Page 23 of To Swoon and to Spar
Just as if she’d never married at all.
“Shall we continue?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts, and she gave a distracted nod, still so wrapped up in what he’d just said that she didn’t even muster an obligatory frown when he took her arm to lead her down to the second floor. She gave herself a stern mental shake as they made their way from room to room, reminding herself that she needed to keep her wits about her. When they entered her morning room, she held her breath, waiting to see if he might notice any of the signs of her plans that were evident in the room, but while he made a fairly thorough examination, he did not pause at any point, and Jane exhaled slowly. He really did need spectacles. From her morning room, they went down to his study on the first floor, and she noticed him straighten slightly as they entered.
“Is something amiss?” she asked cautiously. He had, after all, spent considerably more time here than he had spent in her morning room, and it seemed far likelier that he might notice something unusual about this room now that he was taking the time to examine it carefully.
He shook his head, surveying his surroundings. After a moment, he said, “The other day, when I was in here… I felt as though I were being watched.”
Jane lifted a brow. “From the windows?”
He shook his head again. “No. From somewhere within the room.”
Jane made a show of examining the room slowly. “But… there’s nowhere for anyone to hide.”
Penvale exhaled a frustrated breath. “I know. That’s the same conclusion I came to.”
Jane began to make a circuit of the room; as she approached a certainsection of the bookshelves lining much of the walls, she slowed her pace, hoping he would not notice if she lingered. A quick glance confirmed that the crack in the shelves was not visible even at this distance—whoever had designed this feature of the house had done a very thorough job.
Jane then took several steps along the shelves, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to confirm that Penvale’s attention was directed elsewhere—indeed, he was staring out the window, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed slightly as if in thought. At some point, he had rolled up his sleeves, baring an expanse of forearm that Jane willed her eyes not to linger on.
Then, quick as lightning, she reached out, flung a book off the shelf, and shrieked.
Jane was not naturally a shrieker. She had always prided herself on her cool nerves. She had to admit, though, that in the moment, it was rather satisfying—particularly when it caused Penvale to careen around, a half-uttered curse escaping his lips.
Exhaling shakily, Jane pressed a dramatic hand to her chest as Penvale turned to face her.
“What the—”
“That book!” She pointed dramatically at the volume in question, lying innocuously on the Persian rug. She considered allowing her fingers to tremble slightly, then decided against it. Best not to take it too far.
Penvale followed the direction of her extended hand, then glanced back up at her, frowning. “It is… a book,” he offered. “I understood you to be fond of them.”
Jane suppressed a sigh. “It—itflung itself off the shelf,” she declared dramatically. She was not a natural actress, but even she could deliver a single line somewhat convincingly.
Penvale’s frown deepened, and he crossed the room quickly to retrieve the book. He scrutinized it—at a very close distance, Jane thought with an internal snort—and then raised his eyebrows. “It appears to be a book about Bloody Mary.”
Jane was perfectly well aware of this, as she had not selected the volume at random. “Do… do you know if anyone in your family was subject to persecution under her reign?” she asked.
Penvale’s brows inched higher. “Are you suggesting that the ghost of a long-dead Bourne ancestor who was fervently devoted to the Protestant cause is now flinging books around three hundred years later because… er, becausewhy,exactly?”
“I don’t know,” Jane hedged. She, admittedly, had not given this narrative very much thought, merely seized the likeliest tome to inspire a ghost’s displeasure. “I’m not an expert on the religious history of your family.”
“Nor, I assure you, am I.” Penvale sounded amused as he approached her with the book in hand, then reached out to replace it on the shelf.
“Perhaps your own sinful ways have sparked the ire of a more zealous spirit lingering about the house,” Jane suggested, adopting an impressively pious tone, considering she’d never in her life made it through an entire church service without nodding off.
“Let me be certain I understand this,” Penvale said, gazing down at her. This close, the difference in their heights was more evident; Jane had to crane her neck slightly to look up at him. His eyelashes were unfairly long, she thought. She noticed that they were a shade lighter than his hair; she noticed, too, that he had precisely three freckles on the bridge of his nose, so faint that she’d never spotted them before. He went on, “You believe that there is a ghost of some unknown religiousaffiliation lurking in Trethwick Abbey, flinging books around in order to encourage… more regular church attendance?”
When he put it like that, Jane had to admit it didn’t sound very convincing. Perhaps it was best to abort this attempt at a narrative for their ghost for the moment.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t pretend to understand the thoughts of aghost,Penvale. I’m not certain they’re known for being terribly logical.”
“Indeed,” he said, crossing his arms again; once more, Jane’s eyes were drawn to those accursed forearms. This was extremely irritating. “So perhaps, rather than attempting to comprehend the motives of the”—a skeptical pause—“ghost, we should instead be asking ourselves how the book landed on the floor in the first place.”
Jane risked eye contact. She didn’t detect outright suspicion in his gaze, which was reassuring; she had known she was taking a risk, attempting something when it was only the two of them in the room, but he did not give the impression of a man about to interrogate her.
“I don’t understand it,” he admitted, a rueful note in his voice. She could tell that it pained him to admit this, since he was the sort of man who valued calm, rational thought above all else. He didn’t like something without an obvious logical explanation. Jane felt oddly pleased to have been the cause of his discomposure.
“Nor do I,” she ventured, but he barely seemed to hear her, lost in his own thoughts.
