Page 2 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“I know a ghost when I see a ghost,” Mrs. Simmons said as the rest of the staff nodded their agreement.

“Another ghost sighting?” Clad in her white dressing gown and looking a wraith herself, Bridget entered the drawing room. “Why did no one wake me for the midnight fête?”

“Bridget, this is no laughing matter,” their mother said.

Bridget placed her candle on the side table. Nicolas fought the desire to blow it out, as the words “waste not, want not” nudged at him.

Sitting beside their mother, she wrapped an arm around her. “Of course not, Mother. Forgive me.” Bridget sent Nicolas a pleading look.

Nicolas cleared his throat. “Mrs. Simmons, mayhap ’twas a hungry fox peeking in at you.”

“Or an angry spirit,” Cook said, unhelpfully. An angry spirit was potentially more frightening than a ghost, after all.

His silent father downed another gulp.

Bridget held up a finger. “Mayhap it’s Great-Great-Great Grandfather, angry about the state of our decaying estate.”

“Indeed.” His mother glared at his father.

Although he massaged his forehead, the megrim still hit Nicolas with the force of a barreling cannonball. Even squinting didn’t ease the pain. If only they still had a groundskeeper.

“I will explore the grounds,” Nicolas said.

“You are not going out there alone.” His mother pointed her fan at his father. “George, go with him.”

With an expression void of emotion, his father stared into his glass.

“No, Father, please remain here and keep everyone calm,” Nicolas said.

Firstly, the notion of his father helping in any way was laughable. Secondly, the last thing he wanted was their foxed patriarch stumblingabout the estate, falling over a rock, and breaking a leg. Or worse. They certainly didn’t need another angry spirit added to the mix.

“Silas, will you please accompany me so her ladyship doesn’t fret?” Nicolas asked.

Blanching, Silas, their lone footman, murmured a timid, “Yes, sir.”

It seemed that Mrs. Simmon’s fanciful tales had even disturbed the young man. Unless Silas had paled because he didn’t want to tramp through the mud, searching for a phantom that didn’t exist. Not that Nicolas blamed him in the least. But if he was ever to get sleep—or attempt to—he needed to placate both his family and their staff and prove once and for all that there were no spirits peeking in the windows.

Nicolas motioned for Silas to follow him. “Grab one of the lamps.”

“Sir?” Mrs. Simmons gasped. “What if the ghost kills you and eats your brains?”

“Ghosts don’t eat brains.” Bridget grinned. “They simply jump out and scare you.” She formed claws and pretended to pounce. “Then you have an apoplexy, your heart explodes, and you die on the spot. But I dare say, ’tis probably one of those monsters made from corpses wandering around outside. I wager they eat brains.”

All four of the female servants squealed. Meanwhile, Silas stood still, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Nicolas needed to acquire a copy of the scandalous new novelThe Modern Prometheusand prove to everyone that reanimating the dead was purely fiction. “Bridget,” he reprimanded. “Do not be so macabre.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Silas,” Nicolas said.

The trembling footman took two steps before halting to stare at the butler, who held a finger to his lips, shushing everyone.

“What is it?” Nicolas asked.

“Sir, someone is banging on the front door,” Perkins said, his voice shaky.

“Spirits!” Mrs. Simmons squealed. “Don’t let them in.”