My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(81)

Alexander slashed the sword to the left, cutting through the chain. The key went skittering across the floor, and abruptly, the ghost of a younger man ripped from Rochester’s body.

Rochester—the real Rochester—slumped to the side.

Alexander lunged for the key.

The ghost glared at him. “You meddling fool. This place was mine. I had everything I wanted. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for—”

Alexander bopped the ghost on the head, sucking him back into the talisman.

Several minutes later, after Alexander had dragged Rochester into his room and laid him out on the bed, he went to find Mrs. Fairfax and the rest of the house staff. He didn’t explain the situation. But now that he wore his mask, they seemed to understand that something of the otherworldly persuasion had occurred there today.

“Have you seen Miss Bront? and Miss Eyre?” he asked as he waited for Mrs. Fairfax to finish preparing a tray of tea.

“They ran through here like the hounds of hades were after them. Why, I’ve never seen girls move so fast in my entire life.”

Alexander had a lot of questions concerning what she knew about the events there, but then the tea was finished and he took it upstairs, along with the lockbox containing the small iron key.

Rochester was just sitting up in his bed, looking confused as he surveyed the room. He lifted his hands and let his sheets slide between his fingers.

Alexander poured a cup of tea and offered it to the man. “Can you speak?”

The man nodded slowly. “I . . . think . . . yes.” His voice wasn’t gravelly. It had been used recently, of course. But after being possessed for years, he’d perhaps forgotten how to use it, how to shape the words on his own.

Tea would help, though. Tea always helped.

“Drink up.” Alexander took his seat and nodded to the teacup Rochester had been staring at. “I have questions.”

“I must—” Rochester tried to stand, but collapsed back to the bed a moment later. “My wife. Where . . . ?”

Before Alexander could find a kind way to tell him that his wife had been locked in the attic for a decade and a half, realization crossed Rochester’s face.

“Oh, no.” He dropped his face into his hands and groaned. “He locked her away. That bastard. He—”

“He?” Alexander said. “Who?”

“My brother, Rowland. Always Wellington’s lackey.”

“What do you mean?” Finally, Alexander could get some answers.

But Rochester lurched to his feet, staggering past Alexander and the tea. “I must go to my wife.”

“Wait,” Alexander said. “I still have questions!”

For someone who hadn’t used his own legs in years, Rochester was fast.

Alexander followed, just in time to hear Rochester say, “You! You know better than to come here. Go back.”

“Forgive me. I came because—”

At that moment, Alexander emerged from the room to find Rochester on the stairs to the third floor, and Mason standing just below him. Both men went silent upon Alexander’s appearance.

“We’ll talk later,” Rochester hissed. Then he ran up the stairs two at a time.

“What was that?” Alexander said.

Mason shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

It had definitely been something.

Alexander didn’t have time for more mysteries right now. “Good luck with nothing, sir.” Then he headed downstairs and out the door, hoping that he could catch up with Miss Bront? and Miss Eyre before they made it too far away. But he didn’t see them on the road. Charlotte had said they would go on to Haworth. He would have to meet up with them there, later, of course, after he’d had time to properly question the real Mr. Rochester.

But when he went into the house again, he discovered the Rochesters had disappeared, and no one seemed to know to where. Even Grace Poole was missing.

How was Alexander supposed to get answers if everyone kept vanishing?

Just then, a pigeon landed on the windowsill and cooed at him. A small note was wrapped around its ankle.

Report to me immediately, it read in Wellington’s handwriting.

Before Alexander left, he returned to the bedroom where the ghost of Rowland had attacked the young ladies. There, he found Miss Bront?’s notebook and tucked it into his breast pocket, resting his hand over it for just a moment.

Then he gathered the lockbox and the rest of his belongings and left Thornfield.

At Westminster, he quickly went through all the rituals of gaining entrance to the building, the secret rooms, and strode toward the great library with the lockbox tucked under one arm. Anticipation made his heart beat faster when he knocked on the door and waited for Wellington to answer.

Then he stepped inside.

“Good evening, Mr. Blackwood,” said the duke. “What have you brought for me?”

Alexander approached the desk and placed the lockbox on the side near him. “A ghost.”

“The normal offerings, then.” Wellington smiled warmly. “I’d wondered where you’d gone off to so quickly. I sent a messenger to your flat the other day, but your landlady said you’d left in a hurry with Miss Bront? and a strange man.”

“Yes, sir. There was an urgent matter at Thornfield. I received word that Miss Eyre was in danger, and we rushed to her aid.”