Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(65)

His anger deserted him. He felt . . . helpless. He couldn’t find the beautiful trespasser, though he was now sure she was somewhere in the house. The evening stretched ahead. His stomach rumbled and he realized he hadn’t eaten since mid-morning. He stalked down to the kitchen. If she appeared later tonight, he wanted to have all his wits about him.



What was she going to do? Freya paced the stable. The horse looked at her with interest. She’d used every way she knew to frighten her unwelcome houseguest last night, and he wasn’t frightened enough to leave. He had just shown how deranged he was. When the draperies in the room across the hall proved too tattered to keep out the sunlight, she’d crept back to the dressing room and watched the destruction. She couldn’t have anyone living in her house, let alone a madman. Why was he so angry? His actions wouldn’t frighten away a real ghost, so he obviously didn’t believe she was supernatural.

She didn’t want to hurt him. What other way was left to her? Reason, perhaps. But with a madman?

She had no other choice. She peered out the stable door. Lights flickered in the kitchen. He was probably getting dinner. She slid out into the evening. If she were going to try reason, she’d need to open the priest’s hole where her father kept a copy of the deed.



She’d wait for him here, in his room. She laid the fragile roll of paper on the desk and began to pace impatiently. It was some minutes before she noticed the shreds of paper on the floor. She paused, peering down. The envelope from last night. She could still see parts of the address. She picked up a corner. It had still had the letter inside it when he ripped it up.

Oh. That’s why he was angry. His ladylove had rejected him. Well, that meant he wasn’t precisely a madman, and her reasonable approach might actually work. It also meant he might be just as glad to leave this place.

She heard him coming up the hall. She didn’t bother to transport herself out of his way this time. He threw open the door, holding his candelabra high. He seemed distracted. It was a moment before he saw her.

“You,” he accused. “You have no right to be here, and don’t tell me you’re a ghost.”

“Very well,” she said. “I am not a ghost.”

He looked satisfied. “I thought not. You must tell me sometime how you achieved your effects.” His gaze swept over her and noticed the fragment of envelope in her hand. He strode forward and snatched it from her. “Leave my things alone.”

“I’m sorry your suit did not prosper, but you should not take it out on me.”

The anger, the hurt in his eyes were palpable. “The lady has been dead for fourteen years. So my suit was unlikely to prosper. Now get out of my house, whoever you are.”

“Your house. This is my house.” The insolence of the man!

His eyes narrowed. “I bought this house yesterday.”

She practically gasped. “I beg pardon, but since I was not selling it, you could not have.”

He went to the desk and opened his writing case. He noticed her scroll. “What’s this?” he snapped, taking it up.

“Be careful, brute. It is very fragile.” She took it, and carefully pulled the ribbon. The scroll unfurled a little. “It is the deed granting the property to my . . . ancestor.” She’d almost said her father, and since it was made out in 1564 that would seem a lie.

“Let me see that,” he barked. He set the candelabra down on the desk and Freya smoothed out the scroll. The spidery, ornate writing sloped across the parchment. The s’s looked like f’s and continued below the line. But it was clearly readable. His eyes darted back and forth across the lines, then lingered on the seal of the young queen.

“And you are a descendent of this Rubius Rozonczy?”

“Yes.” If he ripped up the scroll before her eyes, she had no other proof. Her entire ploy depended on him having honor. A man with a scar like that across his cheek. Was she the one insane?

“How do I know that?”

“I have the deed.” That didn’t really prove her identity, but then what could?

“There could have been an intervening sale that was quite legitimate.”

“There was not.” A thought occurred to her. “From whom did you buy it?”

He must have had the same thought she did, for his brow darkened. He could look quite fierce with those lowering golden brows and that scar that stood out so whitely against his cheek. “Bromley. He acted as agent for the owner.”

“Isn’t he Sir Melaphont’s agent, too?”

He nodded and chewed his lip. “And Melaphont was the caretaker of the property while the owner was away in—”

“In the Carpathian Mountains,” she finished for him. “Transylvania to be exact. Sir Melaphont probably needed money, and thought my family would never know of his perfidy.”

“Bromley would have to have been in on it,” he mused.

“I am sure he was well compensated.”

Carlowe’s face fell. His shoulders sagged, just as though the air had been let out of him, like one of those hot air balloons people were always careering about in these days. “Melaphont wins again.”

“Did you pay much money for this place?”

“It isn’t the money,” he said, his voice dull. “I’ve plenty of that.”