“I’ve wondered that too,” James said, and took a bite of his bread. “Maybe she doesn’t like gowns. The good Lord knows she can be so stubborn, her uncle’s probably given up and lets her rule.”

“No,” Douglas said. “That isn’t it. There is no one more stubborn than Simon Ambrose in all of England. It’s got to be something else.”

“Would you like a peach fritter, dear?” Both dears looked at her. “Isn’t that nice. I have your attention now, both of you. Would you two like to accompany me to Eastbourne this afternoon?”

Douglas, who’d wanted to go see a new hunter at Squire Beglie’s, chewed more vigorously on his shrimp patty.

“Er, it’s for your mother,” Alexandra said.

“Excuse me, Mother, Father, I’m off.”

“James is fast when he needs to be,” Douglas said, following his son’s speedy progress from the dining room. He sighed. “All right. What does my mother want?”

“She wants me to bring back at least six new patterns of wallpaper for her bedchamber.”

“Six?”

“Well, you see, she doesn’t trust my taste, so I’m really to bring as many as I can so that she can make her selection here.”

“Let her go herself.”

“Ah, and you would drive her?”

“What time do you wish to leave?”

Alexandra laughed, tossed down her napkin, and rose. “In an hour or so.” She leaned over, palms on the snowy white tablecloth, and said down the expanse of table to her husband, “Douglas, there is something else-”

Before she could get out another word, her husband said, “By God, Alexandra, your gown is cut nearly to your knees. It’s obviously a hussy’s gown, what with your breasts nearly falling out of it. Wait-you’re doing this on purpose, leaning over the table like that.” He smacked his fist on the table, making his wineglass jump. “Why don’t I ever learn? I’ve had decade upon decade to learn.”

“Well, not all that many decades. And I really do appreciate your admiration of my finer points.”

“You will not make me blush, madam. You are remarkably well put together-all right, I’m hooked good and proper, what is it you want from me?”

She gave him the sweetest smile. “I want to talk to you about the Virgin Bride. A serious talk, not one of your you’re an idiot to even mention that ridiculous ghost who doesn’t exist.”

“What did that bloody ghost do now?”

Alexandra straightened and looked through the tall windows toward the east lawn. “She said there would be trouble.”

He held the sarcasm in check for the moment. “You’re saying that our centuries-old resident virgin ghost, who’s never appeared to any man in this house for the simple reason that our brains don’t allow such nonsense, has come to you and told you there would be trouble?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“I didn’t think she spoke, just wafted about looking forlorn and transparent.”

“And lovely. She is really quite incredible. Now, you know she doesn’t really speak, she feels what she’s thinking to you. She hasn’t visited me in ages, not since Ryder got set upon by those three thugs that miserable clothing merchant hired.”

“But Ryder managed to fell one of them with an excellent throw of a rock to the gut. He stuffed the other into a half-full herring barrel. I don’t remember what he did to the third, probably because it wasn’t amusing.”

“But still, he was hurt in that fight and the Virgin Bride told me about it.”

He paused. It was true that Alexandra had known about his brother’s fight before he had, dammit. At least his sister, Sinjun, hadn’t come tearing down from Scotland to see what had happened. She’d written a half dozen letters demanding all the facts. Ryder’s wife, Sophie, hadn’t written or sent a messenger, because she’d known that the Virgin Bride would tell Alexandra and Sinjun. The Virgin Bride? No, he wasn’t even going to consider it.

“Ryder wasn’t badly hurt. It seems to me that your Virgin Bride suffers from female hysteria. You know, a fellow gets his fingernail broken, and she falls apart.”

“Female hysteria? Broken fingernail? I’m serious about this. I’m worried. When she felt Ryder’s situation to me, I actually saw the three men pounding on him.”

He wanted to tell her to stop telling him tales that gave him gooseflesh, but he thought of her premeditated display of lovely cleavage, and because he wasn’t stupid, he held his tongue. He would mock the wretched ghost only to himself. Her tactics should be encouraged. But this was difficult to bear. It seemed that since the unfortunate bride’s demise sometime in the latter part of the sixteenth century-still a virgin when she drew her last breath-so the story went, that all the Sherbrooke women had believed in this wafting ghost oracle ever since.

Douglas swallowed the sarcasm that was still hovering just above his tongue, and said, “No mention of a specific sort of trouble?”

“No, and that makes me think that she doesn’t know exactly what’s coming, just that something is, and it’s not good.” She drew a deep breath. “I know that it has to do with you, Douglas. I simply understood that from what she felt to me.”

“I see, but she sent you this vague understanding? No names? She’s always known everything before.”

“I think that’s because it’s already happened or is happening at that moment.” Alexandra took a big breath. “Whatever she doesn’t know, it’s still enough to concern her, Douglas. Since it was about you, that’s why she was warning me. She’s worried about you, even though she didn’t exactly come right out with it. It’s you. There is not a single doubt in my mind.”

“Nonsense,” he said, “idiotic nonsense,” then wished he could bite his tongue. His wife withdrew. “All right, all right, talk to her again, see if she can give you some details. In the meantime, I’ll have our horses saddled. My mother wants you to bring back six samples of wallpaper?”

“Yes, but I think we’d best have Dilfer follow with a small wagon since I know that if I only fetch six samples, she’ll want more. I think we’ll simply clean out the warehouse. Excuse me now, Douglas. I’m very sorry to have bothered you with my hysterical female nonsense.”

Douglas threw his fork against the wall where it hit just below a portrait of Audley Sherbrooke, Baron Lindley. He cursed.

“My lord.”

Douglas shut his mouth when Hollis, the Sherbrooke butler since Douglas’s youth, appeared in the breakfast room doorway. “Yes, Hollis?”

“The dowager countess-your esteemed mother, my lord-wishes to see you.”

“I have known all my life who she is. I had a feeling she’d want to see me. All right.”

Hollis smiled and turned on his stately heel. Douglas looked after him, the tall, straight figure, the perfectly squared shoulders, still more white hair than Moses, but his step was slower, and perhaps one shoulder wasn’t as high as the other? How old was Hollis now? He must be nearly as old as Audley Sherbrooke’s portrait, at least seventy, maybe even older. That made Douglas blanch. Few men ever reached that age without shaking veined hands, a mouth empty of teeth, not a single hair left on the head, and perfectly hideous bent old bodies. Surely it was time for Hollis to retire, at least twenty years past his time to retire, perhaps to a lovely cottage by the sea, say in Brighton or Tunbridge Wells, and-and what? Sit and rock his old bones and look at the water? No, Douglas couldn’t imagine Hollis, whom his boys firmly believed was God when they were younger, doing anything other than ruling Northcliffe Hall, which he did with ruthless efficiency, splendid tact, and a benevolent, firm hand.

The fact was, though, that time was passing, no way to stop it. Hollis was beyond old now, and that meant he could die. Douglas shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Hollis dying, he couldn’t bear that. He called out, “Hollis!”

The stately old man slowly turned, a white brow arched at the strange tone in his lordship’s voice. “My lord?”