Second Sight by Amanda Quick Page B

dutifully swallowed the last of his buttered toast. “Describe the ghost, Venetia. Was it transparent? Could you see straight through it? Or was it solid, like a real person?”
    “I did not see a ghost, Edward,” Venetia said firmly. She was well aware that she had to squelch the notion immediately if there was to be any hope of restraining her brother’s boundless curiosity. “There is a mistake in the morning papers, that’s all. Errors are quite common in the press.”
    That was all it was, she thought, an appalling error. But how could such a thing happen?
    Amelia watched her expectantly. “What did you see in the papers that disturbed you so?”
    Venetia hesitated. “There is a reference to the recent return of a Mr. Gabriel Jones.”
    Amelia, Beatrice and Edward stared at her, stunned.
    “What on earth?” Beatrice managed, going rather pale.
    Amelia looked very worried. “Good heavens, are you certain of the name?”
    Venetia handed her the paper across the table. “Read it for yourself.”
    Amelia snatched the newspaper from her.
    “Let me see.” Edward hopped out of his chair and went to stand behind Amelia’s shoulder.
    Together they studied the notice in the paper.
    “Oh, dear,” Amelia said. “Oh, my. This is, indeed, very disturbing.”
    Edward’s expression crumpled into severe disappointment. “It doesn’t say anything about a ghost. It says that Mr. Gabriel Jones, who was supposed to be dead, is actually alive. That’s not the same thing as being a ghost at all.”
    “No.” Venetia readied for the coffeepot. “It’s not.”
Unfortunately,
she added under her breath. A situation involving a ghost would have been a good deal easier to handle.
    “It is very odd, is it not?” Edward continued thoughtfully. “It says that this Mr. Jones died in the Wild West. That is just like the story that we invented for our Mr. Jones.”
    “Very odd, indeed,” Venetia said, gripping the coffeepot.
    Beatrice reached for the paper. “Let me see that, please.”
    Amelia handed it to her without a word.
    Venetia watched her aunt read the dreadful little announcement of a living, breathing,
fervently
enthusiastic
Gabriel Jones having recently returned to London.
    “Good heavens,” Beatrice said when she finished. She handed the paper back to Venetia. Evidently unable to come up with any additional comment, she repeated herself. “Good heavens.”
    “It must be a mistake,” Amelia said forcefully. “Or perhaps some bizarre coincidence.”
    “It may be a mistake,” Venetia allowed. “But it is certainly no coincidence. All of Society knows how I became a widow.”
    “Do you think that, by some astonishing chance, it is the real Mr. Jones?” Beatrice asked uneasily.
    They all looked at her. Venetia’s sense of gathering dread intensified.
    “If it is the real Mr. Jones,” Beatrice observed, “he will likely be quite annoyed to discover that you are posing as his widow.” She paused, frowning. “Have a care with the coffee, dear.”
    Venetia looked down and saw that she had just overfilled her cup.
    Coffee
had spilled over the rim and splashed into the saucer. Gingerly she set the pot aside.
    “Only think of the scandal that will ensue if it gets out that you have been pretending to be the widow of a gentleman who was never your real husband,” Amelia said. “It will be worse than it was when we discovered the truth about Papa. At least we were able to keep that a secret. But this situation will create a terrible sensation in the newspapers if it gets out.”
    “The business will be ruined,” Beatrice said in sepulchral tones. “We shall be plunged back into poverty. Venetia, you and Amelia will be forced to become governesses.”
    “Stop.” Venetia held up a hand, palm out. “Do not go any further in such speculation. Whoever this man is, he cannot be the real Mr. Jones.”
    “Why not?” Edward asked with predictable logic. “Perhaps the notice in the newspaper saying that Mr.