Chapter Four
Jonathan sat in his library with a brandy in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other. The latter was pressed against the gash in his throbbing temple. If only the damned book had landed elsewhere on his body. At least he’d have two places in pain rather than double on the side of his head.
His mother was pacing off her agitation next to the cold fire grate.
She was mumbling something. A prayer? He didn’t know and truthfully, he didn’t want to know.
He was as faithful as the next man—which was to say he attended church and did his best to be a moral man.
But beyond that, he had no firm opinion.
He dwelt in the here and now, leaving the afterlife to, well, afterwards.
Unfortunately, the events of this afternoon had shaken him. He wasn’t about to drop to his knees and pray for God’s mercy, but then again, he wouldn’t object if someone else did.
“I’m all right, Mother,” he said for the thousandth time. “It’s just a bruise. I was hurt worse when I fell off my horse.”
She shot him a hard look. “That’s not comforting! You fell not three weeks ago!”
“My horse shied at something. An insect, most like.” Though he hadn’t seen anything.
“And you fell. Nearly snapped your ankle in half!”
That was true. He’d been in the process of mounting when his normally quiet horse had screamed and taken off running as if a great big monster was chasing it. Jonathan hadn’t seen anything, but horses were touchy animals. They shied at waving grass.
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
“Until the next mishap. I swear I’m afraid to go anywhere.
Calamity stalks us! And yet, I’m terrified—terrified—to stay at home alone.
” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and resumed her pacing.
She was nearly out the door when she paused to face him again. “I spoke to Father Bertran about this.”
His head shot up. “You what?”
“I told him about all the mishaps, all the things that keep happening.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, don’t start. He said the same thing you did. Accidents happen. There is nothing—”
“Do not say it!” he snapped.
She pursed her lips. “He doesn’t even believe in exorcism and suggested I repeat a prayer when I am frightened.”
“Is that what you’re reciting?”
She sniffed. “It doesn’t work! I’m still frightened, and you’re still bleeding.”
“A book fell on me,” he said.
“A book flew across the room and hit you in the head!”
Well, yes. That was the disturbing aspect of it. What did a rational man do when life suddenly became irrational?
“Where’s Sus?” he asked by way of distraction.
“I don’t know. She disappeared right after your…” She amended her words at his hard glare. “After your accident. She’s probably hiding under her bed.”
“I am not!” his sister snapped as she rushed into the parlor. “I’ve brought help.”
Help? What help…
Jonathan’s gut clenched even as his breath eased. The two sensations were contradictory, and yet that’s how Giselle always made him feel. Contradictory! Because he was both enormously grateful for her presence and simultaneously afraid of what added idiocy she would bring.
That was bad enough, but Giselle hadn’t come alone. She was there with her twin, and his father’s name for them filled his mind. They were the “troubled twins,” and they made him equally unhinged.
Giselle looked exactly as she had this afternoon, though her gaze locked on his bloody forehead.
Gwenivere appeared as she always did, with tightened fists and an expression that all but begged people to fight her.
He much preferred the calm twin. Especially given the mercurial nature of the rest of his family.
“Susanne! Why would you bring them here?”
“Because we have a ghost and they handle ghosts.”
“We don’t!” he snapped.
Strangely enough, Gwenivere said the same thing. “We don’t,” meaning they don’t handle ghosts.
And in the silence that abruptly echoed in the room, Giselle released an audible sigh. “First things first,” she said. “Let me look at your forehead.”
“There’s no need—”
“Don’t be a baby,” she said in exactly the tone of voice she’d used when they were teenagers. “There’s a lot of blood. You probably need stitches.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he said, his tone begrudging. “I will call for a surgeon if I need one. Which I don’t.”
“I can stitch it. I’ve done it before.”
She had. Indeed, it was his arm that she’d stitched when he’d fallen out of a tree while trying to impress her. But instead of impressing her with his prowess, he’d fallen at her feet and squealed in shock at the bloody gash.
“You didn’t even get a scar,” she said.
“I did, too!” It was a thin white line. Not remotely ugly enough to impress anyone, but he still smiled at the memory. “I was very manly then,” he said. “Didn’t cry out once while you plied your needle.”
“I thought you very brave,” she said, humor lacing her own tone. “Stupid for climbing the tree, but brave as I stitched you up.”
He couldn’t disagree. Looking back, leaping for that tree branch had been the height of folly. He could have broken his neck instead of just gashing his arm. So he let her touch his handkerchief, then slowly peel it back. He tried not to wince. He focused on the gentle touch of her fingers instead.
She had elegant fingers, he thought. Long and capable, with clean nails and…
“Ouch!” The brief flash of pain surprised him.
“Sorry,” she said. “The fabric stuck a bit, but it’s free now.” She gently probed the area around the wound. “What happened?”
“A book fell on me.”
“From across the room!” Susanne cried. “It flew from the bookcase, across the room, to smack him right in the forehead. I saw it! We have a ghost.”
Everyone waited in taut silence to see what the twins would say, but they twins didn’t respond.
They simply shared a glance—one that spoke volumes to each other but no one else—and then went back to what they were doing.
Giselle was gently cleaning his wound. He’d already gotten a basin of water but hadn’t yet used it.
He was waiting for the wound to stop bleeding.
As for Gwenivere, she folded her arms and glared at everyone as if her attitude made anything better. It didn’t. She didn’t. So he touched Giselle’s arm.
“What was that about? What aren’t you saying?”
“Hmm?”
He pulled her hand away and tilted his head, so they were eye to eye. “Pretend we don’t know each other. Pretend everything that happened before never did—”
“That’s a tall order.”
“What would you say to me then? To all of us?”
She swallowed. “Probably nothing,” she answered. “There’s nothing here except a bit of blood.”
Susanne took a step forward. “But I saw—”
“It’s not here now,” Giselle interrupted. Then she glanced to her twin. “Do you hear anything?”
“All quiet.”
She turned back to Jonathan. “See. All good.”
“But you think there was something here.” He didn’t want to admit it. Hell, he didn’t want to think about it. But Susanne was right. A book had inexplicably flown off the shelf to smack him hard in the forehead.
“I wasn’t there,” Giselle said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Stop it!” he snapped, unreasonably angry. “You never lied to me before. Why are you hedging your words now?”
She took a step back, her expression hardening. Her sister had gasped at his outburst, but it was the look of angry hurt on Giselle’s face that made him cringe.
“You dare ask me that?” she said. There was barely any breath behind her words, as if he’d dealt her a body blow. But he heard her clearly nonetheless.
Fury built hot and hard inside him. He felt out of control, and that always made him angry.
“I don’t like this talk of ghosts and fairies and whatnot.
It was all well and good when we were kids.
Back home, you couldn’t kick a rock without someone saying you’d disturbed a fairy cairn.
But we’re all grown up now. And we’re in London, for God’s sake.
That sort of talk is for children, and you are a woman grown. ”
“And yet, you brought me here.”
“I didn’t,” he shot back. “My si—My sister did.” He’d almost said silly sister, but he knew better than to insult Susanne that way. Especially since that’s what his father used to call her. But she wasn’t silly. She hadn’t been for years.
It didn’t matter. Susanne heard the near insult and bristled.
“You explain it,” she said, her voice level and cold. “You tell me how that book hit you in the head.”
He didn’t have an answer, and that was exactly the problem.
“What book was it?” Giselle asked.
“What?”
“What book hit you? Where is it?”
Oh. “Um, still in the library, I think.”
Giselle’s brows rose, but she didn’t challenge him. Unlike her twin.
“You were hit in the library, and you came out here? You didn’t stop and take care of your wound immediately? Right where it happened?”
Um, no. The moment things had started flying, he’d yelled at everyone to get out. His mother had already been running. She was fast on her feet whenever a situation turned ugly. His sister had been slower, and he’d been struck by another book—in the center of his back—while bodily hauling her out.
Giselle nodded. “Good news, I don’t think you need stitches. Though it might prevent a scar.”
“I’ll risk it,” he said. “Thank you for checking though.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
And then her eyes hardened.
“And now, let’s go check out your library.”
“No!” he exclaimed as he shot to his feet. But damn, a bolt of pain had him swaying. Giselle caught his arm, steadying him. But that did nothing to prevent Gwenivere and Susanne from walking out the parlor, straight for the library.
The door was shut. Of course it was. He’d slammed it closed when they’d fled. And there wasn’t a servant in the house who would touch it now, much less open it. Not a problem for Gwenivere who firmly yanked the door open.
Then she stopped dead and stared, her mouth going slack in shock. Susanne peeked around her shoulder, gasped, and backed away. Then it was Giselle’s turn to look inside before turning to give him an arch look.
“Tell me again how you don’t have a ghost.”