Page 2 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“Anybody there?” he called.

The house was silent.

Chance moved through the kitchen past the fireplace which separated it from the main living area.

“Is there anyone there?” he tried again, shouting up the stairs and feeling a little foolish.

Probably it was one of his father’s staff come to check the place had been left in good order, though that was an insult to Mrs Burrough. The idea that she wouldn’t have left everything neat as a new pin was ridiculous. Still… it seemed odd they’d lit a fire.

Uneasy now, Chance climbed the stairs, relieved to see one bed remained, though much of the furniture had gone with Mrs Burrough, who’d taken the couple’s belongings with her. At least he’d have somewhere to spend the night. He checked from room to room, finding not a soul, and headed back down to the kitchen.

It was the work of a moment to get the fire blazing again, and so he stripped off his sodden coat and hung it to dry. Happily, he still had provisions in his saddle bags, so he sat down to a simple repast of apple and cheese by the fire until he’d thawed out. Belatedly, he realised he ought to have lit a fire in the bedroom as well, but it was too late now. Instead, he climbed the stairs once more, intending to haul the mattress down and put it on the floor of the kitchen.

Once upstairs, he paused in the bedroom's doorway, staring down at the floor. He’d not brought a candle, and it was almost full dark outside, but something had caught his eye. Chance bent down and picked up a small gold hairpin, turning in his hands. There was a delicate golden daisy on the end, and the craftsmanship very fine. How odd. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? It was tiny but a quality piece, of greater value than anything he thought Mrs Burrough would own. Or, if she did, she’d not forget it or leave it lying on the ground. Where the devil had it come from?

Tucking it into his pocket with a frown, he searched the one remaining chest of drawers for a blanket but found nothing. Disappointed, he grabbed hold of the mattress and tugged it out of the room.

He woke in the early hours to the soft glow of the embers, and with the strong suspicion that he was not alone. Something had disturbed his sleep. He kept very still, all his instincts on alert. His time as a soldier had taught him not to ignore his sixth sense, that sensation in his gut which told him something was amiss. A creak from upstairs had him sitting bolt upright, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. All the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he told himself not to be so bloody stupid. Mr Burrough might have died up there, but there was no reason he could think of for the old man to be haunting the place. Certainly, there was no reason for the fellow to be haunting Chance. They’d always been on very good terms… though Burrough had enjoyed a wicked sense of humour. Chance could just imagine the old devil laughing his socks off at having put the wind up him. Still, there were no such things as ghosts, and there had been no one up there. He’d checked. Reminding himself very sternly of this fact, Chance laid down again and went back to sleep.

Chance woke early the next morning, irritated by a chill draft whistling from under the front door. Grumbling, he got to his feet and stretched, before padding to the window and peering out. Damnation. It was still snowing hard, a fierce wind blowing flurries of white in gusts. Well, it didn’t look as if he was going anywhere soon. With that in mind, he figured he’d best see if there was any food to be had. Chance built the fire back up, set a kettle of water to boil, and pulled his coat back on before heading out to check on Ransom.

Having investigated the storerooms, Chance returned to the kitchen with an armful of apples and some potatoes and carrots. There had been turnips, too, but he wasn’t that hungry. He set the results of his foraging down on the kitchen table and went to pick up the mug he had left there. Except it wasn’t there. He distinctly remembered that, last night, he had drained a mug filled with water and put it on the corner of the table. Chance stared about the room. Nothing. That strange uneasy sensation rippled over him again and he walked back to the cupboard he’d got the mug from… and there it was. Ice water cascaded down his spine. He stared at the mug in consternation.

Think, Chance, he told himself sternly.

Either he’d been mistaken, had washed the mug up and put it away—most unlikely—or someone had moved it. Now, there was perhaps a chance that he was wrong about the existence of ghosts, but the only ghost likely to be here was Mr Burroughs, and Chance could not imagine him washing up a mug and putting it away again. Which meant there was someone else here. Someone a dashed sight more particular than he was.

While he pondered this, Chance had an apple for his breakfast and decided the potatoes and carrots would do very well for lunch, and dinner if it came to it. The idea of having to spend another whole day and night here was not a happy one, but what could he do? The narrow lanes between here and home would be impassable, and he would not risk Ransom. His father would be furious, but at least he had an excuse now. Besides, there was a mystery here, and Chance did not like mysteries.

It stood to reason that whoever was sharing this farmhouse with him had arrived before he had, and had hidden themselves. Why? Well, either because they were up to no good, or because they were afraid. If they were afraid, they had no reason to be, and Chance could put them at ease and stop this nonsense. If they were up to no good, well, it was his duty to discover it. This was his father’s estate, after all. It would be his one day, and he did not like the idea of strange goings on. He considered the idea of just shouting to whoever it was that he knew they were there so they may as well come out, but that had revealed no one last night, so there was no reason to suppose it would work this time. So, he would have to set a trap.

At lunchtime he enjoyed a potato baked in the embers of the fire as he’d learned to do whilst on campaign, with a little of the remaining cheese he had melted on top. Then, leaving all the dirty dishes out on the table, he put on his coat and went outside, where he walked toward the stables. From there, he ran to the side of the farmhouse, and the window through which he’d first broken in, and did the same thing again. Heart thudding, he crept closer to the kitchen, unsurprised to hear movement within.

Well, then, it was about time he introduced himself to the resident ghost.