My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(6)

“Just ask your question, miss,” the barkeep was saying, his eyes still fixed on Jane. “I haven’t got all night, you know.”

He obviously didn’t see the ghost.

“Never mind.” Jane took another sip of the brandy and backed away from the bar to better regard the unhappy spirit.

“Where did they take him?” the ghost moaned. “Where did they take my husband?”

Jane felt a tug of pity for the woman.

“Where is he?” cried the ghost.

How awful, Jane thought, to be parted from one’s true love, to be so cruelly severed from one’s other half, like losing a part of your very soul. It was terrible. But also . . . terribly romantic.

“I know he’s here somewhere!” shrieked the ghost. “He always is. I’ve got a few things to say to him, I’ll tell you what. That good-for-nothing Billy-born-drunk!”

Oh. Oh, dear.

The ghost raised her arm and swatted at Jane’s brandy glass. It went flying, whizzing past Jane’s left ear, and crashed into the back wall.

“Cricum jiminy!” exclaimed the barkeep, because he had obviously noticed the flight of the brandy glass. “The Shrieking Lady’s back!” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Right on schedule.”

“Not worth a rap!” bellowed the ghost. “The boozer!” She swept around the room in a whoosh of cold wind and then back to the bar, knocking the clock off the wall for good measure. “The muck snipe!”

“Where’s the blooming Society?” the barkeep groaned. “They’re supposed to be here.”

“I know you’re hiding that ratbag!” The Shrieking Lady grabbed the bottle of brandy and lobbed it at the barkeep’s head. Her aim was true. Down he went, without another word.

This wouldn’t do at all. Jane ducked so that she would be less of a target, and crawled and slid and scurried until she was safely tucked away behind the bar, where she could use the unconscious barkeep as a shield. (Always thinking of others, that Jane.) The hem of her dress was sticking to the booze-soaked floor, which was unfortunate, but unpreventable at this point.

She peered around the incapacitated barkeep to watch the ghastly scene continue to unfold. The Shrieking Lady kept demanding to see her degenerate husband, all the while hurling things about the room. The bar patrons were cursing and bumping into one another in their haste to steer clear of the ghost, although they didn’t seem to be particularly interested in vacating the pub. They were probably used to it.

What a mess, thought Jane glumly as the Shrieking Lady sent a huge jar of pickled eggs crashing to the floor. By now she was feeling markedly less pity for the woman. This ghost is definitely troublesome, she concluded. So where was the blooming—oh dear, pardon her French—Society?

At that exact moment, as if her thoughts had conjured him, a man in a black mask jumped onto a table in the center of the room. He took a small object out of his pocket and threw it against the wall.

It exploded with a flash and a bang.

The crowd stilled. Then all faces turned to stare in open-mouthed silence at the masked man.

Jane caught herself staring, too, her breath catching—although, again, that could have just been her corset. She shoved the barkeep aside to get a better look.

The agent was a young man—even wearing the mask, that much was clear—although Jane wouldn’t call him a boy, either. Most of the men of this era had a mustache or, at the very least, sideburns, but he had neither. Jane wouldn’t call him handsome. (In the pre-Victorian age, a truly handsome man should be pale—because being out in the sun was for peasants—with a long, oval-shaped face, a narrow jaw, a small mouth, and a pointy chin. We know. We can’t believe it, either.) This young man’s jaw was decidedly square, and his hair was too long. But he was obviously of the upper class, wearing a fine wool coat and expensive-looking leather gloves.

“Everybody out!” he shouted, and Jane ducked behind the bar.

The crowd immediately exited in an orderly fashion. The room was now empty save for another masked man, this one younger than the first, definitely a boy, and wearing a much shabbier suit. Apparently they came in pairs.

The one with the exploding thing jumped down off the table.

“Now pay close attention,” he said to the second agent. “First we clear the room. Then we confirm the identity of the spirit.”

The spirit. Jane had almost forgotten. She glanced up to see the ghost. The Shrieking Lady had long since stopped shrieking, too busy staring at the agents.

The one in charge produced a small, black leather-bound notebook from an inner pocket of his coat, and a pencil. He opened the book gently, in a way that reminded Jane of Charlotte, and turned to a marked page.

“Tell me your name, spirit,” he directed at the ghost, sounding almost bored.

The Shrieking Lady pressed her back against the ceiling but refused to answer. The other agent, the short one with the mop of red hair and glasses—which Jane noticed he wore over his mask—stepped forward. “You should really answer him,” he said, looking at the ghost. “Please.”

The one in charge shushed the redhead. He turned to the ghost again. “You are Claire Doolittle, are you not?”

“I lost him,” the ghost whispered. She sounded suddenly forlorn. “They took him.”