than she had been given. The fine mahogany bookshelves lining the walls were too empty for it to be a library, but it certainly appeared that at one point, that was the room’s purpose. Ghosts for furniture, men’s shirts for baby’s clothing, a library without books? Burton Hall was full of eerie curiosities.
The children were asleep on the floor, resting atop another faded oriental rug, as Mr. Barnes sat in a chair by the fire, feverishly scribbling in an earmarked journal.
Mr. Barnes was still very much inebriated—at least that was what Clara gathered—as he waggled his eyebrows, gesturing to her bare feet beneath the blanket clutched around her body. “You are doing wonders for my broken heart,” he muttered, oozing wickedness. “What’s happened to your clothes, Miss Dawson?”
“You are no gentleman,” she whispered back, the anger ringing clear in her put down. Mr. Ravensdale laughed again behind her. She turned to scold him as well, but found herself staring directly at the wall of his chest. He was much too close. For a moment, it was Mr. Shaw she saw looking looked down at her, not Mr. Ravensdale. A metallic taste of panic climbed her throat.
Clara swallowed back her panic and met Mr. Ravensdale’s stare, determined not to give the man another inch. He had humiliated her enough. “And neither are you, if you find that humorous.”
“I gave you a blanket, didn’t I?”
“Ha! Ravensdale has never been a gentleman in his life.”
Ignoring Mr. Barnes’s observation, she remained focused on her employer. “Yes, you did.” But not much else.
Mr. Ravensdale kept his hazel eyes steady on her as if they were fixed on the horizon, waiting. “Keep your mouth shut, Barnes,” he ordered. “As for you,” his voice softened as he gazed down at Clara, “you can sleep in that corner.”
“May I sit by the fire to warm up? Please? I spent far too long drenched and cold.”
He paused, his shoulders stiff, not moving away from her. Heat rolled off his body and she found herself leaning closer, the room tilting. Or maybe she was too tired to continue standing. Mr. Ravensdale pulled up the corner of her blanket high to her ear, his finger brushing against a lock of her hair. What quiet fire possessed his eyes, what wickedness hid in the lines of his lips? Mr. Ravensdale shrugged, then left her standing alone.
Perhaps spirits in Burton Hall did not frighten him because he himself was haunted.
She settled onto the sofa. “I just want to get warm,” she whispered, feeling small and defeated. Her eyelids grew heavy. Just a little longer. She only wished to be warm. The weight of another blanket magically draped over her. She sighed when warmth finally encircled her chilled body. Heaven, at last.
“Goodnight, Miss Dawson,” she heard through a distant fog. Hands lifted her head, and she tensed, struggling to waken and fight off their touch, but the exhaustion was too much. She sunk into the depths of a glorious pillow.
“Sleep,” she heard, and then a gruff rebuke. “Wake her. Where am I to sleep?”
But there was no more movement and no more sound as she fell deep into another dreamless night on her newest adventure in exile.
C HAPTER T HREE
B ly’s late brother, Walter, was laughing at him somewhere. He doubted it was heaven.
There was nothing at Burton Hall that did not need repair. It was no secret that Bly despised the place. It was overly elaborate, big enough to house half the village with its twenty-four rooms. And it held memories better left buried than polished and restored.
When Bly set eyes on the crumbling heap just a week earlier, he heard his father’s snide comments burning in his ears. Then he had heard his mother’s mad murmurings and he knew—he had to settle things quickly and move on before he, too, lost his mind.
He hated England, the damn village, and that execrable house.
His only saving grace in this whole mess was Clara Dawson. Though considering the woman
London Casey, Karolyn James