or two, all they could do was cough. Eventually, the smoke dissipated.
“The flue must be clogged,” he said. “Bots on it.”
“Bots?”
“Horse worms.” To her expression of disgust, he replied, “You asked.”
“I suppose I did. The chimneys all need a thorough sweeping, I’d imagine. We’ll add it to the list. Tomorrow.”
No way to write it down tonight.
He paced the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you knew the servants were scheming, you should have told me. I would have driven any such notions out of their heads.”
“I tried to do just that. I told them this is only a marriage of convenience.”
He wiped soot from his face with his sleeve. “Apparently you weren’t convincing.”
“Well, maybe they wouldn’t be so hopeful about it if you weren’t such a miserable employer.”
“If that’s their problem, I can solve it for them. I’ll sack them all directly.”
“Don’t, please. You know we’d never find replacements.” She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. “I don’t recall seeing any blankets in the house, did you?”
“None. We’ll have to—”
“No,” she interrupted. “We can’t. That’s exactly what they want.”
He was baffled. “What’s exactly what they want?”
“Huddling.”
“Huddling?”
“Yes, huddling. Together. For warmth. The two of us. That’s obviously their plan, and we should refuse to play into it.”
He bristled. “You don’t have to sound quite so disgusted by the idea.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you I object to, of course. It’s the principle.”
“Principles won’t keep you warm tonight.” Ash made his way to the entry and found his coat, then returned to drape it over her shoulders. “There. That’s a start. Now . . . there was a settee around here somewhere.”
His shin found it. Ouch.
They settled on opposite ends of the uncomfortable horsehair bench. The thing had so many lumps, Ash expected there’d be divots in his arse tomorrow morning. His stomach rumbled in complaint. “If they were going to strand us here, they might have at least packed us some dinner.”
“Please don’t mention dinner,” she said weakly.
This was going to be a long, miserable night.
She jerked with surprise. “What was that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That scratching noise.” She shushed him. “Listen.”
He sat in silence, listening.
“There!” She smacked his shoulder. “There, did you hear it just now? And there again.”
Yes, he heard it. A light scraping noise that coincided with each slight breeze.
“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just the Mad Duchess.”
“The Mad Duchess?”
“The resident ghost. Every country house has one.” He made his voice mysterious. “The story is that my great-grandfather took a wife. A bride of convenience, for the purposes of siring an heir. She was pretty enough, but he began to regret the match soon after the honeymoon.”
“Why?”
“A hundred reasons. She tore down the curtains. She conspired with the servants. She called him ridiculous names. Worst, she had a demon consort that assumed the form of a cat.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really.”
“She sounds terrible.”
“Indeed. She was so much trouble, he locked her in a cupboard upstairs and kept her there. For years.”
“Years? That seems extreme.”
“Extreme was what she deserved. She’d driven him mad, and he meant to return the favor. Locked her up. Tossed in a crust or a dampened sponge from time to time. On cold nights, you can still hear her scratching and clawing to get out. Do you hear it?” He paused. “There it is. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.”
She swallowed audibly. “You are a cruel and horrid man, and I hope you get the bots.”
“If you doubt me, feel free to go upstairs and see for yourself.”
“No, thank you.”
All was silent for several minutes, during which Ash felt rather smug.
Then it was Ash’s turn to jerk in surprise. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That . . . crinkling noise. It sounds like someone removing a paper wrapping.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Perhaps it’s the Mad Duchess.”
The crinkling sounds stopped. But other sounds took its place. Small, wet sounds. Like sucking and chewing.
“Are you eating?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
A few minutes of silence.
There it was again. That crinkling, followed by light smacking of lips. “You’re eating something, I know it.”
“I am not,” she said. At least, he thought that was what she intended to say. It came out more like, Ah mmf nah.
“You little dissembler. Share.”
“No.”
“Very well, I’ll leave you here.” He rose to his feet. “All alone. In the dark. With the noises.”
“Wait. All right, I’ll share.”
He sat down.
She touched his arm, felt his way down his shirtsleeve, and placed a small packet in his hand. “They’re just a few boiled sweets. I bought them when we stopped to water the horses.”
Ash unwrapped a morsel for himself. “The scratching sound is the branch of an oak tree that grows at the back of the house. It scrapes the windowsill of my old bedchamber. I climbed down that tree many a night to find mischief of one sort or another.” He popped
