For a moment Merton sat, stunned into immobility. Good God! It was the singing nun! He had finally seen her. A cold perspiration beaded his brow. Then a second thought urged him into action.
Ghost bedamned! It was some prank of Wainwright’s, and if that “ghost” was not his daughter, he would be much surprised. This was their petty revenge for his belittling their activities. By God, he would not be made a fool of in his own house. He leaped from his bed and ran after her. He was just in time to see the tail of a skirt disappear around the corner of the staircase. He went racing through the dark corridor after the apparition, his bare feet pounding on the carpet.
That alone might not have been sufficient to awaken the occupants of the west wing, but when he reached the stairs, he saw the woman in the entrance hall below, fleeing toward the front door. He ran precipitately down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He lost his footing halfway down and fell the remainder of the way, bumping and thumping loudly enough to awaken the dead. When he reached the landing, he fell in a heap, cursing his head off. From the open front door he felt a cold blast of air. She had gotten out, but by God she would not get back in.
He pulled himself up and hobbled painfully, hopping on one foot, to lock the door. He grabbed a blackthorn walking stick from the tall Chinese pot that held a collection of such items and limped back into the hallway just as Bagot appeared, bearing a lamp and wearing a blue satin dressing gown of unlikely pavonine splendor. Merton recognized it vaguely as an old one of his papa’s.
“Milord!” Bagot exclaimed, hastening forward, his nightcap tilted rakishly over his left eye.
At the same moment Lewis came darting downstairs, arrayed in a dressing gown of an even more dashing sort. It was a deep wine color, the sash heavily fringed in black. He looked suspiciously wide awake. Lewis was obviously in league with Miss Wainwright in this ill-conceived jape. Merton, turning the air blue with his profanities, limped toward his younger brother.
Abovestairs, Charity had heard the racket and thought her papa must be executing some late-night experiment. She rose, lit her lamp, slipped on a modest dressing gown of blue merino, and tiptoed into the hallway. Her papa’s door was closed. When she received no answer to her tap, she opened the door. Mr. Wainwright was sleeping peacefully. Should she awaken him? If Knagg was acting up, he would like to know about it. She jiggled his shoulder.
“Papa, wake up. There is some commotion downstairs.”
Mr. Wainwright sat up. “What, what? The spirits are acting up. Excellent! I shall be down presently.”
Charity returned to the hallway. From the top of the staircase she caught a wan ray of light from below and heard raised voices. She was not slow to recognize the accents of Lord Merton and to realize that he was in a towering rage. What could have happened? She darted downstairs to see Merton wearing nothing but a white linen nightshirt. It came to his knees, revealing the bottom half of a pair of shapely legs.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go below when Lord Merton was so casually outfitted. In the end curiosity got the better of her and she continued down to the landing.
To her astonishment, Merton pointed a finger at her and roared, “So you have managed to sneak back in despite my locking you out. By God, I cannot toss a lady out into the middle of the night as you deserve, but you shall leave here at first light, Miss Wainwright, and your father with you. I might have broken my neck!”
He moved his neck rather like a rooster, stretching it this way and that, to test that it was not broken. He uttered a yelp and put his palm to it, to ease the pain.
Charity felt the full odium of this unjustified attack. She stared haughtily and said, “You need not wait until morning, milord. I shall leave at once, and my father with me. If you will be so
Ghost bedamned! It was some prank of Wainwright’s, and if that “ghost” was not his daughter, he would be much surprised. This was their petty revenge for his belittling their activities. By God, he would not be made a fool of in his own house. He leaped from his bed and ran after her. He was just in time to see the tail of a skirt disappear around the corner of the staircase. He went racing through the dark corridor after the apparition, his bare feet pounding on the carpet.
That alone might not have been sufficient to awaken the occupants of the west wing, but when he reached the stairs, he saw the woman in the entrance hall below, fleeing toward the front door. He ran precipitately down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He lost his footing halfway down and fell the remainder of the way, bumping and thumping loudly enough to awaken the dead. When he reached the landing, he fell in a heap, cursing his head off. From the open front door he felt a cold blast of air. She had gotten out, but by God she would not get back in.
He pulled himself up and hobbled painfully, hopping on one foot, to lock the door. He grabbed a blackthorn walking stick from the tall Chinese pot that held a collection of such items and limped back into the hallway just as Bagot appeared, bearing a lamp and wearing a blue satin dressing gown of unlikely pavonine splendor. Merton recognized it vaguely as an old one of his papa’s.
“Milord!” Bagot exclaimed, hastening forward, his nightcap tilted rakishly over his left eye.
At the same moment Lewis came darting downstairs, arrayed in a dressing gown of an even more dashing sort. It was a deep wine color, the sash heavily fringed in black. He looked suspiciously wide awake. Lewis was obviously in league with Miss Wainwright in this ill-conceived jape. Merton, turning the air blue with his profanities, limped toward his younger brother.
Abovestairs, Charity had heard the racket and thought her papa must be executing some late-night experiment. She rose, lit her lamp, slipped on a modest dressing gown of blue merino, and tiptoed into the hallway. Her papa’s door was closed. When she received no answer to her tap, she opened the door. Mr. Wainwright was sleeping peacefully. Should she awaken him? If Knagg was acting up, he would like to know about it. She jiggled his shoulder.
“Papa, wake up. There is some commotion downstairs.”
Mr. Wainwright sat up. “What, what? The spirits are acting up. Excellent! I shall be down presently.”
Charity returned to the hallway. From the top of the staircase she caught a wan ray of light from below and heard raised voices. She was not slow to recognize the accents of Lord Merton and to realize that he was in a towering rage. What could have happened? She darted downstairs to see Merton wearing nothing but a white linen nightshirt. It came to his knees, revealing the bottom half of a pair of shapely legs.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go below when Lord Merton was so casually outfitted. In the end curiosity got the better of her and she continued down to the landing.
To her astonishment, Merton pointed a finger at her and roared, “So you have managed to sneak back in despite my locking you out. By God, I cannot toss a lady out into the middle of the night as you deserve, but you shall leave here at first light, Miss Wainwright, and your father with you. I might have broken my neck!”
He moved his neck rather like a rooster, stretching it this way and that, to test that it was not broken. He uttered a yelp and put his palm to it, to ease the pain.
Charity felt the full odium of this unjustified attack. She stared haughtily and said, “You need not wait until morning, milord. I shall leave at once, and my father with me. If you will be so
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