Chapter One
Ten years later
Giselle heard the ghost long before she saw him. That was rare. She usually heard only the strongest, most violent ghosts. No words, but the tone was clear enough. Anger, frustration, and arrogance trussed up as righteous fury.
Likely, it was saying something like, “Listen to me! What is wrong with you? You’re an idiot!”
Each wail pushed pain into her awareness before fading out. And each time she thought it was over, another furious blast would come at her again.
Goodness, this was one angry ghost. The only saving grace was that she was not the target of its fury. She received the leftover emotion, like the eddies in a stream after the main current rushed past.
Her one question—and she really didn’t want to know—was who stood in the eye of this storm? What poor unfortunate was dead center of the ghost’s attention?
Against her will, she looked up to see.
There. A well-dressed gentleman rubbing his temples as if …well, as if he was under assault from an unseen foe. Which he was.
None of her business. If she responded to every haunted soul in London, she’d have no time for anything else.
So she turned back to the counter at My lady’s Apothecary, waited until Madame Ille herself came to speak with her, and then began to trade with the lady.
That was, after all, Giselle’s business. Her father prayed over the components Madame used so she could claim everything inside was blessed by a vicar. That, in turn, kept Giselle’s large family alive.
Thankfully, there’d been no new babies at home since moving to London.
She knew now that was thanks to a tart teaching Mama about French letters.
That was one benefit of serving London’s most wretched flock.
Nevertheless, the family she had needed to eat, and so Giselle sold her father’s blessings to whomever might pay.
It wasn’t until she turned around to leave that she saw the gentleman again. His body was almost fully obscured by the ghost, but his face was clear, most especially his eyes.
She knew those eyes. Only one person had such beautifully piercing gray eyes. Neither colored nor dark, she’d once thought he could see things others could not. And that just showed what an idiot she’d been.
Then some cursed impulse had her blurting out his name.
“Jonathan! What are you doing here?”
He looked up and his eyes widened. She saw him sweep her face and body, and she instinctively recoiled. She was a long way from that open girl he’d known at sixteen. And yet, he still recognized her.
“Giselle,” he said, in a soft tone. But that was as far as he got before the ghost began screaming in the way of all angry children throwing a tantrum.
“Quit wailing like a child!” she snapped, much louder than she intended. Given that no one else could hear the ghost’s complaints—only feel them in a pounding of the temples—that was a rude thing to say.
Fortunately, it worked. The ghost turned its attention to her, lunged forward, then abruptly disappeared.
She stood firm. She’d learned that ghosts couldn’t touch her if she kept herself calm. So when it went for her, she merely stood tall. She felt bitter cold wash through her before it disappeared along with all its sound and fury.
She released a quick breath, grateful for the silence, only to look straight into Jonathan’s startled gray eyes.
Oh dear. What had she said?
“I apologize,” she scrambled. “I—I wasn’t speaking to you. My thoughts…my imagination, you know. Always runs away with me.”
“I remember,” he said, his expression shifting from confusion to nostalgia. “You still speak to yourself then.”
“I’m afraid so,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn.
Desperate to be away before the ghost came back, she pulled out a bright smile and gestured to the counter. “They have an excellent headache powder here that should help.” Until the ghost came back.
She stepped to the side only to have him stop her with a touch on her elbow. “How did you know I am here for headache medicine?”
“You were rubbing your temples. You only did that with Greek or when you had a headache.”
He nodded, his expression again carefully blanked. “Hmmm,” he said.
Oh dear. He’d always known when she was lying. Which meant it was time for her to escape.
“I must be off, Lord Jonathan. I hope you and your family are well.” She said it even though she knew it wouldn’t be true. No one endured that level of haunting without terrible problems.
“It’s Viscount Chastleton now,” he said. “My father passed away a year ago.”
Oh yes. She’d heard the news at the time. A heart attack, she’d heard, though he’d had a hacking cough for months. Either way, his son had always been ‘Jonathan’ to her. Except now, when he apparently expected deference.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said, dipping her chin, though she refused to bend her knees to him.
He winced. “That’s not what I meant.” Then he sighed. “Do you have some time, Miss Wellard? It’s a beautiful day. I should like to take a walk with you.”
Oh, how his voice brought back memories. Rich tones, kindly voice. It resonated with a place deep inside her. Like calling to like, perhaps? Except they were not alike, so she ought to say no. She ought to rush home with her coins and never think of him again. Old loves were best forgotten.
“Please, Giselle. Just a walk.”
She could never say no to him. Not when he spoke so earnestly.
“I should love to,” she said, “but are you sure you want to be seen with me? I am steeped in madness, after all.”
She hadn’t meant to be so cutting, but some hurts would not be locked away. Which was why she should have left when she’d had the chance.
“I like your madness. I always have.”
A lie. He liked the way she told fairy tales. She was a born storyteller and had entertained him and many others. But the moment she said ghosts were real, he’d turned tail and run. And that still hurt.
“This isn’t a good idea. We give each other nothing but pain.”
He snorted. “My parents gave us nothing but pain. We never had a problem when they weren’t around.”
Not exactly true, but close. She softened.
“I should like to hear how your family is doing,” she admitted.
She’d once been friends with his younger sister.
Unfortunately, she could see the growing darkness around him.
The ghost was coming back, and the longer Giselle was around him, the stronger the creature would become. Strong enough—eventually—to manifest.
That was the paradox of her life. Her goal was to send the ghosts to the afterlife, but she could only do that by making them stronger in the here and now.
They fed on her energy, growing more whole until she could communicate with them.
Then she solved whatever was keeping them here, and they willingly passed on to the other side.
So the more she sat with Jonathan, the stronger his ghost would get. The kindest thing would be for her to leave. Eventually, his ghost would dissipate on its own. Maybe. Though given the power in this one, she doubted it.
Either way, this was Jonathan, her first love and the man she’d longed to speak with again, if only to give him a piece of her mind. Ghost or not, she wanted to talk with him. She wanted to know if and why—all those years ago—he had destroyed herself and her family.
“I can walk for a little bit.”
“I must buy the headache powder. My mother has terrible pains sometimes.”
So the ghost was torturing mother and son alike.
“I’ll wait for you,” she said. And then she grimaced at her words. Ten years ago, she had waited for him. Despite being called mad and her father losing his parish, she had believed he would be true. She’d expected a letter, if nothing else.
But none came, though she’d waited for years.
“I promise I’ll be quick.”
Another promise. She should disappear on him now. Give him a small taste of what he’d done to her. But she didn’t. That was petty.
“I’ll wait.”