to one another as brother and sister, society’s thoughts on the situation could not be ignored. Still, Mrs. Davis invited Nickolas to every event hosted at their home and saw that he received regular invitations to take his dinner with the family. She, he often felt, had single-handedly kept him from starving over the years.

Nickolas personally knew Mrs. Davis’s abilities as a hostess. Asking her to serve in that capacity for his house party seemed the natural choice. He had to have a hostess. She would manage the thing with grace and capability.

The Davises arrived but a few hours ahead of the Castletons. As the two families constituted the entire guest list, preparations were minimal.

“Welcome to Tŷ Mynydd,” Nickolas greeted the Castletons upon their arrival from Norfolk.

“Mr. Pritchard,” Mr. Castleton greeted him gruffly in response. Mr. Castleton was not the most social gentleman of Nickolas’s acquaintance. He might very well have been the
least
social gentleman of Nickolas’s acquaintance.

The party was extremely small by
ton
standards. And to Mrs. Davis’s dismay, the numbers would be uneven with Dafydd joining them for dinner each night.

Nickolas made the appropriate introductions between the Castletons and his hostess. All were “delighted,” as they were expected to be, and Nickolas began to breathe more easily.

“What a lovely home you have here, Mr. Pritchard.” Mrs. Castleton glanced around with what appeared to be appreciation.

Nickolas smiled broadly. It
was
a lovely home. “Thank you, Mrs. Castleton.”

She took her husband’s arm as they ascended the front steps and entered the house, with Mrs. Davis walking alongside them. Nickolas was left, much to his delight, with the obligation of offering his arm to the divine Miss Castleton.

“We have never been to Wales,” she said, her voice as light and angelic as he remembered. “It is truly beautiful.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Nickolas turned Miss Castleton over to Mrs. Baines to be shown, along with her parents, to their rooms.

The housekeeper shot him a very quick look of disapproval, mingled with worry—the same look she’d given him daily since he’d discussed the room assignments with her. Nickolas insisted Miss Castleton be given the white bedchamber he’d stumbled upon on his first day at Tŷ Mynydd. Mrs. Baines had predicted all sorts of dire consequences, most of them muttered under her breath in Welsh, though the tone was unmistakable.

“That is
her
room, Mr. Pritchard,” she’d said once more just that morning. “And
she
doesn’t approve of anyone being in
her
room.”

“Then
she
will simply have to learn to share,” had been Nickolas’s response.

Mrs. Baines had been grumbling ever since.

The Castletons began their ascent of the front staircase, and Nickolas watched Miss Castleton with a silent sigh. She truly was lovely. And she seemed to genuinely like Tŷ Mynydd.
Wales
, at any rate.

Mrs. Baines and the family had nearly reached the first-floor landing when a sudden wind blew down the narrow stairs. The ladies’ hair disarranged and blew about them, their skirts billowing in the stiff breeze. Mrs. Castleton gripped her husband’s arm. Miss Castleton gripped her mother. All three pasted themselves rather hastily against the wall that made one side of the stairwell.

The wind died as suddenly as it had begun. No more than a moment’s gust, really. But it had not gone unnoticed. Mrs. Baines, at the front of the group, turned accusing eyes on Nickolas, who was watching from the entryway below. It was an
I told you so
look if he’d ever seen one. Each of the Castletons turned to regard him as well.

“Bit of a draft, it would seem,” Mr. Castleton grumbled, obviously unconvinced, and shrugged.

“Yes, precisely.” Nickolas managed to sound less confused than he felt. “A draft.”

A ridiculously strong draft. And a strange, sudden one. Nickolas would have to have his steward take a look at the . . .
At the what
? he wondered. That stairwell was in the middle of the house, no walls abutting the outdoors. The attics, perhaps? But it seemed strange that a draft would enter the house with so much strength from an attic as tall as any room.

“That was odd,” Mrs. Davis said to Nickolas, her forehead creased in obvious confusion as she stood next to him. “I have never in all my life seen such a strong, sudden draft.”

“Neither have I.” Nickolas’s eyes followed Miss Castleton’s progress from the stairs to the corridor leading toward her room.

“And Mrs. Baines seemed to think you had something to do with it, Nickolas. I know a look of accusation when I see one.”

Nickolas tore his gaze away from the upper floor. Miss Castleton had long since disappeared from view. He smiled at his hostess and offered his arm. “Yes, the entire household, you will soon find, intends to blame any little thing that goes awry during this house party on
me
.”

“And why is that, pray tell?”

They slowly walked toward the sitting room, where the others were likely gathered. “I made the grand miscalculation of not informing Tŷ Mynydd’s resident specter of my plans to host this gathering. The staff, most especially my indomitable housekeeper, are sure of consequences too dire to contemplate. It seems nothing in this house is done without
her
approval.”

“The ghost is female, then?” Mrs. Davis looked appropriately amused. “Perhaps you should flash one of the famous Nickolas Pritchard smiles in her direction,” she suggested with a feminine chuckle. “I have not known a female yet, be she eight or eighty, who could resist
that
.”