The Ghosts of Greenwood by Maggie MacKeever Page A

her hyacinth-gloved hand rested on his knee. Wondering idly how testicles had made their way into the conversation, Sir John listened to Ned’s account of the victory celebrations that had taken place after Wellington entered Lisbon, which had included all manner of merrymaking, and a special theatrical performance wherein Victory placed a wreath of laurels on the brow of a noble figure with a magnificent nose. Sir John joined in the general laughter at this description of the Duke. Ned had a rare story-telling ability. He made the scene come alive.
    Amanda clapped her hands. “How I wish I might have been there!” Since this was the sort of remark that generally set Ned to reminiscences of a less amusing nature, the company held their assorted breaths.
    Ned said, merely, “No, you don’t. It’s a wretched dirty town.”
    “Then naturally I do not wish it,” Amanda agreed amiably. “Because I dislike discomfort above all things. But nonetheless I envy you, because you have been so many interesting places and had so many interesting experiences.”
    “I fancy that romance is the order of the day, dear aunt,” murmured Hubert, lounging against the side of Dulcie’s pew. “It is a bit off-putting to observe, perhaps, but infinitely better than tales of blood and gore.”
    “Is it?” The Baroness spoke so softly that no one but Hubert and Sir John heard. “You have forgotten one major impediment.”
    “I have?” inquired Humbug. “And what might that be?”
    A rough voice came from the hallway. “Be damned to you! I’ll find my own way.”
    “Connor,” said Dulcie, as that gentlemen strode into the room.
    Mr. Halliday wore the customary country habit of buckskins and top boots, a coat with deep flapped pockets and a moderately tied cravat. His gaze fixed immediately on Amanda, who flushed guiltily. “You are in remarkably high bloom for a lady whose horse came home without her. I see you’ve put off your widow’s weeds.”
    Amanda smoothed the skirts of her pale gray habit. “I had nothing else to wear. You can hardly expect me to go riding in an ordinary dress.”
    “I could have expected that you wouldn’t go riding at all. But I see that it is too much to ask.” Connor glared at the neat little ankle that was propped up on a stool. “You took a tumble? That will teach you not to take my cattle from my stable without asking leave.”
    The assembled guests had been struck mute by this display of bad temper and worse manners. Lady Bligh said, sternly, “Your stepmother has wrenched her ankle, Connor. Lieutenant Sutcliffe brought her here. Since you are both here, you must stay and dine. My cook is excellent and the company uncommonly good.”
    “Oh, maywe?” cried Amanda, then flushed at Connor’s sharp glance.
    “Of course you may,” Dulcie replied. “Have I not just said so? I’ll warrant there’s little enough amusement at the Hall. I trust you mean to attend the midnight services at the village church next week.”
    Amanda replied that she would very much like to attend. “With a wrenched ankle?” Connor asked. “Do you mean for Sutcliffe to carry you in and out of the church? I won’t stand for it. There’s enough talk as it is.”
    “Sit!” commanded Dulcie. With obvious reluctance, Connor took a chair. The Baroness launched into reminiscences about Yuletide celebrations when she was a girl. These remarks brought young Austen to her side with various questions about Christmas stockings and the contents thereof. Dulcie ruffled his hair and embarked upon the tale of an occasion when she and the Baron had shared a night-coach with a gentleman in a fur coat who turned out to be a performing bear.
    Connor’s lip curled. He turned to Livvy, beside whom he sat. “We meet again, Lady Dorset. I daresay you are expecting an apology.”
    His words said one thing, his expression another. Livvy met his mocking expression with one of her own. “Whyever should you apologize? Surely you are