A Loving Spirit (3 page)

But then she tipped her head to look up at the house, and her hood fell back.

"Oh!" he said involuntarily. His hands stilled on the cravat he had been attempting to tie.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but not this pretty woman. Her hair was black and shining as a raven's wing, parted sleekly in the middle and drawn back to a simple low knot at the nape of her neck. No fashionable curls or whorls marred the sheen of it, and its only ornament was a carved comb of some dark wood.

Her skin was smooth and faintly sun-touched, over high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. A pair of long, sparkling earrings swung against her cheeks and caught in the rich sable lining of her hood.

She smiled as she surveyed the house, as if pleased with its aspect, and Phillip found himself quite pleased himself that she should like it. He wondered if she would like
him
as well...

Then he realized what he was thinking and frowned. "Fool!" he muttered, his hand crushing his cravat.

He was meant to be thinking of his work, not watching a pretty lady out of windows and wondering if she would like him. That was for men who had nothing better to do, society fribbles who just sat about at their clubs and danced at balls.

Even as he thought this, he could not stop himself from looking at the elf-girl again. She was half-turned away, talking to another woman. This other woman was a very interesting vision, indeed. She was quite tall, perhaps as tall as his own six feet, with dark, gleaming skin. She wore an odd pelisse-robe of crimson and black, with a matching turban concealing her hair. She, too, surveyed the house, with narrowed, assessing eyes. Then she said something to the woman in the cloak and nodded.

Well, this
was
quite interesting. Phillip's scholarly mind was turning, coming up with countless questions he would like to ask these ladies about their lives in the West Indies. It must have been a fascinating existence, full of old-fashioned superstitions and myths.

It was simply too bad they were not Greek. What a great help
that
would have been to his work.

"My lord?" his long-suffering valet said from behind him.

Phillip turned to see that he held out his best coat, the dark green superfine his mother had insisted he wear, the one with only one small hole on the sleeve. "Yes, Jones?"

"Your mother has sent a message saying the guests have arrived," Jones said, holding the coat out farther with a rather hopeful air. "She asks that you join them in the drawing room, my lord, at your earliest convenience."

"Yes, of course. Mustn't be late," Phillip murmured. He glanced back out the window, but everyone had already gone inside.

Chapter 3

Cassie munched on a tea cake and examined all the portraits lining the walls of the vast drawing room. They were varied and very fascinating, ranging from a Renaissance gentleman in a velvet cap and cloak to a picture hung over the fireplace of the present Lady Royce as a young bride. She cocked her head to one side to examine the portrait of a Restoration lady with blond curls and a blue satin gown.

The lady in turn seemed to move her head to examine Cassie.

"Such an engaging family you have, Lady Royce," Cassie said, straightening her head. Now the lady appeared to be staring out vacantly into space. "I would love to hear about each and every portrait."

Lady Royce gave a pleased little laugh. "I will be happy to tell you all you wish to know, my dear Miss Richards! Though of course they are not exactly
my
family, I feel as if they are, since I married into the Leighton family when I was only sixteen." She paused to refill Antoinette's teacup and pass Chat another sandwich, then went on, "That portrait you are looking at is Louisa, Lady Royce. She came to a rather bad end. She fell off the cliffs into the sea."

Antoinette examined the painting. "I believe she still dwells in the East Tower."

Lady Royce looked at her with wide, wondering eyes. "So I have heard. I personally have not seen her, or the knight who walks about in his armor. And then there is our most famous ghost, Louisa's husband's great-grandmother Lady Lettice."

Cassie looked over where Lady Royce indicated to see a painting of a woman in Elizabethan regalia, ruff, drum farthingale, and ropes of pearls and rubies.

Antoinette frowned. "I cannot sense her presence."

"No one has seen her in quite a long time," Lady Royce said regretfully. "Not since before I came to live here. But there are many legends about her. They say she cannot find peace because she was betrayed by her true love."

"We shall just have to find her, then, won't we, Antoinette?" Cassie said.

Antoinette nodded slowly. "Perhaps."

"Well, if I can be of any help, do let me know," said Lady Royce. Then she looked past the settee where Cassie and Antoinette sat, and smiled. "Phillip, dear, here you are at last! Do come and greet our guests."

Cassie put down her teacup and placed a polite smile on her face, preparing to greet the shambling scholar, whom she still pictured as old despite his mother's youthful appearance. She didn't hear any tap of a cane on the floor, or smell any camphor to warn of his approach.

She stood and turned around, and felt the polite smile freeze on her lips.

Why, Lord Royce was not old at all! In fact, he did not look much like her idea of a scholar, as he was quite good-looking. He was a trifle thin, true, especially compared to the burly, broad-shouldered planters she was accustomed to at home. And his complexion was rather pale, probably from spending a great deal of time studying indoors. His eyes were an intense, stormy gray, that seemed to pierce right through to her innermost soul.

But she would have thought him a poet, not a student of antique civilizations. His hair was not just in need of a bit of a trim, it was truly unfashionably long, falling almost to his shoulders in thick dark brown waves, as if he could not be bothered to cut it. It was damp, as if he had just washed it and hastily combed it back, but it was rich and soft-looking. She actually lifted her hand a bit, wanting to touch it, before she realized what she was doing and dropped her arm back to her side.

No, Lord Royce was not at all what she had been expecting!

Then Lady Royce's voice came to her through the haze, and she realized that things had been going on about her. Things she ought to pay attention to, such as introductions.

"...and this is her niece, Miss Cassandra Richards," Lady Royce was saying.

Cassie stared dumbly at Lord Royce as he reached for the hand she had dropped to her side, and lifted it to his lips for a brief salute.

His breath was warm on her fingers, and she had to fight down the strong urge to giggle. She scarcely even noticed the small hole in his green sleeve.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Richards," he said. "I suppose you must always speak the truth?" His voice was dark and rich, like Jamaican rum.

Cassie blinked at him. What on earth was the man talking about? "Ex-excuse me, Lord Royce?"

He smiled at her as one would to a rather slow child. "Your name. Cassandra. 'Disbelieved by men.' Are you named after the great prophetess of Troy?"

Cassie vaguely remembered her mother telling her the story of the Trojan Cassandra, who was doomed to always tell the truth of her prophecies and never be believed. Her mother had loved the old myths. "I suppose I must be," she answered.

He gave her another smile, and went to sit beside his mother. Cassie slowly sat back down, her mind screaming one word at her. "Fool, fool, fool!"

She could feel her face flaming. What a thorough idiot he must think her!

"Miss Richards was just asking me about the history of the castle," Lady Royce said, pouring out a cup of tea for her son. "She is very interested in it."

Lord Royce raised his dark brow at Cassie. "Indeed, Miss Richards?"

Cassie seized on the topic. Surely she could converse more easily about a haunted castle than ancient Troy. "Oh, yes! It is truly fascinating. There must be much to learn about it."

"It
is
an interesting place," he agreed. "I plan to someday write a history of it. It was built in 1320, by the first Earl of Royce..."

"I believe she is more interested in Lady Lettice, the knight, and Louisa, dear," interrupted Lady Royce.

That dark brow rose again. "Is that what you are interested in, Miss Richards? The so-called ghosts?"

Cassie frowned, but before she could reply, Antoinette said, "You are a disbeliever, Lord Royce."

"I suppose I am," answered Lord Royce. "I prefer the logic and rationality of ancient Greece to spooks and haunts."

"Hmm," Antoinette murmured, surveying him through narrowed ebony eyes.

Lord Royce fidgeted a bit under her steady gaze, and turned away to address a question to Aunt Chat.

Cassie studied him over the rim of her teacup. Well, he might be handsome as a poet, but he was obviously quite as obnoxiously
logical
as she had feared he might be.

Chapter 4

"I liked Lady Royce, didn't you, Cassie?" Antoinette asked. The two of them were in Cassie's room before they retired, to brush each other's hair and talk over the day. After they had convinced some rather snooty upper servants that Antoinette was Cassie's friend and not her maid, she had been given the chamber next door to Cassie's. Just like at the house in Jamaica.

"Yes, very much," Cassie answered, reaching for a strand of her freshly brushed hair to braid. "She was all that was charming. And she agreed to give us a tour of the castle tomorrow. That should be most interesting."

"Perhaps we can find Lady Lettice!"

"Perhaps so. And Louisa and the armored knight. I don't think Lady Royce's son would very much appreciate us going on a ghost hunt, though," Cassie murmured. She thought of Lord Royce, of his poet's hair and his mysterious gray eyes, of the smoky roughness of his voice.

Of that obnoxious raised brow, proclaiming how silly he thought her.

She frowned.

"Oh, yes. Lord Royce," Antoinette said. "He does not believe. He does not sense all that is around him. It is very sad."

Cassie felt a strange urge to defend Lord Royce, even with the memory of his scoffing in her mind. "Not everyone is as sensitive as you, Antoinette. Not everyone can so easily believe in things they cannot touch or see. Or read in dusty books, as Lord Royce does."

"You
believe."

"I am different from most of the English we have met. I lived in Jamaica, where things are very—different." Cassie turned her head to look out the uncurtained window, where all the autumn stars shimmered.

Usually she was happy enough here in England. Her aunt had been all that was kind, and life at Chat's house in Bath was very comfortable. But sometimes, especially in unguarded moments like these, she felt like such an outsider. Like she could never possibly understand the people around her, nor they her. She did not understand the things they took for granted, and they often thought her an oddity.

Just as Lord Royce had.

She would feel completely alone all the time, were it not for Antoinette. But she sometimes felt guilty for bringing her here, where, if Cassie felt like an oddity, Antoinette must feel ten times more so. She had faced shocked looks and fierce whispers ever since they reached England.