The Ghost and Miss Demure by Melanie Jackson Page B

the abomination of bad taste that was this mansion had been called Beautiful Angel. If Hugh Vellacourt had demonstrated a sense of humor, Tristam would have suspected him of practicing irony, or that he had given in to the whim of his concubine. But Vellacourt’s graphic journals were phlegmatic in the extreme and did not suggest that he had developed an interest in anything beyond his libido or purse; humor or affection were right out.
    An interest in his libido—a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Tristam admitted, watching Karo’s denim-clad legs conquering the maids’ backstairs with vigor. But surely he would be forgiven this brief lapse of lasciviousness. It was not every day that a bewildered and utterly delicious nymph wandered in out of the rain to make herself athome in his bed and life. Karo’s legs alone made this moldy project worthwhile.
    “I don’t think we should take tours up this staircase,” she called back, a bit breathless. “I mean, think of the cardiac arrests in the over-sixty crowd—especially in the August heat. Though, kids would love it. This is just like a rat maze. And so creepy!” Her enthusiasm was catching.
    “You seem to be enjoying it,” Tristam observed, lifting his eyes to an acceptable height in case she turned at the top of the stair and caught him gawking.
    “Well, it’s my first day. I expect my eagerness will wind down some. I’ll get a bit more jaded, especially if this search for treasures turns out to be a snipe hunt. I have hopes, though. It is very rare for a house to have actually remained in the same family for so many years. Perhaps they didn’t sell off all the good stuff.”
    Tristam thought about the third floor, packed to the rafters with aged debris, the accumulation of several generations of avid and unchecked collectors who had made it their life work to simply fill the Gothic monstrosity that was this house. From the now nearly drained wine cellars—relocated to an outbuilding some years ago because the basement so frequently flooded—to the steep, grimy garrets added every half century or so, it was everywhere too dusty, too narrow…and too ugly , as his nymph would say.
    Except the torture chamber. That room, original to the house, was remarkably free of dust and surprisingly inviting with minimal clutter. He’d found himself drawn to it, and to thoughts ofKaro…But he wouldn’t even let that X-rated thought cross his mind.
    “How soon will the jading take place?” he asked. “I think the first pall fell over me about twenty minutes in. Miles of endless rat’s nest. I’m almost sorry now that I threw out the still.”
    Karo laughed. He really liked the sound. It was low and soft, utterly delightful.
    “It’ll happen eventually,” she promised. “But I’m a slow cynic. I can’t help being a little enchanted with some of what’s around. No matter what you say about the designer…Well, it’s really much better than what I expected last night. Or, some of it is.”
    “You couldn’t have expected much,” Tristam retorted.
    She turned long enough to give him a strange smile. “I’ll have to take the fifth on that. It’s a little too soon for total honesty, don’t you think?”
    Tristam returned her smile. She was right. It was way, way too soon at least for some of the things he was thinking.
    “Did you say ‘still’?” Karo prompted. “As in, for making moonshine?”
    “Yes, they’ve been producing here the finest grain alcohol that ever blinded man since around sixteen-fifty or thereabouts. Some traditions never die unless you rip them out at the root, raze the shed and threaten the police.”
    “I see.”
    Karo glanced out the window. Tristam knew what she was seeing. The meadow had been shorn to a reasonable height but would be freckled with the detritus of the last storm. Beyond that werethe ferocious vines with which the gardeners did weekly battle. The damn things did their best to strangle their