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    The Ghosts of Rushton Court
    The Ghosts of Rushton Court
    The Ghosts of Rushton Court
    Ebook341 pages5 hours

    The Ghosts of Rushton Court

    By Blair Bancroft

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    About this ebook

    A Regency ghost story inspired by the classic saying: "Marry in haste, repent at leisure."

    The widowed Lady Marian Talbot is keeping a low profile as her exquisitely lovely sister, Vanessa, makes her come-out. Yet somehow it is Marian who attracts the attention of the most eligible bachelor London society has seen in a decade, a marquess who has spent the last dozen years in India. After a whirlwind courtship, Marian—now the Marchioness of Rushton—arrives at her new home, only to discover she is expected to solve the challenges of dealing with her husband's hostile brother and sister, his illegitimate young son, and a staff at war with itself. And, as if that weren't enough, Marian must also adjust to a panoply of ghosts, all supposedly benign, but that becomes doubtful when someone—or some thing—makes repeated attempts to kill both the marquess and his new bride.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateJan 10, 2019
    ISBN9780999851920
    The Ghosts of Rushton Court
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      The Ghosts of Rushton Court - Blair Bancroft

      PART ONE

      Marry in haste . . .

      Chapter 1

      London, Spring 1816

      Marian! Marian!

      My sister Vanessa burst into my bedchamber with the dramatic intensity of a Mrs. Siddons, her pale blue sprigged muslin swirling about her ankles, her face—which has been described as that of the angel—aglow with excitement. You’ll never guess, she burbled before glancing at the mound of ruffles in my lap and abruptly switching to an entirely different topic. You have not finished my gown? You know I need it tonight. Really, Mari, how can you be so slow? Hands on her hips, she glared at me.

      It was a very bad tear, I said as patiently as I could. Only very careful stitching can mend it so it won’t show—which is why I offered to do it, if you will recall, rather than leave it to Clover. It was also the reason why I was in my room, sewing, while Mama and Nessa entertained morning callers—a ritual of the ton I was delighted to have an excuse to avoid. Clover, I should add, is the maid Nessa and I supposedly shared, although, as might be expected, when one sister is a widow of four and twenty and the other an outstanding beauty making her come-out, I was fortunate if poor, overworked Clover Billings remembered to take my garments below stairs to the laundress.

      Oh, very well, Nessa grumbled, her face once again blooming with news as she recalled the reason for her pell-mell charge up the stairs to my bedchamber. Rushton has returned, she announced in ringing tones. Lady Binghampton has just told us so.

      At my blank look, Nessa added, a trifle tartly: "Blakeney Durrant, the new Marquess of Rushton. He has been gone a decade or more, but his father’s death has brought him home. A marquess, Mari. An eligible marquess. Mama is aux anges. She has already determined he is to be mine." Vanessa struck a pose, her hands gracefully extended to her sides, as if accepting applause from an audience—or perhaps congratulations from the entire ton for snabbling one of the highest titles in the land.

      My sister tended toward the volatile, and I often allowed her bits of gossip to sail over my head, unheeded, but Lady Binghampton was not among the tattlemongers who thrived on creating sensation out of nothing. And an unmarried marquess popping into the Season of 1816 was rather like one of Congreve’s rockets exploding inside the exclusive circle of England’s finest. The matchmaking mamas would be scrambling for position—eyes agleam, sweet smiles disguising their predatory intentions, teeth bared behind their fans. And without doubt, my mama—Clarissa, Countess of Albemarle—would be at the forefront of the attack force aimed at the newly elevated Marquess of Rushton.

      I searched my mind for what I had heard about the Durrant family and discovered very little. Devastated by the loss of my dear Julian at the battle of Vitoria, I had clung to the shelter of our country home, emerging from obscurity this year only because Nessa was making her come-out. And yes, deep down, because I was finally ready to face the fact that life must go on, that many women widowed by the long war with Bonaparte had already remarried and begun the raising of the next generation, while I . . .

      Enough! I had taken the first step on the road to putting the past behind me. I would not fall back into maudlin thoughts of what might have been.

      Rushton . . . family name Durrant . . . I had not lost complete touch with the world while in the country. I read as many newspapers as I could lay my hands on and corresponded with friends from my first Season, and somewhere in all that I recalled reading of the demise of the Marquess of Rushton—perhaps as much as a year ago. One of my correspondents had speculated that the heir might be dead. Another relayed the on dit that he had been gone so long that Lady Rushton, a second wife, made no secret that she expected her own son, still a schoolboy, to inherit the title. A juicy tidbit, certainly—the return of the elder son must have been a crushing blow. But other than that, I knew nothing about the Durrants or the new Marquess of Rushton. Not even where he had been all these years.

      Surely not hiding himself from the war?

      Appalled by such a horrid thought, I swiftly made excuses: he had been exploring in the Canadas . . . or Greece. Greece was, after all, on every young nobleman’s itinerary. Before Bonaparte, that is. Perhaps he had been trapped there, unable to return until the war was over . . .

      Marian, stop woolgathering and finish my gown! Having delivered this scold, Nessa leapt back to the news of the hour. Clasping her hands in front of her and raising her eyes to the ceiling, she exclaimed, "Just think, Mari. He might be at the ball tonight, and this is my finest gown. Hurry up. Do!"

      It won’t get done if you stay here fussing at me, I declared, and shooed her from the room. Nessa flowed out, no doubt to consult with our mother about the best strategy to impress a marquess.

      I regarded the ten inches of torn ruffles left to be repaired with the tiniest of stitches . . . and sighed. As so frequently happened with my sister, I reminded myself that being young and heedless was a rite of passage. Nor was it Nessa’s fault she was so shockingly spoiled. But sometimes it was hard—until I looked at her as others did and saw the exquisite perfection of her face and figure, her graceful carriage, glorious golden blonde curls, long-lashed cornflower blue eyes, enticing lips . . . I sighed. Only three weeks into the Season and Nessa was already being touted as a diamond of the first water, the outstanding beauty of the marriage mart of 1816. So why should she not set her cap at the new Marquess of Rushton? Surely the man had come back from wherever he’d been for the sole purpose of finding the love of his life in Lady Vanessa Evesham?

      I would not have wished my face to freeze in the wry grimace I made at that point in my thoughts. I huffed another sigh and returned to my painstaking stitching.

      The ballroom of Viscount and Lady Harborough teemed with so many members of the ton it was a wonder the dancers could manage the figures without bowling over those who crowded the edges of the room. I was grateful to have found a place on an elaborately carved and gilded chair placed tight against a rosy marble column. In this sheltered spot I could lurk, watching the colorful display of the ton at its finest—including the maneuverings of the matchmaking mamas—while keeping my ears pealed for the torrent of on dits pouring from the ladies (and one frail old gentleman) seated near me. And torrent it certainly was. The advent of the Marquess of Rushton had set the cat among the pigeons, as the saying goes.

      I hear it was the Canadas, Lady Savile, an elderly dowager, declared. That is where he has been all these years.

      No indeed, Lady Westmeath corrected sharply. "It was Greece. I had it from Pomfret just yesterday.

      The American West, Miss Pennyworth, a spinster of uncertain years, offered, eyes wide. Lived with Red Indians, I’m told.

      Fair and far out, ladies, declared Lord Leyburn, a septuagenarian whose step might be doddering but whose wits were sharp. It’s Inja, my dears. Boy’s been all these years in Inja.

      Nonsense! declared Lady Westmeath. No Englishman could survive so many years in that dreadful climate.

      Inja, Leyburn repeated stubbornly. Mostly in the north—heard it at White’s this very afternoon, he added with the glee of an elderly gentleman trumping all tidbits his companions might offer. Quarreled with his father and off he went. During the Peace of Amiens, it was. Never came back.

      India. My insides quivered with the wonder of it. India. So very far away, so exotic, so . . . completely different from anything I had ever known. How I should love to know more about it.

      The more prosaic parts of me sneered at my girlish enthusiasm.

      Why shouldn’t I be interested? I countered. I always wanted to see faraway places. I would have followed the drum if Papa had let me.

      And been stuck in the middle of Spain at the tail end of the army, my inner voice mocked.

      I cringed, a shiver striking through me from head to toe. Despite my determination to move forward with my life, Julian’s death continued to rear its ugly head, catching me unawares—

      A great hush swept the room, cacophony turned to silence as every eye fixed on a figure in the doorway.

      By a stroke of good fortune, I had a clear view of the stranger from my seat by the pillar. Oh! There could be no doubt—he had to be Rushton, the Man of the Hour. I stared, as vulgarly curious as everyone else.

      He was striking. Caroline Lamb’s description of Lord Byron leaped to mind: mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Except Rushton was a lion to Byron’s half-grown kitten. Something long frozen inside me stirred to life.

      He’s dark as a native. This horrified whisper from Lady Savile.

      The arrogance of a Durrant, declared Lady Westmeath.

      So tall, breathed Miss Pennyworth.

      He was all that. And more. The Marquess of Rushton stood well over six feet. His shoulders were broad, neither they nor his calves needing the padding affected by many gentlemen of the ton. Indeed, he appeared fit enough to mill down any aspiring pugilist at Gentleman Jackson’s. Yes, his skin was dark and had more the weathered look of a gardener or gamekeeper than a pampered gentleman. But his sun-streaked brown hair was that of an Englishman, as were his firm lips and his aquiline and decidedly aristocratic nose. His eyes? I strained to catch a glimpse and caught my breath as he turned in my direction. They were not just blue, but the blue of a summer sky, of a field of bluebells. Glowing, penetrating, arrogant. The eyes of a man who knew his own worth, and that it was considerably greater than most. All in all, not a handsome man, but one with a face that was likely born rough-sculpted and was now fiercely etched by life.

      A hard man, I guessed, not at all sure I could like him.

      If he becomes your brother-in-law, you will hear all about India . . .

      There was that. Which did not keep me from finding his king-of-the-world stance a trifle irritating.

      Viscount and Lady Harborough broke the frozen tableau in the ballroom by stepping forward to greet the marquess and begin a round of introductions—concentrating, I suspected, on the hopeful masses of young ladies and their determined mothers.

      Here you are! Nessa materialized at my side, clearly exasperated. Mama says you must come at once. It is only proper you should stand with us when we are introduced to Rushton. When I failed to jump up on command, she made a moue of disgust. Hurry! Or we shall be left out!

      Frankly, it was surprise that kept me pinned to my chair. I was under the impression that my mother had forgotten my existence, except as a helpmeet in accomplishing the many demands of preparing Nessa for her come-out. Meekly, I stood and I followed my sister to where Mama and Papa had secured a place at the edge of the dance floor, as the Harborough’s guests lined up as if it were the Prince Regent himself about to walk by.

      My pulse had not stirred out of mourning for three long years, but as Lord Harborough approached with the marquess by his side, I found myself as caught up in the moment as everyone else. A magnificent specimen, the Marquess of Rushton. He bowed over my mother’s hand, inclined his head to my father. Albemarle.

      His voice, a rich baritone, reverberated all the way to my toes. Horrified, I struggled to conceal my inner turmoil as Lady Harborough proclaimed, Lady Vanessa Evesham, as if announcing the gem of the evening (which Nessa surely was).

      Rushton inclined his head in a gracious nod—took a second, more comprehensive look as Nessa rose from a deep curtsey, her piquant face turned up to his—and offered his first full-blown smile of the evening. Of course. How could any red-blooded male do otherwise?

      Lady Marian Talbot, our hostess intoned, moving on to me. Lady Marian’s husband was one of our gallant soldiers lost on the Peninsula. Why Lady Harborough made a point of mentioning Julian’s death I will never know, although it is possible she was an inveterate matchmaker, one of the few who did not think me destined for eternal widowhood.

      I expected Rushton’s eyes to promptly pass over me to the next person eagerly awaiting an introduction. Instead, his gaze sharpened, those all-encompassing blue eyes lingering. Appraising me? He did not smile.

      And then he was gone, leaving me shaken. And puzzled. I did not know the man from Adam, yet something odd had just happened. Perhaps it was only that he actually saw me, while for every other male, after one view of Nessa, I ceased to exist.

      To my surprise, Papa gestured for the three of us to follow him to a quiet corner of the room, where an avaricious and admonitory gleam lit his eyes as he declared, Rushton’s rich as Croesus. The old marquess was well inlaid, but ’tis said the boy’s made a fortune of his own during his time in the East—

      Boy! Nessa cried. He’s quite old, thirty at least. And dark as a blackamoor. A shocking disappointment!

      Vanessa, that is quite enough, Mama scolded. Your father is thinking of your welfare.

      And the prestige and advancement of the Evesham family, I added to myself.

      Papa huffed. Indeed, there’s not a better match to be had. Nor a more likely candidate than our puss, eh? Papa favored Nessa with the smile of indulgence that had so contributed to her being spoiled, possibly past redemption. An alliance with the Durrants would be the crowning accomplishment of all we have wished for you.

      Yes, indeed, my mother echoed as fervently as a prayer.

      Nessa subsided into a pout. (On her even that expression was vastly becoming.) She would come round of course. A long lost vastly wealthy marquess? There was no way the Nessa I knew would not soon recall the glory of making the most advantageous marriage of the last five seasons or more. As for Rushton—who could possibly resist Lady Vanessa Evesham? Even her dowry was magnificent. Mine, not half as much, for Papa had not approved my marrying a second son and career soldier. But when, after Julian’s death, my dowry came back to me, allowing me to live modestly on my own, the paralyzing inertia of mourning had kept me fixed in the home I had never left. That, and my parents’ horror over the prospect of their elder daughter living an independent life. Hence, my continuing residence with my family.

      Truthfully, my three years as a self-effacing hermit had suited me. Until tonight when I met temptation in the flesh . . .

      You thought him cold, arrogant, my inner voice reminded me. You could not like him.

      And then he smiled.

      At your sister.

      As I returned to my chair by the marble pillar, reality and fantasy clashed. I was intrigued by the newcomer. Attracted as I had not been since Julian was lost to me. Yet life continued to be cruel. The Marquess of Rushton—the only man to stir my soul in years—was destined to be my brother-in-law. Even if he did not yet know it.

      Chapter 2

      I am sick, sick, sick of these insipid colors, Nessa declared, tossing our copy of La Belle Assemblée onto the tea table in the drawing room. It is not fair that you should wear turquoise, emerald, and midnight blue, while I am confined to the color of milk or the palest spring flowers!

      But it is the spring Season in London, I returned with an indulgent smile, "and you are a bud just blossoming into the ton. A young lady of purity, worthy of the finest gentleman. Surely the symbolism is apt. You would not, after all, wish to be mistaken for a widow. I leaned closer and whispered, Or a female of a quite different stamp."

      Marian! Nessa seemed truly shocked, reminding me that for all her veneer of worldliness, she was but an eighteen-year-old only three weeks into her first Season. My lips twitched as I wondered how she would have reacted if I had used the word virgin to explain why it was de rigueur for young ladies of the ton to wear the pale colors associated with innocence.

      Come, ladies, have you nothing better to do than look at fashions? Our brother Nigel, Viscount Frawley—obviously just come in, as he was still in evening dress at eleven in the morning—leaned against the door jamb, eyeing us with the barely tolerant look big brothers reserve for younger sisters.

      Papa has said I may have three more gowns, Nessa proclaimed, eyes shining.

      Three! Nigel echoed, clearly incensed. When he wouldn’t give me an advance on quarter day, and I’m the heir.

      It’s because of Rushton, I explained hastily. Nessa has set her cap at him, and Papa and Mama agree.

      Rushton? Nigel came off the door jamb. Hands on his hips, he glared at both of us. "I am sick to death of hearing the name. For days it’s been nothing but Rushton this, Rushton that, Have you heard . . . ? from one end of Mayfair to the other. Believe me, my girl, as much as I’d like to see the Durrant fortune joined to ours, you don’t want him."

      Do not be absurd, Nessa responded roundly. "He is the most eligible nobleman the ton has seen in years. Mama said so!"

      Nigel swaggered across the room, looking perfectly elegant when he should have looked hagged after a night on the town. His brown hair was lighter than mine, his eyes an identical shade of hazel, that odd mix of amber and green that reminds some people of cats’ eyes. But there the resemblance ended. Nigel, my elder by two years, was almost as handsome as Nessa was beautiful. He was, of course, Papa’s heir. There was no spare, just Nessa and myself. Which was unfortunate because Nigel seemed hell bent in a handbasket, as the saying went. So much so, we had begun to fear his wild ways went well beyond the highjinks indulged in by most young gentlemen his age.

      However, I strongly suspected Nigel was considerably more knowledgeable about the Marquess of Rushton than Nessa and I. Perhaps more so than Papa and Mama.

      Sit down, I said. I can see you are big with news, and I admit we are all ears to hear it.

      Whatever you say, I shall not believe it, Nessa declared, as Nigel sprawled in a comfortably upholstered armchair across from the sofa where Nessa and I were seated side by side. A tiny smile played over his generous lips. Miserable mawworm, he was thoroughly enjoying his role as the bearer of bad tidings. And looking not at all like a man who has not been to bed in at least twenty-four hours. (Well, not in his own bed, that is.)

      Firstly, Nigel intoned, pinning Nessa with a challenging look, I suspect you would take one look at Rushton Court and run screaming back to town.

      And where is Rushton Court? I asked.

      Up river a ways, and nearly as old as the hills, Nigel returned, with a vague wave to the west. Parts of it are older than Hampton Court—late twelfth century, some say. Inwardly, I grimaced. That’s but the beginning, Nigel continued. It seems the Durrants never lacked for funds, no matter who was in power. But instead of adding a new wing in the current style every half century or so, they built entire new houses, leaving the old ones in place. Supposedly, there’s everything from an ancient keep to a house built less than a decade ago. From what I hear, it’s a hodgepodge of warring styles clinging to the banks of the Thames, considered a grotesquerie by those passing by.

      Oh dear, I murmured, glancing at Nessa for her reaction.

      I shall live in town, she declared.

      You’ll live where Rushton says you will, Nigel shot back. I’ve heard tales, Ness. He’s not a man to be bowled over by that face of yours. And besides, that’s not all, he hastened to add, cutting off her retort.

      More? I studied my brother’s face, wondering for the first time if he was funning us.

      Eyes alight with mischief, Nigel leaned back in the armchair, crossed his arms over his chest, and smirked. Well, let’s see . . . I am told Lady Rushton, the marquess’s step-mother, is somewhat queer in the attic. Been an invalid for years—off to Bath the moment her husband died. As for the son, he’s but a schoolboy, but it’s said he’s been encouraged to believe his brother was never coming back, possibly even dead, making him heir to the marquisate. Recent events rather a shock to the poor boy, I should imagine."

      So that rumor was likely true. Merciful heavens, what a coil.

      Nigel frowned. I believe there’s a sister also, but not much was said about her. Not out yet, in any event.

      She lives in Bath with her mother, I presume? I asked.

      Haven’t the foggiest, Nigel replied. And of course he wouldn’t. My brother had no interest whatsoever in proper young ladies.

      A quick examination of Nigel’s face revealed there was more to come. His eyes were positively dancing with glee. Out with it, I said. What have you not told us?

      Hazel eyes widening, Nigel allowed silence to stretch between us—a storyteller preparing for his grand finale. What I have not mentioned are the . . . ghosts.

      Ghosts! Nessa gasped.

      Oh yes, Nigel returned, his face firmly serious, Rushton Court is the most haunted property in England, hosting a veritable panoply of ghosts, more than five hundred years of ’em. And none shy about making themselves known.

      No wonder Lady Rushton moved to Bath, I murmured, striving for humor in a situation too fantastical to be true.

      You, Nigel Evesham, Nessa declared, are the greatest beast in nature. You have made all that up, I know you have. You cannot stand the thought of my being a marchioness when you are only a viscount. When you will never be more than an earl. For shame. I am going to tell Mama!

      Nigel, looking bored, stood up. God’s truth, he drawled, every last word. And with that, he strolled out of the drawing room.

      He is horrid! Nessa exclaimed.

      Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if she meant Nigel or the marquess.

      After Mama descended on us and fell into enthusiastic chatter with Nessa about which dressmakers and milliners would enjoy their patronage that afternoon, I retreated to my bedchamber, beset by a good many disturbing thoughts—primary among them, my disconcerting reaction to the marquess, unchanged by Nigel’s revelations. He was too big. He loomed. Everything about him said he was a man of action (though, alas, having married Julian Talbot, I could not deny I was attracted to such men). He was dark and drear and looked at me as if I were a horse for sale at Tattersall’s. He had sized me up, analyzed my points. To see if I were worthy of joining his stables? And yes, his gaze had not failed to encompass my figure while he was at it—something, to my mortification, gentleman had been doing since my fifteenth year.

      All that in ten seconds? my inner voice mocked.

      Indeed. Those ten second had been enough to curl my toes. And shock me out of my widow’s lassitude.

      Physical attraction and liking were far from the same thing, I reminded myself. And besides, he was Nessa’s. The two brightest lights of the Season, male and female, were destined to be paired. After last night, every eye in the ton would be fixed on them, waiting to wallow in the details of the mating dance until it reached its inevitable conclusion.

      But Nessa was not the only Evesham with new gowns. Here I was, standing in my dressing room, contemplating my own array of finery created expressly for this Season. Only a third of what had been ordered for Nessa, of course, but scarcely a paltry selection. I was not a pauper, and Papa had been generous, if only because, as he had declared, I must not be allowed to shame the family when I went about with my sister.

      Therefore . . . I eyed the gowns suitable for a soirée at Lady Betancort’s.

      What makes you think he’ll be there? my inner voice whispered. Insidiously.

      I am dressing to please myself.

      Ha!

      I fingered gowns of emerald green, deep rose, amber, and midnight blue, but it was a gown of shining turquoise silk that called to me—quite plain except for a wide band of cream lace at the hem of both gown and short puffed sleeves. Simple but elegant. Holding it up in front of me, I examined myself in the pier glass fastened to the wall.

      Truth was . . . I cocked my head to one side, making a concerted effort to be realistic. Truth was . . . I had never been the beauty Nessa was. Indeed, no one was; she had no rival. But compared to other young women my age, I was more than passable. Though a blonde in my younger years, my hair had darkened to a warm brown. Admittedly, it had turned mousy over the past three years when I had let it go, but judicious applications of the hair brush and lemon juice had brought it back to life for the Season of 1816..

      And the turquoise silk brought out the green in my eyes and enhanced the cream of my skin. Of which, I have to admit, there was considerably more flesh visible than my sister’s slim figure revealed, and not solely because I was three inches taller. A decided asset, Julian had assured me, insisting that willowy figures with little bosom were far less interesting—a man liked more in his arms than skin and bones. Dear Julian. I recall pointing out that willowy figures fit the current fashions far better than mine. He had laughed, and kissed away my pique.

      Smiling in reminiscence, I

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