Page 8 of A Sense of Misgiving
Remus pulled a face.All that dreary religious mumbo-jumbo. Not even for you, my dear.A shudder vibrated through his spirit form.Had quite enough of that in my day. Not much has changed over the centuries, other than the fact that supposedly sane men will fight for the sake of their one true god.
‘You sound like the countess.’
A charming lady who speaks a great deal of sense.
Flora nodded. ‘True.’
Anyway, I am your guide. I can’t be flitting all over the place. It takes psychic energy, which is a precious commodity.
‘Papa wants me to marry his curate, Mr Bolton.’
Good heavens. Whatever for?
‘That’s what you’re supposed to tell me.’
I would imagine you could do a great deal better. That attractive earl I just heard you speaking with, for example…He pulled a dreamy face.Now him I would not cast from my bed.
‘Remus!’
We were not so stuffy about that sort of thing in my day. Relations with either gender was deemed perfectly acceptable.
‘Good grief!’
Now I have shocked you. Anyway, about you and the earl, you would like him to be more than an employer, I presume.
‘I thought you couldn’t read minds.’
I’m adept at reading expressions and the way he looked at you just now is not how an employer should look at one of his servants.
‘You’re not helping,’ she cried impatiently. ‘Can we please concentrate upon the subject of my father and what it is that he wants from me.’
Remus yawned.If we must.
‘I thought that’s why you were here.’
Well, my dear, I’ve delivered my message, so duty done. The games in Rome have finished for the time being, so I shall be able to keep a closer watch on you.
‘How very reassuring,’ Flora said flippantly, even though in an odd sort of way it was.
I’d best be off then. But, beware. I have a feeling, more than a feeling, that your father is about to enter into a battle of wills with the earl regarding your return.
‘No watching me change,’ Flora said, wagging a finger at his diminishing figure.
I wouldn’t be interested anyway, my dear…
Remus’s voice grew fainter as his image receded, but Flora remained sitting where she was, wondering if his confirmation of her own nebulous fears would prove to be more of a hindrance than a help. Sometimes forewarned did not necessary mean forearmed, but simply caused one to worry even more. If Remus was right and Papa intended to put pressure on Luke to release her, she wondered how he imagined he would succeed. He had already tired that ploy once and failed, but that would not deter him. Papa did not take kindly to being gainsaid. He was not without influence himself, and should never be underestimated. Threats from the upper echelons of the church would quickly become distracting for a man with Luke’s responsibilities, so he might decide simply to cut his losses, dismiss Flora from her position and be done with it.
She sighed, thinking that she would just have to remain vigilant and see what her father had in store for her. At least now she knew that her imagination had not got the better of her and that she would be seeing Papa again, although she was no nearer to knowing why.
With a heavy sigh, she made her way to the modern bathroom across the hall and commenced her ablutions.
*
Luke entered his library—the hub of his world, his sanctuary—where he was warmly greeted by Paul Dalton, his secretary, valet and one of his closest friends. Paul had been at Oxford with Luke, Archie and Alvin but had fallen on his sword, metaphorically speaking, when Archie first tangled with Magda Simpson. Paul, the one with the least to lose, had nobly pretended to be the man intimately involved with Magda. Simpson made such a stink that the college were obliged to send Paul down. His sacrifice had proven to be in vain since Magda’s hold over Archie had been too strong for him to resist further temptation, leading to the devastating consequences that left him a permanent cripple.
Paul was now employed by Luke, who trusted him absolutely.
‘Welcome home,’ Paul said, shaking Luke’s outstretched hand. ‘How was the shooting?’
