“This house is beyond repair, Miss Oliver. You’ll have to resign yourself to the idea that it will be demolished and replaced with something more modern and serviceable at some point in the future.”
“Replaced? Where would Lucidora’s and Coraline’s spirits dwell? Would you doom them to roam the seashore, moaning and frightening visitors away?”
“You just said they were imaginary.”
“They were real women who lived and died in this house. Their legacy must be honored sothat their deaths were not in vain. They must be remembered. I want to display their diaries for visitors to read.”
“Perhaps you could have a display in the building in which your historical society meets.”
“We only have temporary meeting rooms in the town hall. This is where we should be meeting. Squalton Manor cannot, and must not, be destroyed. It’s a site of historical interest, and the house should be preserved, and the land used not for the benefit of one rich lord but for the edification and enrichment of all. My wish is to make the site a museum with a tea shop, where I will sell my historical pamphlet and donate all proceeds to the Squalton Benevolent Society.”
“You’ll save the manor with a pamphlet.”
“I’ll try,” she said, her chin set at a determined angle. “I’ll find more details about Lucidora and Coraline and include information about them. Everyone loves a safe thrill from ghostly apparitions. Captain Oliver will be sighted in the window with his spyglass, looking out to sea. And his two spinster daughters will enjoy having visitors to keep them company. We’ll have portraits painted and hung in the gallery.”
“I don’t like this talk of hauntings,” said Miss Hodwell. “Let’s go back to my house and have more almond macaroons.”
But Miss Oliver wasn’t finished with her lecture yet. “Generations of Olivers have petitioned generations of Rydell nobility to return the manor house, but to no avail. I wish I could meet with the Duke of Rydell and tell him a few things.”
“If the duke were here, what would you say to him?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“I’d appeal to his better nature, if he has one. I’d spin him the sad tale of a village that lost its heart when Squalton Manor was shuttered. Townsfolk are out of work and down in the mouth because no visitors frequent their shops. I’d ask him to find it in his heart to heal the rift between our families with a magnanimous gesture of goodwill and charity.”
She clasped her hands together, her lovely face earnest and determined. “I hear the duke is a supporter of many charities in London, and I’d find a way to make him see that our cause here in Squalton-on-Sea is equally as worthy of his patronage and benevolence.”
Some long unused chamber of Dane’s cold, cold heart thawed a little during this impassioned speech. But no—all the passionate speeches in the world didn’t change the fact that this was more a pile of rubble than a house worth saving.
Miss Hodwell clapped her hands. “Well said, Miss Oliver! Surely the feud between the dukes of Rydell and the earls of Amberly has fizzled into nothing by now. You should go to London and appeal to the duke in person. He couldn’t fail to be inspired by your zeal and eloquence and moved to do the right and charitable thing.”
Or he could do the expedient and profitable thing and sell this crumbling dust heap to the highest bidder to tear down and build something modern on this fine slice of seaside property.
Chapter Four
Keep your head out of the clouds, and never indulge in fanciful imaginings.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
Gladiator was freshly shod and eager to be on the road again. But Dane was still here after nearly a week. Why? He’d anticipated riding back to civilization as fast and furiously as Gladiator could gallop.
Yet here he remained.
Doing such uncharacteristic things as holding balls of yarn for elderly spinster knitters, listening to history lectures from learned young ladies, and even joining in with the grizzled gossips at the Squalton Squire.
Good-for-nothing bloody damned dukes, he’d cursed the other night while raising a pint to the portrait of his long-dead ancestor, which hung behind the bar, before throwing a knife dead between his eyes.
London seemed worlds away. Life here was simple and surprisingly idyllic. He woke with the sun streaming through the garret windows, and he fell asleep early because there was nothing to do late at night.
No Thunderbolt Club, gaming hells, horseraces, artists’ salons, bawdy houses, or theaters. None of the decadent amusements with which he filled his nights in London.
He plunged into the sea whenever he felt like it, and the waves seemed to wash him cleaner than any bathwater had ever done.
Time was different here. Had it been a week, or a year? He wasn’t drinking as much, and his dreams were clearer, more crystalline, filled with one subject over and over: Miss Sandrine Oliver.
Miss Oliver emerging from the sea wearing nothing more than clamshells strung together with twine. Miss Oliver taking him by the hand and giving him a tour of Squalton Manor that included each one of the fourteen bedchambers.
Giving Miss Oliver a ride in his new curricle. They sped down the road with the wind in their hair until one of the wheels came loose and they were forced to stay the night at a country inn. Where there was only one bed, naturally. They piled pillows in between them as a barrier. But then Miss Oliver climbed right over the flimsy wall of pillows and begged him to ravish her.
That was a good one.