Thirty-five
Fort
He’d kissed Lavender! Sort of. She hadn’t flinched or slapped him.
He shouldn’t have done it, Fort knew. Other men might think her easy because of her mother.
He didn’t want to insult her. But he was so happy to have her talking to him, after this past year of keeping his distance, that he didn’t know how to behave.
The impulse seemed a natural correlation.
But now he had to focus on serious affairs. The three of them carried the last ghosts to the pulley. He hung another scarecrow while Lavender and Thea checked buttons and threads to be certain heads and hooks stayed on.
Worriedly, he considered the next steps of the plot.
He hadn’t counted on the presence of women.
“I will have to send word to Rafe to close the pub shortly. Arnaud will conceal himself near the attic. At our signal, he’ll throw stink ghosts.
Once we are certain it is clear of servants, he’ll search their quarters.
I’ll have to search this floor. I can’t leave the two of you alone. Let me escort you to the manor.”
“The longer we delay, the more likely someone will see the ghosts before we even make them fly.” Lavender set her chin mulishly. “I wish to watch them fly. I’ll help you search rooms after the guests flee. I’m sure Rafe and Fletch can hold them in the pub. I’ll be fine with you.”
She was placing a great deal of reliance on his meager abilities. He ought to be delighted that she relied on him, but his strategies had merely been pranks before, never dangerous. He had doubts and second doubts on the wisdom of this plot.
Surely no one should come to harm from a stink ball. The guests would receive the message, and even if the wealthy scoundrels weren’t superstitious, their servants were. They’d refuse to stay.
And with any luck at all, they might have the opportunity to search rooms.
Thea didn’t seem eager to remain. “I’d rather go downstairs with Verity. If there is a commotion, she’ll need help with the children and the kitchen staff.”
Which was exactly what Lavender had promised earlier—a transparent ploy not to be sent away. “If you will, thank you, Miss Talbot, that will relieve me and Arnaud, unlike our stubborn modiste.” Fort glared at Lavender.
She put her hands on her hips and glared back. He bit back a smile. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? A partner who stayed at his side?
After Thea’s departure, all he needed to do was strategize keeping a delicate angel safe in the tumult that would result from their machinations.
Lavender wore a servants’ black garb, but nothing could disguise the bright halo of her silver-blond hair.
Trying not to imagine what those bountiful tresses looked like cascading down her slender back, Fort jerked the abandoned wig over her pinned-up hair.
“Let’s at least hide you a bit. You’ll have to stay with me. ”
“I need a mirror,” she whispered in protest, tugging at the unwieldy thing.
He couldn’t tell her she would be beautiful with a hen on her head.
She already knew that. How did he overcome her lack of confidence in her cleverness?
“No one will see you but me, and I already know what you look like. Stay here while I check that all is in place. Should anyone intrude, scream. I will not be far.”
She grimaced and fiddled with the wig but turned to study the hanging scarecrow for adjustments, letting him go without further argument.
He didn’t want to argue. But driving out villains came before courting. Setting this up was dangerous enough with Perser lurking in his room.
In the darkness at the far end of the main corridor, Arnaud played with the phantom’s strings. As Fort approached, the comte sent the ghost of Calendar’s clothes back to Lavender’s corner, out of sight of the stairs. “Time for last call?”
Fort nodded, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the bookkeeper. “Thea has agreed to go down to the Russells’ rooms, but Lavender insists on staying. She can hide with me while I work the ghosts, if you care to position yourself in the attic?”
Arnaud looked relieved that his inamorata would not be involved with mayhem. “Rafe said he’ll happily toss the stink bombs into the attic. He’s aired out worse stenches. Shall I signal Fletch to close the pub?”
As a lowly tutor, Fort had little chance to meet others. He only knew Rafe’s business partner as the grumpy clockmaker who had discovered the puzzle the boys currently worked on. But Fletcher Ferguson had been an army officer and was certainly qualified to throw drunken customers from the pub.
Fort recognized that it was time he learned to work with others, but there were things he needed to do that he didn’t have time to explain. “I’ll go. Then, with you positioned at this end of the corridor working the foot strings, we’ll prevent anyone from trying to escape through the far door.”
Nerves tightening, Fort trotted down to the lobby to signal the bartender.
Not bothering with niceties, Fletch merely shouted, “Lights out!” and began turning out the lanterns, to the protests of customers still holding tankards.
Crude but effective. While Fletch’s protesting customers stumbled out, Fort hid across the lobby, in the shop corridor, keeping track of departures. The locals obediently poured out the front door, while the guests staggered upstairs, some with drinks still in hand.
Interestingly, the baron and Andrew, his man-of-all-work, walked straight toward Fort’s hiding place.
“Thought something might be afoot,” Andrew said in satisfaction, discovering Fort leaning against the wall, counting heads. “The major was filling mugs faster than they could empty them.”
Fort hesitated about letting any newcomers into his plans, but he’d just vowed to learn to work with others, and they could use more hands on deck.
“Our visitors have overstayed their welcome and it’s time to be rid of them.
But first, we need to search for any evidence that might convict a killer. ”
“Since I trust giving them laudanum is not part of your plan, might we lend a hand in whatever has been proposed? I am enjoying our secluded cottage and also hate to see the village invaded by rabble.” The professorial baron with his unruly mane of hair did not appear the sort to engage in fisticuffs, but Fort had good reason to know appearances deceived.
“I’d like to ask you to escort the ladies home, but they are refusing to leave.” Fort preferred to stay with his original strategy. Changing at the last minute strained his ability to adapt. But these were scholars more likely to recognize incriminating evidence than Lavender.
So he explained their plan. Both men were grinning in approval by the time he was done.
“Entertainment and vindication all in one. This is a farce worth watching,” the professor concluded.
“There are five gentlemen on the next floor, and only three left in the attic, correct?” At Fort’s nod, he continued, “The servants are unlikely to have anything more incriminating than a few weapons. Rafe can easily search their chamber. With Arnaud, there are four of us. That should be sufficient for a quick search.”
Keeping an eye on the lobby, Fort caught Fletch’s signal that the pub was clear. “I would love to have you searching rooms, but I cannot leave Lavender alone. She wishes to watch the show.”
“Miss Lavender knows me,” Andrew said. “Perhaps she can be persuaded to work the mannequins with me, while you and the professor and Arnaud search?”
Fort had hoped to simply use the straw men to send everyone fleeing.
On his own, he’d meant to hide them before searching.
He hadn’t considered continuing to use the ghosts after they’d terrified the drunken, weaponless guests back to the lobby, but with extra hands to work the rope.
. . the ghosts might make an excellent deterrent to prevent anyone from catching him in his search. And if they kept Lavender safe. . .
Not having to do all the plotting on his own was amazingly helpful. Fort nodded, mentally adjusting his strategy. “If we can convince her. . . yes.”
They took the stairs up quietly, Andrew with his gimpy foot following last. Loud clattering and drunken grumbles from the various guest rooms indicated the scoundrels prepared for bed. Fort led the way to their ghost operation center.
Lavender was still securing the last of the stink bombs. The professor gagged on the strong musky stench and looked as if he regretted volunteering.
Fort was regretting absolutely everything he’d ever done, or not done, in his life, except for whatever had Lavender laughing and looking to him for. . . what? Approval? He had to learn these signs somehow. She was so radiant, no one even seemed to notice her ugly wig.
“Andrew will make a splendid puppeteer, thank you!” She crossed the room to squeeze his hand. “Now I can watch from the library.”
Fort tried not to groan. The library was directly at the top of the stairs. But her hand in his. . . removed what remained of his careful plotting.
“We’re here now,” the baron generously offered. “I’ve worked pulleys before. You can watch the ghostly parade with Miss Lavender from the library and let us know when it is clear to start searching.”
Fort had never wanted to be a general. But if he wished to work with others, he had to learn to direct actions.
And if he wanted to court Lavender—which he very much did—he had to learn to work with her.
That apparently involved adapting to her desire to be more than a pretty modiste to be cosseted like a china doll.
Of course, if his plan was a catastrophic failure—
“Fine,” he said in resignation. “Is everyone armed with the weapons with which they’re comfortable?”
Lavender grabbed her scissors and knitting needles. Weapons hidden, the others merely nodded.
“I’ll watch the corridor and tug the rope when all the lights are out under the doors.” Arnaud strode off.
The wait seemed interminable. Drunks apparently did not disrobe quickly. They eventually heard the valets clattering up to their attic quarters but Arnaud’s string tug didn’t follow.
They adjusted the puppet ghosts, tightened hooks, choked on nervous laughter, until Andrew, watching from the door, snapped his fingers for attention. They quieted instantly, watching the rope bounce from Arnaud’s tug. Checking the main hall, no lights could be seen.
Fort began pulling the rope, sending the first spectral straw man gliding from the room. Pouring into the hall to watch, they followed its progress to be certain it took the corner properly.
Once they had the first ghost on its way, Fort whistled up to Rafe to toss his stink ghosts when he thought fit. With Andrew taking over the ropes and the corridor starting to reek already, Fort took the library key from Lavender and hurriedly ran with her to its safety.
“Even if this doesn’t work, it’s the best All Hallow’s Eve trick I’ve ever seen!
Thea shouldn’t be so hen-hearted, but she fears seeing real ghosts and reacting badly.
” Once safely installed in the library, Lavender peered around the door frame to watch gray balls float near the ceiling, following the straw man in Calendar’s clothes.
Exchanging confidences—Fort enjoyed that. He hadn’t had many confidants in his life.
Unfortunately, her delightful lavender scent couldn’t erase the stench permeating the hall as the ghosts sailed across the drafty ceiling, rocking back and forth for all the world like supernatural emanations.
As they watched, the Calendar ghost almost reached the end of the long corridor near Humphries’ room.
The stench alone ought to wake the dead, if not the drunk.
Shouldn’t they all be gagging and falling into the hall to see what was wrong?
No lanterns came on. Were they all passed out? Failure loomed.
At the end of the corridor, Arnaud yanked a string. A booted foot kicked a door. The library was too distant for them to hear much. They should have added rattling chains.
“Well, it was a fun experiment,” he murmured in disappointment.
More spectral gray balls floated by. Lavender examined them critically. “More lighting needed. They should have candles.”
“We’d burn the place down.” But that was an idea. Fort partially opened one of the lanterns they’d brought with them. It sent just enough light to illuminate the ghostly spooks floating overhead—should anyone bother emerging from their rooms to see them.
At the other end of the hall, Arnaud yanked a string again. The architect’s ghost repeatedly kicked Humphries door. Still no response.
“Not as much fun if no one sees our hard work.” Abruptly, Lavender emitted a high-pitched lament designed to curdle blood. She had to be half banshee.
Fort wanted to drag her back inside and lock the door, but the next scarecrow sailed down the line.
Returning on the second rope in this direction, the Calendar ghost slammed a boot against Gladstone’s door.
Wearing the architect’s shabby frockcoat and baggy breeches over stick legs, the straw man wouldn’t fool anyone unless he vanished quickly.
If nothing else, one could hope the guests would receive the message that they weren’t wanted, but if they were this thick-headed. . .
Chandar’s ghost—with a turban around its gourd head—struck Perser’s door across the hall. Closer to the stairs and the library, they could hear that thump. Surely it was loud enough to wake anyone sleeping.
A light flickered under the door of the gambler’s room. Andrew danced the first ghost in front of the library, letting them view the effigy before whisking it past. Chandar’s ghost now bounced and kicked at the gambler’s door on its way to Arnaud.
Lavender clutched Fort’s arm as doors finally eased open and drunken muttering joined the clunking of ghostly boots. In the candlelight, spectral gray balls drifted past.
Screams from the attic had the lawyer finally peering from his door, then slamming it as Chandar’s ghost kicked at him. Not so drunk as the others, Fort surmised. Still no sign of Humphries, drat it. Chandar has almost reached Humphries’ end of the hall.
Perhaps they needed to add spectral cries for revenge. . . That poor servant deserved some justice, if only a bad night’s sleep. Fort’s tactics tended to be more military than creative, unfortunately.
Finally, they heard the servants’ bare feet clambering down the attic stairs, accompanied by colorful obscenities. Fort covered Lavender’s ears. One more point he’d not considered.
Chandar’s straw man began its return journey, kicking at Perser’s door again.
This time, the door opened, slamming against the inside wall. Before Andrew could whisk the effigy away, a wraith in a long night shirt lurched into the straw corpse, grabbing for its feeble throat.
The turbaned gourd-head remained attached to its pulley, but the straw body collapsed on the floor, with Perser drunkenly crushing its straw ribs, still strangling a throat that was no longer there.