Four Dukes and a Devil by Jeaniene Frost, Cathy Maxwell, Tracy Anne Warren, Sophia Nash, Elaine Fox

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    “What is it, Lassie?”
    She shot him a half-amused glance. “It’s the weirdest thing. Every now and again I could swear I smell smoke. Not like the house is on fire, but cigarette or pipe smoke. It’s happening again now. Don’t you smell that?”
    He sniffed.
    “See what I mean?” She watched him intently.
    “Yeah.” He walked the perimeter of the room. “Actually, yeah. It’s faint but…”
    “Do you think something’s burning?”
    He shook his head. “Doesn’t smell like wood burning. It’s like you said, more like a pipe or something. You know…” he added, “the Duke of Dunkirk was rumored to be an avid pipe smoker…” He gave her an intense look of doom.
    She went motionless, eyes wide. “Really?” Her voice was close to a whisper.
    God, I am an ass. He smiled and shook his head. “I have no idea. I was just messing with you.”
    She let out a breath, her shoulders sagging, but he could see amusement in her eyes.
    “Thanks a lot. I wasn’t even thinking it was the ghost.” She moved to the thermostat. “Here’s the problem. It’s pushed down below fifty. No wonder it’s not on.”
    She moved the plastic lever to the right, the furnace kicked on with a thump and a groan.
    “Do you mind if I look around a little?” he asked. “I’ve been curious about this place my whole life, always wondered what it looked like inside.”
    “Sure, go ahead.” She watched him walk from the room and admired his physique. She was glad he wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Even better, while he was looking around, she’d have the chance to clean herself up a little. She had the feeling her hair was wild, and her makeup definitely needed touching up.
    Ten minutes later she found him in the music room. At least, she called it the music room. It was where the ancient stereo and crateful of record albums were. She’d found some old Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, one with Louis Armstrong, and had been playing them since she got here.
    He knelt before the crate, flipping through the albums. When he heard her enter, he turned his head and grinned at her. “Hey, you do have all of Sinatra’s albums on vinyl. There’s some really good stuff in here.”
    She knelt beside him. “I know. The old jazz is my favorite.”
    “Oh, man, this is great. ” He pulled an album from the back and flipped it over, reading.
    “What?” She leaned close, brushing his shoulder with hers.
    “Rubenstein, playing the Emperor Concerto.” He glanced at her. “Beethoven. Does this thing work?” He lifted the plastic cover over the turntable.
    “Yes. I’ve been playing it every day since I got here. I was amazed the needle was still good. The thing looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade.”
    “Okay, go stand over there. Midway between the speakers. This is going to blow you away.”
    She looked at him curiously, and he gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Don’t mean to order you around, but trust me, you’ll love this.”
    “I didn’t feel ordered around.” She stood and moved to the center of the room. “I just didn’t realize you were a classical music buff.”
    “All my life.” He handled the album gingerly, careful not to touch the surface. “My parents told me I was born humming Bach. Now, close your eyes.”
    She smiled. “Okay.”
    Moments later she heard the low thump of the needle making contact with the record and the pop and hiss of vinyl. The opening orchestral chord made her jump, then the hands of a master descended on the piano keyboard. From the opening arpeggio, she was enraptured. Sam had turned the music up so loud that the notes seemed to travel both up her spine and the keyboard in unison, swelling around her, buoying her upon a wave of sound.
    It was marvelous. As the music built to crescendo after crescendo, piano and orchestra merging and dancing against one another, she felt a form of delirium take her. She’d never experienced music like this before, thunderous enough