The Ghosts of Greenwood by Maggie MacKeever Page B

not referring to the occasion when you threatened to apply your boot to my, ah—”
    “Posterior?” he supplied. “Derriere? Rump?”
    Livvy refused to let him shock her. “Such an unusual occurrence tends to stick in one’s mind.”
    Connor’s eyes moved boldly over her. “I have reconsidered. Were I to apply something to your posterior, Lady Dorset, it wouldn’t be my boot.” His gaze lingered on her belly. “Under other circumstances, that is.”
    So much for refusing to be shocked. “Do you try to be outrageous?” Livvy gasped.
    “Did you try to be enceinte? Yes, that was outrageous also. I can’t seem to help myself.”
    Livvy turned away. Scant surprise that Connor was no one’s favorite Halliday.
    Dulcie had embarked upon a discussion of prospective Christmas activities, chief among which was to be an enactment of The Rivals , with Dickon playing the part of Falkland, Sir John as Captain Absolute, and Hubert as a lady’s maid. None of these gentlemen seemed enthused by his prospective theatrical debut. Indeed, so exasperated was Lord Dorset that he sought out the less aggravating company of his wife. As he crossed the room, the Baroness issued a peremptory request for Connor’s company.
    “Getting up a flirtation?” asked Dickon, as he appropriated Connor’s abandoned seat.
    Livvy eyed her husband. “You don’t mind?”
    “Mind?” Lord Dorset was watching Lady Halliday. “Why should I?”
    Why, he asked? So this was marriage with a rake. Abruptly, Livvy rose and quit the room. Dickon stared after her, puzzled, then accepted the challenge of a game of billiards with his son.
    Dulcie indicated that Connor should draw a chair up near her pew. “It’s an age since we last met. I assume you are keeping yourself tolerably well-occupied.”
    Connor said, “I am.”
    “So we hear,” Hubert murmured. “Setting man-traps, for a start.”
    Dulcie gave her least favorite nephew a quelling glance. “I might have approached the subject more discreetly, but why did you set those damnable traps?”
     “What did you say to drive Rosamond to palpitations?” responded Connor. “The only sense I could make of her high flights was that the tinkers were involved.”
    “Tinkers?” Hubert echoed.
    “You wouldn’t like them,” the Baroness said, dismissively. “Nor would they like you. And what is all this nonsense about a ghost? You really should speak with Giuseppe, Connor, instead of trying to drive him away.”
    Sir John was developing a headache. “Who the devil is Giuseppe?” he inquired.
    “Giuseppe isthe tinkers’ leader.” There was nothing roguish, now, in Dulcie’s tone. “His mother was once in service at the Hall.”
    “Enough!” snarled Connor. Amanda shrank back in her chair.
    “You might consider that every man has his price, Connor,” Dulcie continued, uncowed. “Even Gypsy Joe.”

 
Chapter Eight
     
    Eerie enough in bright midday, at twilight Lady Margaret’s Garden was even more uncanny, a ruin hidden away behind old stone walls and ancient trees, where the clock of time had wound down and stopped.
    Tonight, with rusty gears and cogs, the clock had started up again.
    One of the occupants of the garden was clearing leaves from the clogged fountain. He had taken off his coat and tossed it over a tree branch. The other intruder sprawled lazily on a vine-encrusted bench, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. She wore a skirt of bright scarlet and a thin muslin blouse. Around her shoulders was draped a heavy cloak. The harsh light of her lantern illuminated the scar than ran from cheekbone to chin.
    Her companion was strongly built and wildly romantic in appearance, a few years older than she, with hair black as his eyes. The merest glimpse of that uncompromisingly cruel face had caused many a village lass to wish for things that she should not.
    As she looked at him, the faintest hint of warmth lit even Jael’s cold eyes. “Tell me true, Giuseppe: what might the old man have