PRAISE FOR JO BEVERLEY

*New York Times bestselling author

*Member of the RWA Hall of Fame

Winner of two Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times.

Winner of five RITA awards.

“Arguably today’s most skillful writer of intelligent historical romance.”

Publishers Weekly

“One of the great names of the genre….”

Romantic Times

“Sublime!”

Booklist

“A delightful, deftly plotted exploration of social class, gender roles, and romance . . . Charming.”  Publishers Weekly (An Unlikely Countess.)

“… keeps the reader well entertained in this captivating gem.” Romantic Times (The Secret Duke)

“A fabulous intelligent tale… Jo Beverley provides an amusing historical with a touch of suspense and a hint of scandal as you like it.” Genre Go Round Reviews (A Lady’s Secret)

“No doubt about it, Lady Beware is yet another jewel in Beverley’s heavily decorated crown.” The Romance Reader (Lady Beware)

“Beverley beautifully blends complex characters, an exquisitely sensual love story, and a refreshingly different Regency setting into one sublime romance.” Booklist (The Rogue’s Return)

LORD SAMHAIN'S NIGHT

by Jo Beverley

A paranormal romance set in Regency times.

This is 9,000 words, so quite short.

The story was first published in 1992.

Copyright 2011 Jo Beverley

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Praise for Jo Beverley

Lord Samhain’s Night

A list of other paranormal romances by Jo Beverley

Flower Power, a short and odd SF story

An Excerpt from A Scandalous Countess (Penguin-NAL, February 2011)

LORD SAMHAIN’S NIGHT

This novella was published in 1992 in a hardcover collection titled All Hallows’ Eve. The print run was 1,000, so it’s always been hard to find, so I’m happy to make it newly available. I’ve made a few changes to correct period errors, but otherwise it is as written nearly two decades ago.

Halloween, 1813.

The Tapestry Room of King's Chase was dark except for the light of the leaping fire and its ghostly reflection in mirrors and polished metal. It glowed on the faces of the three people sitting near the hearth, roasting chestnuts. Charlie Brewis, Earl of Kingsbury, owner of King's Chase, was telling a ghost story.

His audience was his brother and estate manager, the Honorable Rupert Brewis, and his god-sister, Phoebe Batsford. Phoebe was as close as any true sister, having been raised with the Brewis family since her parents' death when she was five.

"...and when she opened the box," concluded Kingsbury with relish, "the grinning head was there within!"

Phoebe did the expected and gasped, but rather spoilt it by immediately reaching with the tongs for another chestnut. She juggled it in her fingers as she flaked away the hot, crisp skin.

She knew Charlie wouldn’t expect true terror. She'd once won a guinea wager from him by spending the night in the church tower, which was said to be haunted by a demented bell-ringer. When he'd sneaked in at midnight to ring the bells, hoping to frighten her out of her wits, she'd been ready for him with a bucket of icy water.

"You don't have a scrap of sensibility, Phee," he remarked without rancor. He took the hot chestnut and skinned it for her. "How's a fellow to impress you if he can't even stir a shiver with a disembodied head?" He passed back most of the meat, but popped a small piece into his mouth.

Phoebe pulled a face at him. He might be a Great Man to his friends, but to her he was just Charlie, his hazel eyes full of fun, his unruly brown hair always escaping the discipline his valet tried to impress upon it.

She fished for another chestnut and dropped it in his hands. "If you want some, eat your own. Rupert?"

"No, thank you. And really, Charlie, you'd make a greater impression with originality. You tell the same story every year. That might work with your Melton cronies after the third bottle, but we’re all sober."

"Are we? I think we're drunk on atmosphere..."

Phoebe quickly said, "Do you have a new story then, Rupert?"

Rupert smiled at her, and his smiles could take her breath away. All the dramatic good looks of the Brewis family had been reserved for Rupert. His hair was darker and crisper than Charlie's, his eyes a deeper brown, and his features had a chiseled perfection. He seemed cast for a more noble role in life than estate manager, and yet he appeared content with that position.

"Yes. I, unlike my lazy brother, have a new offering." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Let me tell you the story of Sweet Maud of Moberley, who came to a dreadful end through love..."

Phoebe listened to the story intently, for Rupert had a gift for drama. It was only slowly that she became uneasy. She glanced once at Charlie, but he was staring into the flames as he listened, and there was nothing to read in his expression.

Rupert's story was of a lady loved by two brothers. She chose the younger one, but on her wedding morn, the older brother stole her away and locked her in a secret chamber. He then went to lay a false trail, intending to lure his brother to a broken bridge where he would perish. Instead he slipped and fell to his doom himself. The bride-groom believed that his bride had fled with his brother, and in his grief he took his life. Many years later workmen found the secret chamber and the skeleton within, still clothed in the rags of a wedding gown.

It was a well-known tale but Rupert's version contained some interesting innovations. The bride was usually planning to wed the older brother, and the younger was not just thwarted in love but jealous of his brother's position. The change was all too pat, for Rupert and Charlie were now both suitors for Phoebe's hand.

Rupert had been wooing her since she returned from her first spring Season unwed and uncommitted. It was not for lack of offers; poor Charlie had had to deal with more than twenty suitors for her hand. Pretty heiresses, as Phoebe had remarked, were thin on the ground this year. But she’d not fallen in love and would not settle for less.

At first the notion of marrying Rupert had been startling, for he was like a brother to her, but the idea had grown more comfortable with time. After all, she knew him as well as one could know another person, and liked most of what she knew. He was inclined to be pompous at times, and a little too stern in his management of the estate, but he could also be kind and entertaining. He was honest, and would care for her property well. And he was very handsome.

Also, if Phoebe married Rupert she could stay at King's Chase, which was her beloved home, and would not have to learn to live with a new family.

She hadn’t been in any hurry to accept Rupert, but the idea had definitely been taking root. But then Charlie had turned up -- unannounced and unpredictable as always -- and sought out Phoebe. He'd found her on Twitcher's Hill, walking the dogs. The setters raced to greet him, and he pulled their ears and greeted them in return. Then he looked at Phoebe.

"A fine day for October."

"Isn’t it?" she said, smiling. She was always happy to see Charlie. Everyone was. "I wasn't sure you'd come this year."

"I try not to miss Halloween."

"It will be tame now the last of the girls is married."

They turned to walk back to the house.

"Except you," said Charlie. "I had a special reason for coming, Phee."

"Yes?"

"Yes." At the pause she glanced at him. Charlie was rarely at a loss for words. "When you were in London in the spring," he said, "it didn't seem the time to speak. You were so popular. I hardly saw you except to warn you of another conquest."

"Amazing what twenty thousand pounds will do," she remarked with a grin.

He shook his head at her. "And glossy curls, and blue eyes always full of laughter, and a manner free of simpering artifice. You've left a number of broken hearts, Phee."

"Have I? Then I'm sorry for it. What did you want to say? Never say I’ve received another offer!"

"In a manner of speaking." He stopped and turned to face her. "Phoebe, during the spring, I realized I'd like to marry you myself."

Phoebe was lost for words.

"You look horrified," he said with surprise and, she saw, some hurt.

"Oh, not at you asking," she said quickly. "I'm honored, Charlie. It's just..."

"It's just that you think of me as a brother?"

"No." She realized her denial was true. She could easily see Charlie as suitor rather than brother, perhaps because he'd been away so much. "It's just that Rupert's asked me too."

"Good God! But I thought..." He walked a few paces then turned back. "When I was here last, Rupert seemed bouleversé‚ by the delectable Nan Gresham."

Nan was the local beauty, a diamond of the first water. "I suppose he was. Then.”

"Have you accepted him?"

"No."

"Have you rejected him? Or is he waiting to apply to me, for deuce sake?"

Phoebe's lips twitched at his alarm. It was a ridiculous situation. "Neither. I have been judiciously weighing the matter."

He turned to continue the walk. "This is a little awkward."

She fell into step beside him. "Yes."

"At least you won't be swayed by my wealth and title."

"No, but why does that please you? They are your greatest assets."

He raised his brows and Phoebe colored. "Heavens, Charlie, I didn't mean that as it sounded..."

"Of course you didn't. It pleases me because I wouldn't want to compete with Rupert on unfair ground. I know you'll choose the man most likely to make you happy."

"It might be neither of you," warned Phoebe, and indeed at that moment marrying a third party was attractive.

"Of course it might. Don't worry. We won't enact a tragedy over it." He stopped again with a boyish, carefree smile that denied the very notion of tragedy. "Cheer up, Phee." He dropped a kiss on her lips. It startled, and even embarrassed, her. He'd never done such a thing before. "Just to announce the change in our status. A desirable woman rather than a foster sister."

Then he tucked her hand into his arm and they returned to the house.

That evening, ever honest, Charlie told Rupert the state of affairs. Phoebe found out when Rupert told her.

"I'm sorry to put you in such a difficult situation," he said stiffly.

"It's nobody's fault, Rupert. I'm honored that you both want me to be your bride. It's very flattering. You both know all my faults."

"There's nothing about you that could offend anyone."

"Nothing?" she teased. "When you raked me down for a hoyden when I climbed the great elm last year."

He reddened slightly. "You could have broken your neck."

She took his hand. "Thank you for caring."

He laid his hand over hers. "I do care, Phoebe, but I can't compete with a title. I won't make it difficult for you..."

Phoebe took back her hand. "A title! Stop making a cake of yourself and insulting me. I tell you what I told Charlie. -- I may not choose either of you, but titles won’t weigh in the balance."

"You were well on your way to accepting me before Charlie spoke up."

"Perhaps," Phoebe demurred. In a spirit of fairness, she kissed him lightly on the lips.

He grasped shoulders and kissed her back, fiercely. "Choose me, Phoebe. Choose me."

She’d made no protest, but the kiss had unsettled her. It had been too... too needy.

And now Rupert’s story added to her disquiet. It had been edged. Intended to disrupt.

As if offering an antidote, Charlie began a humorous story. He’d loosened his cravat, but Rupert was still neat as a pin. She could be as irritated by Rupert’s precision as by Charlie's easy-going indolence, but now both seemed irrelevant.

That kiss.

Don’t be a nod-cock. It’s good to be desired by a husband.

Did Charlie desire her? Despite the words "desirable woman" she saw no evidence of it. Perhaps she was just a convenience for him. It was time he wed, and what easier choice than the girl he had known all his life; a girl well liked by his mother and sisters?

Such a choice would be so like him.

The clocks began to chime midnight. "The witching hour!" declared Phoebe, pleased to leave her thoughts. "We have to do Samhain’s Choice."

At Halloween a lady could write the names of suitors on walnuts and throw them in the fire. If a nut burned with a steady flame the gentleman was true. If it cracked in the heat, he was proved inconstant. It was all in fun, but now Phoebe bit her lip.

She’d never had even one serious suitor to test, and now she had two, both present.

“Perhaps not this year,” she said.

"Face the truth, Phoebe," Rupert said, picking two walnuts from the bowl. "You should call these Rupert and Charlie."

"No, Rupert," Charlie said.

But Phoebe interrupted. "He's right. We should be honest. Perhaps Samhain, Lord of the Dead, will help me make my choice."

While Rupert wrote on the nuts, Charlie said, "It may not be wise to call on dead gods, Phee. Perhaps they only sleep and can be revived by our belief."

"Good." Phoebe leapt to her feet, arms in the air. "Rise again, Samhain! This is your night, this is your ceremony. Guide my hand."

Rupert stared at her, aghast. Phoebe snatched the nuts but then said. "If I’m to do this, you both should also tempt fate."

"You have no competition for our regard, Phoebe," Charlie said, but as a joke.

“There must be some lady in London whose ankles please you."

"Your latest mistress, perhaps?" offered Rupert.

The eyes of the two men clashed at this low blow.

But Charlie shrugged it off. "Sweet Clarissa? A charming nymph with perfect ankles, but not at all suitable as Countess of Kingsbury. There are other candidates." He wrote on two nuts. "Rupert?"

Phoebe could tell Rupert was already regretting his spiteful interjection. "Living so quietly here in the country, I cannot think of anyone other than Phoebe."

"No bucolic mistress in the village?" drawled Charlie.

Rupert flushed. "Certainly not."

"Nan Gresham will have to do, then. She is certainly not indifferent to you."

Rupert stiffened under this goading. "Since her season, she has many more important admirers than my poor self."

"But has married none of them."

Phoebe wanted to scream at them to stop it.

"I’ll put Nan's name," said Rupert, giving Phoebe one of his dark, speaking looks. "After all, Miss Gresham is the only lady in Hertfordshire who can begin to challenge Phoebe's attractions."

"Really Rupert," said Phoebe, "that's laying it on far too thick."

"`Beauty exists in the mind that contemplates it,'" he quoted.

"Only to a point," remarked Charlie. "I don't give a fig for Nan Gresham, but her stunning beauty still exists for me."

"Did you write her name too?" asked Phoebe, and was startled by the vinegary note in her voice. How had this pleasant tradition gone so astray? She was assailed by a sense that this should not be done, but rejected it. "Let's call on Samhain to make the choice."

"Phoebe..." Charlie protested, perhaps feeling the same unease.

"Get it over with,” Rupert said. “One, two, three..."

"Samhain!" they cried and threw their walnuts into the fire.

A god roared.

So the puny mortals took his name in vain. They would see what came of that, indeed they would.

~~~~

Phoebe, Charlie, and Rupert all stepped back from the sudden eerie flare, but then the fire settled.

"Just the draft of our movement," said Charlie somewhat uneasily.

Phoebe tracked her offerings. The nut marked Rupert fell in the center and quickly caught. The one marked Charlie rolled backward, toward the edge of the grate. For a moment she thought it would roll out of the fire entirely, and what that would auger, she didn't know, but then it settled against the iron fire-basket. Rupert was almost burned out, slowly and steadily as one would expect, whilst Charlie’s was scarcely singed.

Meanwhile one of Charlie's offerings snapped into two pieces. "Faithless wench," he remarked. “Both your sweethearts burn steadily, brother. Are you perhaps divided in your affections?"

"It’s merely that I have solid, steady qualities. A fribble such as you must expect to attract the shallow-hearted."

"The shallow-hearted are generally so very amusing, you see, so I don’t repine" He considered the fire and then rose. "The ancient gods did not revive for us, so I'm for bed, and poor Phoebe’s none the wiser."

At that moment the nut at the front of the hearth shattered into a hundred tiny pieces.

Silence fell. Phoebe considered the nut fragments scattered over the hearth, prey to a host of disturbing thoughts, then she glanced between the brothers. Rupert looked blank, doubtless trying to mask triumph. Charlie was frowning, but then he gave an elegant shrug. "I'm hardly surprised. As you say, I'm a fribble and surely an inconstant fellow at heart. Good night."

Phoebe watched with amazement as he sauntered out of the room.

Rupert tidied away some nut fragments from the carpet. "It’s but a silly superstition, Phoebe."

"But as good a pointer as any." Phoebe's chief and chilling thought was that Charlie had shrugged and walked away with an ease that proved the test true. He didn't truly care, whereas Rupert clearly cared very much indeed.

Rupert stood. "Do you mean you will marry me, Phoebe?"

She raised her chin. "Yes."

He smiled with heart-warming intensity and she told herself she must be doing the right thing to cause such happiness. He kissed her gently then escorted from the room.

As they crossed the chilly hall, that sense of rightness drained away. Shouldn't she feel more ecstatic? It must be the thought of announcing this engagement tomorrow that was cheating her of happiness. Charlie would be hurt.

Nonsense. The only thing that would hurt Charlie Brewis was having to exert himself to find a less convenient bride.

At her door, Rupert kissed her hand again. "I can hardly believe we will soon not have to part like this, my darling."

Phoebe could hardly believe it either. How strange to be contemplating the intimacies of marriage with one who was like a brother. She looked up at him. "Will you kiss me again, please, Rupert? Properly."

He smiled and did so. Phoebe pressed closer, opening her lips, trying to find something she needed for this to be right.

It eluded her.

He broke apart, rather flushed. "How passionate you are, sweetheart. We had best be married soon."

~~~~

Despite his words, they were not married soon. Lady Kingsbury was delighted by the engagement, but would not allow Phoebe to be married with less pomp than her true daughters. Winter weddings, she said, always gave a scrambling appearance. Easter would be soon enough. Perhaps by then, she remarked pointedly to Charlie, someone else would have chosen a bride and it could be a double ceremony.

Phoebe had become uncomfortable with the idea of living in Charlie's home as Rupert’s wife. The thought of welcoming his bride here made her rather ill.

At least the bickering was over. On November 1st, Charlie had accepted the news of the engagement without a blink, toasted their future happiness, had a brief discussion with Rupert about settlements, and left. He’d returned briefly for Christmas, but then spent the whole hunting season in Melton. Probably with his Clarissa.

Phoebe could see she would have been a great fool to have chosen him, but she frequently felt a temptation to smash things.

Virtually alone in the big house, Rupert and Phoebe fell back into sibling ways, with no courting behavior. Perhaps this was why he often seemed morose. The winter passed, spring arrived, with Easter and the wedding racing toward them full tilt.

When Charlie wrote to say he was a house-guest at Belvoir Castle, and three times mentioned Nan Gresham as also being there, Lady Kingsbury began to talk again of a double ceremony. Rupert took the suggestion badly. Phoebe supposed it bothered him to have his rival beside him at the altar. It certainly bothered her.

Not that Nan was precisely a rival, but with her thick dark curls and perfect, vibrant features, Nan would outshine Phoebe at the wedding and then eclipse her in her home. She could see it now – Nan, Lady Kingsbury, toast of England, laughing and flirting with Charlie over the dinner table.

Phoebe knew she’d fade away from a complete inability to eat.

It was Phoebe's practice in the evenings to join Rupert in the estate office and sew as he recorded the business of the day. That evening she said, "Rupert, perhaps we should consider living elsewhere on the estate. We could build a house of our own. There will be ample funds."

He looked up. "Actually, I’ve been thinking I should purchase an estate of our own."

"Leave King's Chase?"

"It makes no sense for me to manage another man's estate when I can afford one of my own. It would be more comfortable for you if we have our own home."

"That's what I said, but..."

"It's the common thing, Phoebe." His tone was unusually sharp. "Most girls leave home when they marry. Even if we were to build a house near here, we would still be living in Charlie's pocket. With him feeling for you as he does, it would be unpleasant, both for him and for his bride."

Phoebe stabbed her needle through the cloth. "You can hardly mean Charlie is devastated at losing me."

"It is not in his nature to be devastated by a reverse, but I’m sure he feels the loss. A loss I can appreciate," he said with awkward gallantry, "being the gainer thereby. When I told him, he said that his consolation was that you would be in the care of a man he trusts."

"When you told him?" she queried.

"Of course I went to him that night and told him. He had guessed in any case."

Phoebe concentrated on setting another stitch. So when they'd announced the engagement, Charlie had been well prepared. "You mistake the matter if you think he felt keenly. It would not matter a fig to him if we were to live close by."

"You will permit me to know my brother."

"He didn’t show any particular dismay."

"He rarely shows how he feels. You know that, Phoebe. And he was holding back for fear he held an unfair advantage, that his title and fortune would weigh with you after all. He always was a stickler for fair play." He broke off with a sigh. "Trust me, Phoebe. We should leave King's Chase."

Everything was awry again, and in ways she found hard to understand. To be away was the main thing, however. "Very well. Will you set about looking for an estate straight away?"

“Of course.” Rupert settled back to his accounts and she to her sewing, but she felt almost sick.

Had she misread Charlie?

Had she misread Rupert too? From his behavior since their betrothal, she feared she had. She suspected his feelings for her did not run as deeply as she had thought.

And now, to crown it all, she was to leave King's Chase.

That would bring the blessing that she would rarely encounter Charlie. When that thought brought her close to tears, she knew she was foolish beyond all reckoning. This was confirmed when Charlie wrote that he had offered for Miss Gresham and been accepted. Nan did not, however, desire a double wedding and so the date was fixed for September.

Phoebe prayed Rupert find an estate far away, then there’d be no call to attend the wretched ceremony.

He certainly set about finding a suitable property with enthusiasm, and Phoebe feared she knew why. He’d detected her feelings and wanted to move her far from a rival. But was he desperate on his own behalf as well?

Did Rupert love Nan?

When Rupert discussed possible estates with her she had to pretend interest. She merely wanted one that would be quickly available and as far away from King's Chase as possible.

Four weeks before the wedding, Rupert went off to inspect a property called Jacoby Hall in Wiltshire. A few days later, Nan Gresham returned to the area and came to call at King's Chase, as gloriously beautiful as ever.

Lady Kingsbury greeted her as a future daughter. Phoebe did her best to be civil. Any bitterness she felt towards Nan, however, melted away when she realized how unhappy Nan was, and how disappointed that Rupert was not there.

The whole pickle was ridiculous, and she, for one, would have no part of it. As soon as Rupert returned she would end the engagement. Such a scandal would itself be an excellent excuse to leave King's Chase, at least for a while. What Rupert, Charlie, and Nan did then would be up to them.

She waited on a razor's edge for Rupert's return, preparing the right words, and the right arguments to overcome his protests, wishing the days would fly by faster so she could have done with this.

Then, instead of Rupert, a messenger arrived with grim news.

Jacoby Hall had been struck by lightning, and all within had perished.

~~~~

The funeral was held on the first day of April and the beauty of the season seemed a cruel contrast to the event. Leaves were new and vibrant, and the churchyard gay with spring flowers. Courting birds swooped and twittered in the trees above the grave.

Charlie was there, of course, somber with grief. Nan sent only a formal letter of commiseration, but rumor said she was deeply upset. Phoebe wished she could go to Nan and offer comfort, but that was impossible without exposing deep wounds.

For her part, Phoebe was grieving a beloved brother and suffering torments of guilt. On Halloween she’d acted foolishly, provoked by Charlie's easy acceptance of that business with the nuts. If she’d not done so perhaps none of this would have happened. She avoided Charlie and she would have left King's Chase immediately, but Lady Kingsbury needed her now. Until Nan came to act the daughter’s part.

Charlie stayed only long enough to deal with business, riding daily to Gresham Hall to visit his betrothed. One day he reported that Nan wanted to delay the wedding until a year of mourning was over. "Doubtless wise. We wouldn't want a ghost at the feast."

Phoebe flashed him a look, wondering how much he knew of Nan's feelings.

"What of you?" he asked. "What will you do when your mourning is over?"

"Perhaps go to London again," Phoebe said, but her future was a hopeless blank.

The summer passed and the raw grief healed, but Phoebe was still oppressed by guilt. It did no good to tell herself that they were all to blame, particularly Rupert. She could only consider her own faults, and they were serious.

The chief appeal of Rupert's offer had always been convenience -- the fault she had ascribed to Charlie. When Charlie had proposed, she’d been blind to how she felt.

On Halloween, when Charlie had refused to fight for her, she had accepted Rupert out of pique, not least because of Charlie's casual confession of keeping a beautiful mistress. Looking back, she saw how Rupert had goaded Charlie into admitting that. Charlie would never lie, and it was typical of him to confess such a thing with panache. It had hurt her deeply, however, which in itself should have warned her of the state of her heart.

Stupid, stupid, stupid fool. And the consequences were that one person was dead, and three others were to be unhappy. They would spread that unhappiness to family, friends, and children, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Was she to tell Charlie she loved him? How low that would make her look, and it could do no good as he was bound to Nan.

Was she to accuse Nan of marrying Charlie as a substitute for Rupert? That would be outrageous.

All she could do was leave King's Chase and hope to meet Charlie only rarely in future. Hope that when she did, she would be able to treat him as a brother.

Leaves turned to gold and fell. Crops were brought in. Birds flew south. And Halloween was upon them again.

At King's Chase, Lady Kingsbury and Phoebe had no company and went early to bed.

~~~~

The fires leapt wild, ringed with frenzied revelers, and horned Samhain, mighty Lord of the Dead rejoiced. His laugh boomed out. "Dance, my creatures! Dance. This is Samhain's night, when I rule the world, living and dead. The night when you live again, and when the recent dead pass before me for judgment. Bring them forward!"

Bewildered new spirits were thrust before the god.

Some went willingly to join the revelers. Others were banished to less pleasant places. Some wished to find a sweeter option and were willing to work for it. One young man was pushed before him.

"Ah yes," said Samhain, his brazen laugh shaking the great chamber. "The one who toyed with my name! How think you now, scoundrel?"

Rupert looked dazedly around him. The last thing he remembered was the roar of fire in Jacoby Hall, the choking smoke, and the screams of the child he'd been trying to save. He looked around for that child, but there was no one here he knew.

He'd gone from hell to hell, it seemed. He'd not thought he was quite so wicked.

He abruptly realized all he'd lost and could have wept, except that such demonstrations of emotion were now, apparently, beyond him.

"In this hell?" he asked, looking around at the cavorting revelers.

"This? Nay, little man. My hall is but the sorting-house. A full year's dead come before me here. Most choices are the matter of a moment. Some are more interesting. Such as yours."

Rupert stared up. "Are you Lucifer?"

Another buffeting gale of laughter. "That anguished angel? Do you see bitter loss in me? Nay. I am Samhain, true ruler of the Dead."

Rupert felt dread chill him. "I didn't believe in you."

Samhain grinned, showing a cavernous void and sharp, fiery teeth. "It is foolish not to believe in gods."

"It wasn't I who brought up your name! It was Phoebe. No, no, don’t blame her!”

Samhain leaned down from his throne. "You used me to cover your trick, little man." He exhaled. Flames drove Rupert back, but he held firm. How many times could a man be burned to death, after all?

"I admit it all," he said. "Do your worst."

"Puny mortal, if you knew my worst you would not speak so steadily. But you show courage -- and honesty now it is too late. Do you care to join me here?"

Rupert looked around. He had no idea what other options existed, but he did not want this. "I fear I must decline the honor, my lord."

Samhain roared with laughter again. "Ah, mortal child, I like you. I will give you a chance to correct your mistakes."

"My mistakes?" For a moment Rupert wondered if it was possible not to go to Jacoby Hall, but dismissed such foolishness. He was assuredly, and permanently, dead.

"You have made mistakes, deny it not."

"All people do. Must I correct every one?"

"Just the ones that still exist."

"What?"

"Knowing is the key," said Samhain. "You have but this night or you are lost. Be gone!"

The great figure clapped his hands. The world exploded and Rupert found himself shivering among the charred ruins of Jacoby Hall. He was not shivering from fleshy chill for he had no flesh. His spirit was shivering to be raw naked in a hostile world. He looked around. It was dead of night.

Good lord. He was a ghost wandering about on Halloween.

What the devil was he supposed to do? He screamed the question to the cloudy sky, but no sound came out of his imagined throat, and no answer came from the heavens.

Correct his mistakes, he thought frantically.

The ones that still existed.

Which were they?

Deciding to buy an estate?

Going to Jacoby Hall?

Offering for Phoebe?

Not offering for Nan?

His spirit shivered more as he went over his recent past. So many foolish steps. How could he correct them all?

Irresistibly, he wondered how Nan was.

At the thought he was at Gresham Hall, in Nan's very bedroom. Hesitantly, he approached the bed, feeling all the awkwardness of a man where he shouldn’t be. She looked childlike when asleep, but there was a tightness to her lips he didn't remember. "Ah Nan," he whispered, and reached out to touch her cheek.

She stirred and pulled the bedclothes up around her ears. He supposed a ghost must be cold.

He’d wooed Nan, but then the Season had reminded him that Phoebe wasn't a sister, that she was a potential bride, and a wealthy one. The temptation had been too much.  It had been wrong, but how on earth could he put it right?

Charlie would be good to her. She’d be Lady Kingsbury, and she’d always wanted to be a grand lady. She’d fallen in love with him despite her inclinations.

Then he realized that if this was Halloween she and Charlie should be married. She still wore Charlie's ring, however, so matters could not be too awry.

What had become of Phoebe? He’d hurt her just as badly.

At the thought he was at King's Chase. She too was asleep. If he could speak, he could tell her he’d never really loved her except as a brother, but what good would that do?

Damnation! No, that was too close to the bone. But his night was slipping away and he didn't know what to do, or how to do it. If he failed, Samhain had said he would be lost. What did that mean? That he would be a ghost forever, condemned to prowl these ancestral halls? Or that he would be cast into the torments of hell.

Charlie. Charlie would help him.

In a blink, he was in Leicestershire, at Charlie's hunting box, where his brother was making rollicking love to a buxom red-head.

Rupert was instantly filled with rage. "Charlie, you wretch! How could you? Unfaithful to Nan already..."

He might as well not have bothered. Was it just that Charlie was... occupied? Rupert had to admit with envy that at this exact moment the last trump could probably pass Charlie by.

He wandered the rooms of the house, discovering one guest, a stranger to him, demolishing a decanter of brandy. As Rupert passed by, the man started and shivered. Mischievously, Rupert rushed towards him, howling. The man leapt out of his chair, splashing brandy around. "Gads! It's freezing in here." He dashed under the covers of his bed, taking care to take the decanter with him.

Rupert gave him up and returned to his brother. Charlie was no longer where he'd left him, but in another bedroom, his own. He too was seeking comfort in brandy.

"Charlie, damn you, have you nothing better to do with your life than to bed cheap whores and drown your sorrows in brandy? What of Nan, you rogue?"

It was clear Charlie still couldn't hear a word.

Rupert touched his brother. Charlie blinked and rubbed his cheek, then walked over to check the window. He shrugged and headed to bed.

Rupert breathed all over him.

Charlie jumped. "Hell!" He looked again at the window, then shook his head and climbed into bed.

Rupert sent a silent appeal to all deities. How could he correct his mistakes if no one could hear a word he said?

He went instinctively to sit by the fire, though he felt no warmth from it. There had to be a way. What had Samhain said? Knowing is the key. Knowing what?

What did he know? He knew that Charlie wasn’t happy, for he only took to drink when upset. He guessed that Charlie had been drinking heavily for a while. The cause could be grief, but Rupert knew his brother was miserable because he'd lost Phoebe. Nan was unhappy too, and not likely to be any happier when married to a man who loved another.

In the days before his death Rupert had begun to suspect that Phoebe cared more for Charlie than for himself, though he'd suppressed the knowledge. He, after all, intended to do well by her, whereas Charlie had forgotten her in the arms of a whore. But the sophistry was no good. Rupert knew the truth. He knew what he must do. He went back to the bedside.

"Charlie. Wake up."

Charlie stirred slightly. "What?"

Rupert felt a blinding sense of relief. He’d guessed aright. The resolve to confess the truth was the key.  "Charlie. Wake up. I need to speak to you."

"Rupert?" Charlie's eyes suddenly flew open. He stared. His eyes widened with shock.

"Don't be afraid. It's true I'm a ghost, but you can't think I'd ever harm you."

Charlie sat up dazedly. "What the deuce...?"

Rupert perched on the bed. To himself he looked like himself and it appeared he looked that way to others too. "Not even a sheet, or chains to rattle," he remarked. "Rather tame, I suppose."

Charlie reached out to hug him, but his hand passed though and he cried out. "There's nothing but cold!"

"So I gather. I'm sorry. I'd relish a human touch too. Charlie, I only have tonight to put right some wrongs. I'm not sure what happens if I fail except that it's sure to be nasty. Samhain made that clear."

"Samhain!"

"Yes. It appears that all the dead of the past year go before him for judgment on Halloween. He only has earthly powers on Halloween, but unfortunately he was in power when we called on him last year."

"That business with the nuts?"

"I don't think he liked to be mocked."

Charlie stared. "Are you saying he killed you for it? But why you? It was all of us."

Rupert paused to gather courage for his confession. "But I was the only one who cheated. I put gunpowder in your walnut."

He expected to see condemnation but Charlie shrugged. "I knew that."

"What! But why didn't you speak?"

Charlie relaxed back against the headboard. "Because only desperation would make you do such a thing. If you loved Phoebe that deeply, I couldn't stand in your way."

His dread of revealing more truth was so great Rupert could feel himself begin to fade away. Charlie sat up. "Rupert?"

Rupert braced himself. "I didn't love her," he said.

"What?"

"I didn't love Phoebe. Oh, I was fond of her as a sister, but I was attracted by her very convenient fortune."

Charlie sat up, clenching a fist. "Well, damn you to hell!"

"That's all too likely at the moment. I know it was wrong. I knew with each day it was wrong, but I was on a treadmill and couldn't get off. When you became engaged to Nan that was the last straw."

"Nan! Are you telling me you loved her after all?" It was rare to see Charlie angry, but he was angry now.

"Of course I did. But... What can I say?  I don’t deserve it, but you have to help me put it all to rights."

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"I was hoping that telling you the truth would be part of it, but you knew all along."

"I didn't know you loved Nan, or I'd never have let you have Phoebe."

"Did you really love her then?"

"Of course. I still do."

"Then you can't marry Nan!"

Charlie leapt out of bed to pace. "What the devil am I supposed to do? Jilt her? Do you know how I came to be betrothed?"

"No."

"She haunted me -- no offense -- wanting to talk of you. It was clear you'd been close at one time, and I was beginning to regret giving you Phoebe without a fight, so I thought if I dropped her name into letters it might stir you up and get us out of the coil. That didn't work and the next thing I knew our names were linked. The thought of your upcoming wedding distressed her so much that she burst into tears in my arms. When her manipulative mama found us like that I didn't have the heart to fight."

"You don't love her at all?"

"No. She's a ninny at the best of times and these days she's positively depressing. But if you can find a way out of it, you're a better man than I am. She don't care for anything these days. I think she's decided that if she's going to be miserable, it might as well be with a coronet as not."

"I'll find a way. I love her too much to see her in such a sterile marriage. If you were free, what would you do?"

"Make some push to win Phoebe, even if I am only second best to you."

"I don't think you were ever second best, Charlie."

"Don't be a fool. She grasped the excuse of that Halloween farce readily enough."

"I don't know why. I soon realized she loved you, not me, but I was too weak to do what was right. I am justly served." A clock struck two and he jumped. "And I'll be in even worse straights if I don't sort this out." He began to think himself on his way, then paused. "If I can't return, Charlie, I want you to know that you were always the best of brothers. I'm sorry I caused this pickle."

Charlie stepped forward, then stopped. "Damnation, I wish I could touch you one last time, Rupert. I miss you. And I think we all caused this pickle one way or another."

"Farewell, Charlie. If I can, I'll watch over you." With that, Rupert thought himself to Gresham Hall.

Rupert sat on Nan's bed, considering the next step with some trepidation. He had no desire to terrify her. "Nan," he said softly. "Wake up, sweeting."

"Rupert...?" She opened her lovely eyes and rubbed them. She stared, for a moment blindingly happy. Then she screamed.

"Stop that!"

She stopped, mouth agape. "Rupert! You're not dead!"

"I'm afraid I am-"

Mrs. Gresham rushed in, candle flaring. "Nan, dear. Did you cry out?"

Wide-eyed, Nan looked between Rupert and her mother, who clearly saw nothing unusual. "Yes, mama, but it was just a bad dream."

Mrs. Gresham came over, frowning slightly. "You cannot still be upset by Rupert Brewis's death. If you carry on this way, people are going to think it very strange."

"No, it wasn't that, mama. Just a silly dream."

With a sigh, Mrs. Gresham departed. Nan stared at Rupert, tears gathering in her eyes. She stemmed them with a lacy handkerchief. "You look so real," she whispered.

"So I gather. You can't touch me, dearest-"

Nan sat up straight, her fine eyes blazing through the tears. "How dare you call me dearest, you faithless wretch!"

"Because I love you-"

Nan threw the only thing to hand, her handkerchief. It floated through him. She gave a wail and collapsed back with her hands over her eyes.

"Nan! For God's sake...."

"Go away! I hate you. How could you offer for Phoebe Batsford?"

Rupert sighed. "Greed. I deserve everything you've said."

Phoebe uncovered her eyes and sat up. "Yes you do." She reached for her handkerchief then drew her hand back. "Could you move, please?"

He did so and she retrieved the cambric square and blew her nose fiercely. She looked at him. "I wish you hadn't come back. I'd nearly convinced myself I didn't care..."

"I'm sorry, love, but I need your help." Rupert quickly explained about Samhain. "Nan, I have just a few hours to make things right, and that includes helping you, I think. I must at least try, if for no other reason than because I care about you."

He began to pace the room. "I did always love you, Nan, but I didn't think you would be so hurt if I married another. You are so beautiful that you could have anyone. It hardly seemed fair to expect you to marry a penniless younger son, and your mother would have had a fit at the thought. I decided it would be wiser to marry for money." Steadily he told her the whole story, evading nothing.

When he'd finished, she looked at him soberly, and with some unexpected maturity. "I would have married you, Rupert, and been perfectly content."

"I know that now."

They sadly contemplated what might have been.

Nan blew her nose again. "What do you want me to do?"

Rupert came back to the bed. "Set Charlie free. Not just for his sake, Nan, but for yours. You deserve to be loved without reservation, dear one. You’ll find a better man than me, a better man even than Charlie. There must be a way in the afterlife to assist these things, and I will find it."

Tears were rolling down her cheeks again. "I’ve hated you at times, and that was the worst of all..."

"I hope that the truth helps a little. I’d like to kiss you, Nan, one last time, but I'm afraid it will just feel cold."

"Kiss me then."

He felt nothing. Nan shivered, but she smiled. "Even frost is better than nothing." She reached out to where he was. "God go with you."

Rupert smiled and left, thinking wryly, aye, but which god?

Was he done? There must be a couple more hours of darkness and he'd better be thorough. He went to King's Chase.

He went first to his mother's room, but he didn't wake her for she had no part in this fiasco. Then he went to visit Phoebe. It would seem that people could hear him only if he had something relevant to say, so he tried.

"Phoebe." She slept on.

He touched her and she shivered and pulled up the covers. He shouted her name but there was no response. That appeared to be that. The alarming conclusion was that he had no confession to make to her.

Had she always known?

Looking at her features against her pillow, he knew he would never have been at ease with her in the marriage bed. She was his sister and he'd known it since that kiss on Halloween. What a fool he'd been. Perhaps, if the gods were kind, he would be the only one to lose by it.

"Take Charlie," he said softly, "and be happy."

He wished himself back to Jacoby Hall and wandered the ruins as a good ghost should. Dawn began to lighten the eastern sky and a cock crew. Rupert stood tall and awaited his fate.

He thought he heard the brazen laugh of Samhain, but all he saw was a light. Not scarlet fire-light but a clear warm gold, as if the summer sun had risen instantly upon him. He felt a welcome ahead. He looked back momentarily on the world, but it now seemed flat and bleak, like a very tawdry stage-set. With a joyous heart he went towards the light.

~~~~

Nan was astonished when Charlie was announced at Gresham Hall. "But I only sent the message to you an hour ago."

"I never received it." He was dusty and weary from a long ride, and he paced the parlor restlessly. He stopped and looked at her. "Rupert?"

Nan nodded.

"What do you want to do?"

Nan took off the ring and held it out to him. "I should never have agreed to marry you, Kingsbury. I’ll wait for true love, or not marry at all."

He smiled with relief as he took it. "I was just using you too, Nan. Will your mother be very angry?"

Nan shook her head. "She'll be upset, but she truly cares for me, and she wouldn't want to see me unhappy. I fear," she said with a smile, "that she'll be cross when you announce your engagement to Phoebe."

He colored and kissed her hands and lips. "You do deserve better. I wonder if Rupert has smoothed the way for me with Phoebe too."

Nan picked up his hat and crop and held them out. "Go and find out, my friend, and bon chance."

~~~~

Charlie again found Phoebe on Twitcher's Hill, but without dogs. Had it really only been a year since he had first proposed to her here?

"Charlie! I didn't expect to see you. Aren’t things starting in Melton?"

"Nothing important." It would seem Phoebe had not received a visit from Rupert.

"Are you on your way there then?"

"No. I've just come from Melton." This conversation was getting nowhere. "I came to see Nan."

"Oh," she said and looked away.

"We’ve decided we wouldn't suit after all."

"Oh," she said, looking at him again. "Why not?"

"Because she still loves Rupert, and I still love you."

She stared at him and said nothing.

Charlie moved closer. "Can you consider me again as a husband, Phoebe? I don't think I let you know, last year, how much you mean to me, so it was my fault that you chose Rupert."

"Oh no, it was my foolishness…" Phoebe covered her mouth.

Charlie gently moved her hand and captured it. "We must be honest. You didn't love him as a bride should."

Phoebe snatched her hand away. "You have no right to accuse me like that! Just because you and Nan have proved fickle in your affections. That blasted nut was true after all."

"That blasted nut was exactly that. Rupert put gunpowder in it."

Phoebe eyed him. "How did you know?"

"It was obvious, the way it shattered." He stared at her. "You mean you knew?"

Phoebe planted her fists on her hips. "I have as many wits as you, Charlie Brewis."

"Then why the devil did you agree to marry him?"

"Because he was clearly desperate. And because my other suitor shrugged his elegant shoulders and strolled away!"

He caught her and pulled her close. "Oh, my darling, did I hurt you as badly as that?"

Phoebe braced her hands against his chest. "What do you think, you wretch? If you knew it was a cheat, why the devil did you give him a clear field?"

He didn't try to hold her closer, but he didn’t let her break free.

"Because he was clearly desperate. All my life I've felt guilty at having everything while Rupert had so little. It seemed justice that he should win the greatest treasure of all."

Phoebe stared up at him. "That's the first time you've said something lover-like that I've been able to believe."

She relaxed, so he could hold her with only one arm, leaving the other hand free to caress her cheek. "My damnable air of boredom. I thought you at least might have known how I hide my deepest feelings... I've been desperately unhappy, Phoebe. Do I have a chance?"

Phoebe didn't know quite what to make of this sudden turn of events. She pulled out of his arms. "What has brought all this on?"

He looked a little wary. "Rupert. He paid me a ghostly visit. No, listen!"

When he'd finished the story, Phoebe shook her head. "It's scarcely believable. Why didn’t he visit me?"

"I think he could only speak to those to whom he needed to confess. You were ahead of the game."

"And Nan?"

"Is happier, I think, for having it explained, though it's a sorry tale."

Phoebe walked off a little way. "So he only wanted me for my money. I had begun to suspect as much."

He came up behind her. "You can at least acquit me of that, I think."

She turned. "You haven't lost all at the tables, milord?"

"Assuredly not." He caught her hands. "I know this is all a shock, but believe me, Phoebe, I love you. I love you more desperately than I would ever have thought possible. At times I thought of that story Rupert told last year, and made bizarre plots to steal you at the altar. I don't want to pressure you, but I will never marry anyone else. If you don't accept me, the Brewis line will die."

She laughed nervously. "And that is not to pressure me?"

He caught her up. "Very well, I do intend to pressure you. I lost you once through nonchalance, and I will not do so again. I intend to woo you, and badger you, and give you not a moment's peace until you're mine."

Phoebe linked her hands behind his neck. "I look forward to it immensely. Why don't you start with a very wooing, badgering kiss?"

He did, and Phoebe knew their wedding would only be delayed by her liking the wooing and badgering a great deal.

And that magic sometimes worked wonders in human affairs.

The End

A note about Samhain’s Night.

Samhain is a Celtic tradition and deity, and it is pronounced Sowain, but I don’t let that stop me from pronouncing it Samhain, as I didn’t know the pronunciation when I first wrote the story.

The feast of Samhain has many pagan and folklore traditions, and has long been linked to Halloween or All Souls’ Night, when the intersection between the mundane world and the spiritual is supposed to be thin. This has led to many traditions and beliefs, from it being a good time to remember the ancestors to it being a time when the dead can invade and harm. There is also the one tradition that says that all who have died in the past year rise from their graves for judgment, and that’s the one I used here.

The superstition about the walnuts and the prediction of a partner is from an old Victorian book of spells I own. No, it’s not Wiccan, merely parlor amusements. The Victorians were very interested in such things.

It was also a time to celebrate light as the nights come earlier and winter lies ahead, so bonfires were often part of the tradition. In Britain this has been moved to November 5th, Guy Fawkes Night.

Other Paranormal Work

I have a strong interest in fantasy and science fiction but because my romance writing quickly became successful I’ve not had time to play much in those areas. However, I enjoy opportunities to bring such elements into my romances.

Here are some other stories and novels that have weird stuff in them. You can find out more about them on my web page. http://www.jobev.com.

I’ve also included an odd little SF story I wrote a while ago, and also an excerpt from my upcoming Georgian romance, A Scandalous Countess.

Enjoy.

The Demon’s Bride.

First published in the collection, Moonlit Lovers. In this Georgian romance a vicar’s daughter becomes entangled with a rakish earl in the midst of rural superstition. As in Samhain’s Night, there’s more truth to the ritual than people think. This is only available at the moment as an e-book.

The Dragon and the Virgin Princess

This was published as part of a collection, Dragon Lovers, and is still only available as an e-story that way. However, I think you’ll love the other four stories.

Mine is a riff on that old story of the virgin sacrificed to the marauding dragon, but again, what was seen as merely a ritual takes a disturbing turn toward reality.

The Raven And The Rose

in Chalice of Roses, four romances woven around Grail mythology. My medieval heroine discovers she has the ancient power to summon the Grail to bring peace to war-torn England. But first she needs a hero, and he’s hard to persuade.

Forbidden Magic

This is a full length regency historical in which the heroine snares a lord by using a magical statue that’s reputed always to demand a price for its gifts. When the Earl of Saxonhhurst turns out to be eccentric and possibly mad Meg believes she’s found the sting in the tail.

The Marrying Maid

in Songs of Love and Death. In this Georgian novella, a young lord seeks his destined bride to gain his magical powers and avert a family curse. He searches the fashionable ladies of England, but finds his bride in very unlikely form. The collection is available in hardcover, paperback, and as an e-book.

The Marrying Maid was an honorable mention in the Year’s Best Science Fiction, edited by Gardner Dozois.

FLOWER POWER

What if aliens come in an unexpected form?

Flig the Bugwort looked at the crowd, her sap sinking down to her roots. She didn't have a good feeling about this place at all.

On the sunny side -- the ruler's crazy plan seemed to have worked thus far. Flig's essence had been transported through space to this planet and into the dominant life-form, and she’d arrived safely in the middle of a crowd. Her foliage and round yellow head was identical to that of the natives. She and Tor should be able to explore without being detected.

On the cloudy side, there was something very wrong with the crowd. No one was moving. No one was communicating. Were they infested with some terrible pest? They looked healthy enough.

Flig extended a leaf and brush it against that of a neighbor. Not so much as a twitch.

Maggot it. She'd predicted there would be social nuances they hadn't been able to pick up through space. And where, for rot's sake, was the gardocyne Tordemayne? They were supposed to form together, but Tor couldn't be any of these witless wonders.

Flig waggled herself so Tor would be able to see her, but none of the plants reacted. Rot it. She'd have to find her. Gardocynes lived to grow huge, so they naturally avoided all danger. Tor was probably standing as still as all the others, hoping not to be seen.

Fungus head.

Flig was glad that home base couldn't read thoughts.

She explored the abilities of this strange body. She could move the stem, leaves, and head, but she couldn't make anything else work. This planet was awash with green energy but didn't seem to be doing anything with it. She wove it into a local communication system. She could communicate with Tor by bouncing off home, but she needed something faster than that.

She wiggled the communication leaf in a questing circle. "Hey Tor! Shake a petal."

Nothing happened. Then: "Don't be disgusting," said a thick, slow voice. The Gardocyne obviously was bouncing communication off Verdamonde.

Flig reminded herself that no one ever got anywhere by harassing a gardocyne. They just hunkered deeper in the earth for a year or two.

"Come on, Tor. There must be hundreds of us here. Do something to show me where you are. Do anything and I'll spot you among these zombies."

Flig eased out of the ground a bit and stretched up tall. "Show yourself, Tor!"

About ten plants over, a yellow top moved slightly in a way that might be more than a breeze-blow. Flig suppressed a sigh. Sending a gardocyne on this adventure was insane -- except that the ruler has presented it as an honor, and would be happy to get rid of a popular rival.

If they wanted to thwart the ruler's plan, they didn't have much time. They needed to be out of here before the sun moved and cut off the essential light because the scientists hadn't been sure what would happen then.

If the gardocyne couldn't come to the bugwort, then the bugwort would have to go to the gardocyne. Flig eased her roots out of the ground -- and practically fell on her stamens!

How the drought did these plants get around? Only the central root was capable of bearing her weight and that was inflexible. Fretting about lost time and the expenditure of energy, Flig made some more adjustments so she could use the lower bifurcation for a kind of shuffle. Perhaps these creatures hopped, but with all the rest of them so still, she wasn't going to bounce up and down. All this stillness might be a religious ceremony. She might get crushed for sacrilege.

With the ungainly shuffle, she worked her way through the indifferent crowd, murmuring polite apologies, though she was pretty sure by now that they were dealing with an extreme communication problem. The ruler was hoping for diplomacy and trade treaties that would bring in essential minerals. If they couldn't communicated, however, the mission would be a failure.

Bugslime! She’d only brushed against the plant, but bits began to fall. White bits, not yellow.

She looked up. The plant's whole top was white and strangely filmy. Some kind of mold?

"Ugh." She began to frantically brush the stuff off -- then stopped, horrified. Each bit of white fluff held a seed. What in the name of the sun was the etiquette for a situation like this?

Someone else's seeds.

On her leaves.

"Flig," said Tor. "Are you coming? This place is creepy."

"Yes, in a moment."

Home base was recording all this. She'd never live it down. If there had been any chance of diplomacy she'd probably ruined it.

She tried to detect how the seeding plant was reacting.

No more than any of the other plants.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of seeds up there. She'd never seen so many on one plant. Talk about excess! With so many, however, perhaps the parent was glad to see some gone. It must be a terrible job, caring for so many seedlings. Perhaps everyone was still and quiet from exhaustion.

Flig felt terrible, though. Very carefully, she placed the fluffy seeds back among their siblings.

Not a word of anger or thanks. Creepy. Tor was right. Flig wanted to get their reconnoitering done and get out of here. She scuttled over to the gardocyne and adjusted one of Tor's leaves so they could communicate directly. "What do you make of this?" Flig asked.

"It's horrible. I'm so small!"

"You're the same size as everyone else."

"That's what I mean." Then Tor suddenly jerked. "Flig! There's something on me!"

"Where? Oh, yum." Flig curled a leaf over the black insect and crushed it.

"Don't eat it!" yelped Tor.

"Rot." Sight of such a juicy bit had made her forget the dangers. Food here might not suit them, though it was impossible not to take some in through roots and leaves. It was too late, though. The rich juices were flowing in through her pores. After a moment, she said, "It's all right, I think. Very like a prime root-cutter. Want some?"

"What's the point? This stupid body wouldn't grow to a decent size if I ate every root-cutter on this planet. Roots and leaves will have to do."

"Well, I wouldn't depend on roots," said Flig bracingly. "By the time you've fixed them up for walking they won't be much good for sucking up food any more. I don't know how these plants manage. Come on. Let's get on with our mission. Sooner done, sooner back to our real selves at home."

That was enough to get the gardocyne to ease her roots out of the ground. Flig spent the time snapping up passing insects so that home base could record their nutritional value, and watching the crowd for hints. They did nothing but soak up the sun.

At least none of the insects seemed particularly dangerous, but Flig did some modifications so she could defend herself and Tor. She manipulated some of the minerals in the earth into a little slugpluggers. She tried it on an ant and the insect exploded into bits.

Not bad. Even without regular weapons they might come out of this intact.

Thus far, in fact, the adventure had been so safe it was boring, but she was sure that couldn't last.

"This is hard."

Flig looked down. Tor seemed to have got a plant with a larger bifurcation but she was still struggling with the changes.

"Just pull free. We've got to get out of the crowd to see what's really here. There could be all kind of monsters. Leaf rollers as big as your head!"

Tor went as still as all the rest. "Why can't we stay here until they suck us back?"

Flig bent his head right against Tor's so that the words wouldn't be sent back to Verdamonde. "Because we're brave explorers, moss-brain. Everyone's watching, and what we do will decide our fates. Do you want to go back to your favorite rooting grounds, your offshoots and your food, or do you want to start from scratch again out in the scrub?"

"They couldn't do that!"

Flig pushed her petals hard against Tor's. "You haven't figured this out, have you? We're supposed to fail. We're supposed to look stupid. Sure the technique works but we'll get no credit for that. We have to be brave. We have to be bold. We have to make contact, or at least discover something useful, or when we get back we'll be nothing but bug-fodder."

Too late Flig realized this wasn't the way to inspire a gardocyne. Any bugwort would be checking weapons and quivering to be off after a speech like that, but a gardocyne came from a long seedline of safely growing to massive dimensions.

"I can't be brave," Tor said. "I might as well simply stay here and rot." She began to sink her roots back into the earth.

Flig worked on a cheerful tone. "Of course not. No one would expect it. That's why I'm here, remember. To protect you. But you have to come along with me, Tor, for the look of things."

She got a leaf under one of Tor's and tried pushing up. "I haven't seen anything here to trouble us and the scientists seem to have got it right. We look like one of the most common life-forms, and there's so many of them there can't be any serious predators. It's going to be easy. In fact, our greatest problem here is going to be making it look good back home."

Tor muttered something, but she wriggled back out of the earth. "Lead on then. Unless," she said nervously, "you think the danger will come from behind."

"There is no danger, Tor. Think about it. Would all these others be just standing soaking up the sun if there was a problem?"

"I suppose not."

Tor made no more complaint as they edged through the silent plants. Soaking up the sun. That's what they were doing. But why? And for how long?

Flig stopped being polite since no one paid any attention. Gardocynes were exquisitely polite, however, so Tor continued to apologize every time she brushed leaves. Flig plotted a course that avoided the seeding ones. Tor would die of embarrassment.

Then the crowd suddenly ended. Flig stopped to assess. A strip of barren earth stretched between them and another mass of plants which looked identical to the one they were a part of.

Even Tor was shocked enough to come forward to the edge of the terrible bare, grey earth. "What could have caused that? I'm not walking on that. My roots would rot."

"Don't worry. We'll walk along this edge and go around it."

Flig too was almost shuddering at the sight. Earth incapable of supporting life. What had happened? Some totally new kind of fungus? Selective drought? Some monstrous pest eating a path through here?

Then the earth began to shake.

"Flig!" wailed Tor, and Flig grabbed her and dragged her back among the crowd. She looked to either side but saw no sign of fear. That didn't reassure her at all. Perhaps these plants were all slaves, subject to some terrible mind control.

Enormous objects come crashing along the barren land. They were stubby roots of some enormous plant that rose up to the sun. Or stubby feet of a terrible bug.

"It's not fair," moaned Tor. "I want to be big too."

The thing stopped.

"Shut up," Flig whispered.

A strange pinkish leaf came down, down, toward Tor. Flig raised her gun, hating to draw the thing's attention, but ready to die to defend.

The thing brushed past Tor and grabbed one of the nearby crowd.  Seconds later tattered bits of the yellow head drifted onto the blasted earth and the thing stamped on its way.

Both Flig and Tor looked around, expecting some reaction now. Rage. Grief. Some care for the naked, bleeding stem.

But the crowd kept on soaking up the sun.

"No predators," shouted Tor, quivering with shock. "No predators! What was that then? A thing as big as me back home and here I am a midget. It's not fair. We should have come as something big like that-"

"Shut up," said Flig and hobbled over to the ravaged plant. There was little fluid loss, but it couldn't survive without a head. Ripped right off. She looked again at the plants all around.

"Do you know what," she said slowly. "I don't think these things are..." She didn't know how to express the strange notion that had come into her brain.

"Are what?"

"Like us."

"Of course they're not like us. This is another planet. Or do I have to remind you of that? We've taken their shapes, that's all, but they have no dignity, no soul. They're horrible, stupid, and small."

"I mean they are really not like us." Flig went over to another plant. It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she brutally wrapped a leaf around its stem and squeezed. Sticky sap oozed, the smell making her feel sick, and slowly the head began to droop.

"Flig. Are you mad!" screamed Tor, stumbling over. "Stop it. Stop it. Oh, I am sorry," she said to the plant, trying to push the head back up. "We will make reparation. I don't know what but we will..."

Flig let go. "Don't waste the effort, Tor. They don't have a brain."

"No brain? How could they live?"

"Just suck up fluid, take in light, make seeds..."

"What's the point of that?"

"Not much. Verdamonde's not going to get very far with trade treaties, is it?"

Tor looked at the wounded plant. "They have to have a brain. I tell you what, they've been enslaved! What are we going to do about it?"

Gardocynes were not brave, but they had a strong sense of moral duty, especially as others had to carry out their crusades. Flig hoped that the noble declaration was playing well back home, since this exploration was not going to achieve its original aim. She looked for ways to increase their chances of honorable return.

"We must ask for instructions from our great ruler," she said in an inspiring tone. "Surely Verdamonde must help these poor creatures achieve their true destiny!"

She counted the beats necessary for their message to cut through space, and for the response to land on them.

"O brave Flig and mighty Tor," boomed the ruler's voice. "Our sap gushes with sympathy for these unfortunate creatures. Do not fear that we will abandon them or you. Even now we are assembling a force to come to aid you in this noble battle. Volunteers flock to the transmitters outraged by the cruelty you have revealed. You, Gardocyne Tordemayne, and you, Flig the Bugwort, are appointed leaders of this rescue mission. The bravest and the biggest. Who better could there be? Soon the inhabitants of that oppressed planet will be free to live as plants should, free to move, free to defend themselves, free to shape their own destinies..."

Flig looked at Tor to see how she was taking this but these atrocities seemed to have stirred her beyond her innate caution.

"But they must be big, great ruler," Tor declared, head high. "The pink predators are huge, as big as a gardocyne, faster moving, and cruel as a gardocyne could never be. Make them ten times our size, and broad to match."

"Twenty times," Flig interrupted, "and with longer bifurcations on the roots, great ruler, so we can move more speedily. You must change us, too, or we could never command."

"It is all being planned as you say, our noble heroes."

"And well armed," Flig said while the going was good. "The minerals here can be shaped into weapons. Send us enough essence to make bugzappers of suitably enormous size."

"Enormous," moaned Tor in delight. "But I don't think I can use a weapon, Flig."

"Carry one for show."

Tor's leaves were drooping. "Perhaps there's only one of those things."

Flig almost said, "I hope not," but remembered and said, "Perhaps. But these creatures will need our protection for a long time to come."

A new world.

Once they'd rid this place of the huge oppressors, perhaps there would be no need of trade. Flig still thought these plants weren't like them. Perhaps they had been once, but now.... She didn't think they could ever look after themselves.

They would need a ruler....

A strange feeling swept over her, and then like a pop! The transformation came through and she was looking down on a mass of mindless yellow heads, with a scattering of the white seeders among them. She looked out over greenery and trees, all, it would seem, beaten down to rock-like stupidity. Despite their oppression, much of the growth was lush, indicating rich soil, ample sun, and reliable water.

A world for the taking. A world wasted on this floppy-heads.

Her long bifurcated roots worked properly now, able to carry her at speed, and a substantial bugzapper formed along one leaf. All around her Verdamondians appeared, laughing at their strange new form, but flourishing their weapons, ready to destroy the tyrants.

And then down the strip of blasted earth, Flig saw one of the monsters coming.

Horrible. Horrible. Not a scrap of green to it. A pest. Definitely a pest, with four pink limbs and a big round head.

At sight of her, a mouth opened and a screech came out.

Not so brave now, was it?

"Attack!" cried Flig, conqueror of the new world.

I told you it was odd, didn’t I?

Stories like this come when I let my muse out to play.

Most of the time she’s happily spinning out stories of love and triumph set in England’s past, with no really weird elements.

An excerpt from A Scandalous Countess

Penguin-NAL,  February 2011 in print and e-book.

(Lord Dracy, a scarred ex-naval officer, has just won a race between his mare Cartagena and the Earl of Hernescroft’s Fancy Free. As winner, he gets both horses, but he wants one of the earl’s stallions instead.)

“Come in, Dracy, come in,” said the earl. “Claret, brandy, port?”

“Claret, thank you,” Dracy said, noting that the footman had left and the earl was serving the wine. So, a private discussion.

He’d studied all available information about the Earl of Hernescroft. Though portly and ruddy faced, he was in excellent health. His heir, Viscount Pranksworth, was thirty-two years old and already father of two sons, so the line seemed safe. If that branch failed, the earl had three other sons, one in the army, one in the navy, and one a Town idler.

There were also two daughters, both well married.

Or in one case, widowed, Dracy remembered, and stained by scandal. An image of a laughing face and fiery hair shot through his mind like a shooting star. He blanked it out. This was no time to be distracted by a highborn doxy.

Dracy took the crystal glass and raised it. “To fine horses and fine races, my lord.”

The earl raised his glass and repeated the toast. “Have a seat, Dracy. I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”

Very promising. Dracy sat in one upholstered chair and the earl took the other.

“I play, I pay,” Hernescroft said, “but there are methods of payment. Would you consider accepting a prize of equal value?”

Dracy took another sip of wine so as not to snatch the prize too quickly. “I would be churlish not to consider it, sir. Another horse, you mean?”

“Another horse?” Hernescroft’s pouchy eyes narrowed.

Not another horse?

“What else, to be of equal value?”

“I don’t have another mare to compare with Fancy Free, and I’d not offer less.”

“So you mean a stallion?” Dracy did his best to pretend surprise. “I recollect that you do have two of quality.”

His acting ability wasn’t up to the job.

“Damn me! Was that your game? Gosling-go, I assume.” The earl pulled a face. “Won’t play, Dracy. Took exception to something a few days back and tried to kick down his stall. Broke his hock. Had to be shot.”

“Dead,” Dracy said, trying to conceal the blow. He should have kept himself better informed, but even a few days ago the die had been cast. “Most unfortunate, my lord. I heard nothing of it.”

“I’d moved him to Lambourne to cover some mares there. Perhaps he objected to the relocation. I only heard the news myself yesterday.”

Dracy drank more wine, replotting his course. “Then I regret I’ll have to sell Fancy Free in order to purchase a stallion of quality.”

“Put her up for auction? Not the way to treat such a horse.”

“I agree, but I’ve less need of a fine mare than I have of a fine stallion. If you were to pay her value . . .”

The earl pinched his heavy lower lip. “Cash is damned hard to come by these days, Dracy. You must know that. The war, the prices. Things are bad all around.” He pushed out of his chair and went to the decanter. “One of my younger sons has proven expensive.”

He waved the bottle at Dracy, but he declined, wondering where this was leading.

The earl sat down again. “I could sell some unentailed land, but it’s a wicked thing to sell land. Wicked. A betrayal of our ancestors who gathered it.”

“I agree, sir,” Dracy said, thinking of the unentailed land Ceddie had sold, but also trying to anticipate what was coming.

Lieutenant Walter Perriam, RN’s gambling debts were no surprise, nor was the earl’s opinion about the sacred trust of land. Both had been part of his calculations. Hernescroft was steering a careful course of his own, however, and Dracy didn’t like the fact that he had no idea what it was.

“I have another exchange to propose.”

“Yes, sir?”

Hernescroft drank. Delaying?

“A different kind of filly, but worth more than Fancy Free. Much more.”

Dracy chose to be merely attentive.

“My daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Her portion’s twelve thousand. You could buy a herd of stallions for that. You’ll have to sign settlements for a widow’s jointure of two thousand a year and give her generous pin money, but the twelve thousand will be yours, cash in hand, upon your wedding day. It’s a more than fair exchange.”

“It is indeed,” Dracy said, feeling as if he’d been navigating a tricky shore and been ambushed by a dense fog.

“I’m speaking of my youngest girl, Lady Maybury. A widow, but ripe to marry again.”

Titian hair.

Laughing, minxish beauty.

Wicked, wanton doxy.

Attached to that lady the word “ripe” was alarming, and this offer was astounding. He was no match for an earl’s well-dowried daughter.

“You’ll have heard of her,” the earl prompted.

“She was pointed out to me at the race.”

“Devil take the chit!” the earl exploded. “Dressed in breeches to boot. I’ll give Pranksworth a piece of my mind for bringing her, but he’ll say she’d have come anyway. Headstrong, headstrong. But,” he added quickly, “not leather mouthed and no true vice in her.”

The fog had parted a little, but only to reveal jagged rocks.

“Not an attractive package,” Dracy said, remembering his pity of the man who had to tame her.

Surprisingly, the earl laughed. “Is she not? Then why are half the men in England drooling after her? That’s my problem, Dracy. She plans to marry again. Only natural at twenty.”

“Twenty!” Dracy exclaimed. He’d imagined such a sinful jade to be much older.

“Married her off at sixteen. Maybury was well known to us and had just come into his earldom. He was only nineteen, but his mother and guardians were keen to see him wedlocked before he reached his majority and married a doxy.”

Dracy kept the obvious comment to himself.

“Couldn’t manage her, of course. Encouraged her in folly, if the truth is told. The fool liked her causing talk. Lady May, the beau monde dubbed her, but we thought she’d settle once she had children. That didn’t happen, and then there was the Vance affair.”

“Vance?”

“Sir Charnley Vance,” the earl said. “The one who killed Maybury in a duel. You’ll have heard of that?”

“Only a snippet, at the race.” Dracy had the distinct impression that Hernescroft wished he’d not mentioned it.

“Ah, well, overseas when it happened, I suppose. Plaguey business all around.”

“Was this Vance her lover, my lord? I wouldn’t normally ask such a question, but as the lady is being proposed to me as wife . . .”

“She swears not, and I’d say that for all her faults, she’s truthful. Never sought to hide any other sins,” Hernescroft added with a scowl.

“Then why would her husband call this Vance out?”

“Devil alone knows. A greater piece of folly I’ve never seen. The story was Maybury had clashed wheels with a wagon during some madcap race. Vance taunted him and it exploded into a challenge. Men have met for less, but Maybury was an easygoing fellow, so people talked. Gossip always chooses the dirty path, and word spread that they fought over my daughter. Then that Vance was her lover. Some of the men who were present at the argument claimed her name came into it, but they all admitted to being deep in drink.”

“I appreciate your frankness, my lord. Permit me to be equally frank in return. Your daughter’s portion would be useful to me, and in monetary terms it’s many times the value of Fancy Free. But when I choose a wife I’ll choose one likely to give me tranquil days and make me a comfortable home.” He suddenly thought of something else. “She’s borne no children?”

“None.”

“How long was she married?”

“Three and a half years.”

“I would also want a wife who could fill a nursery. My apologies, but Lady Maybury fails to meet my requirements in any way.”

“Does she indeed?” Hernescroft took something out of his pocket to pass over.

It was a miniature, and for a moment, it stopped Dracy’s heart.

By God.

Here was the woman he’d glimpsed at a distance, but now she looked out at him with a mischievous invitation. Sparkling sea green eyes, full smiling lips, a flawless complexion, and that abundance of Titian red hair, in this case threaded carelessly with pearls.

True beauties were rare, but if the picture was honest, the wicked Countess of Maybury was one. His visceral reaction was a warning shot across the bow. A sensible man would turn and run, but he’d never been sensible in that way.

He forced his eyes away and looked at the earl. “Why would this woman want to marry me?”

“She’ll do as she’s told.”

Dracy doubted that.

“You don’t seem shy of a gamble, Dracy. No saying who was to blame for the empty nursery.”

“A tranquil wife and comfortable home?”

Hernescroft chuckled. “Are you sure you want that? You’ve lived an eventful life and might not take to being becalmed.”

He was impressed with the earl’s insight. Dracy had cursed the condition of his new estate and the work it involved, but did he really aspire to live as placidly as Knowlton? Constant storms were unpleasant, but constant calm could drive men mad.

“What of the scandal? Will she be accepted back in society?”

“She’s still my daughter, and nothing was proved against her. On our advice, she’s spent her mourning year here, living quietly in seclusion, letting it all die down. She still has many friends and admirers. At least two of the men here today are drawn as much by the hope of seeing her as by the race. She’ll probably soon be the darling of Town again, and there’s the rub.” The earl took another mouthful of wine and almost chewed it. “I’ll have her tied to a solid, decent husband before she picks a blackguard.”

“You know I’m solid and decent?”

“I’ve made inquiries.”

Ah. The fog had almost cleared, but the jagged shore still threatened, and now an enemy warship had appeared.

Hernescroft had been playing as deep a game over the race as he. Had he planned to lose, even arranged to lose?

No, that would be against the earl’s nature in all respects, but he could have seen a way where he would win, whatever the result. Win the race and gain Carta. Lose, and rid himself of a troublesome daughter while still keeping Fancy Free.

Tempting to call his bluff and take Fancy Free anyway.

Foolish, though. In strictly practical terms, twelve thousand pounds would be a gift of the gods. It would buy a prize stallion and a few good mares as well as dealing with most of the necessary repairs.

A widow’s jointure of two thousand a year was ridiculously high for an estate such as his, but he could hope Dracy would be in fine state when that came due many decades hence. The generous pin money would have to be cut and any extravagance curtailed, but as he and his wife would be living quietly in the country, that shouldn’t be a hardship for her.

She wouldn’t like it, though, and a bitter wife was a hard burden.

Was he even considering this?

Yes.

It was a gamble, indeed it was, and one that would affect his whole life, but the sea was a chancier wench than any woman, and he had a way with women, even now.

He looked again at the miniature.

A siren. No, they’d been ugly and drawn sailors to their doom by song. Circe had been the beautiful enchantress encountered by Odysseus, but she’d turned his men into swine.

This one had turned a husband into a corpse.

“You can’t be expected to make your decision without a meeting,” the earl said, breaking the enchantment. “We’ll be dining soon, and she’ll be present. Join us. Only an informal meal for the men here for the race and those wives who accompanied them. You’ll know the men from racing circles. . . .”

Dracy realized he was still staring at the miniature. He returned it.

“Keep it for now if you wish,” Hernescroft said.

“No, thank you.”

The earl laughed. “Wise man. But you’re the type she needs. A man of iron, used to command.”

“Keelhauling and the cat-o’-nine-tails?”

The earl laughed. “No, no, but a switch now and then might do her good. Kept her in line as a girl. Come along, then, come along, and judge for yourself.”

A part of Dracy wanted to walk away from this treacherous bargain while he still had his wits, but he couldn’t resist an encounter. After all, he was in no danger. The scandalous Lady Maybury would have no interest in an impoverished scarred sailor, and once the earl accepted that, he’d find a way to pay the money.

End of excerpt

There’s a complete list of works on the next page.

Jo Beverley’s fiction

REGENCY

THE ROGUE’S WORLD

An Arranged Marriage

An Unwilling Bride

Christmas Angel

Forbidden

Dangerous Joy

The Dragon’s Bride

The Devil’s Heiress

The Demon’s Mistress (novella)

Hazard

Skylark

Lady Beware

To Rescue a Rogue

The Rogue’s Return

OTHER

Forbidden Magic

Lovers and Ladies (Omnibus Edition)

Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed

The Stanforth Secrets

The Stolen Bride

Emily and the Dark Angel

THE MALLOREN WORLD –GEORGIAN

A Scandalous Countess

An Unlikely Countess

The Secret Duke

The Secret Wedding

A Lady’s Secret

A Most Unsuitable Man

Winter Fire

Devilish

Secrets of the Night

Something Wicked

Tempting Fortune

My Lady Notorious

MEDIEVAL ROMANCES

Lord of Midnight

Dark Champion

Lord of My Heart

NOVELLAS

“The Raven and the Rose” in

Chalice of Roses

“The Dragon and the Virgin Princess” in

Dragon Lovers

“The Trouble with Heroes” in

Irresistible Forces

“The Demon’s Bride” (Georgian, e-book special)

“The Demon’s Mistress” (Regency – e-book special)

A Brief Bio.

I was born and raised in England and moved to Canada in the mid-seventies. Now my husband and I have moved back home. All the better for research, as my fiction is nearly all set in England.

I’ve been writing historical romance, on and off, since I was a teenager, but I only settled to it seriously in the early ‘80s. My first book was published in 1988. Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed  is a classic Regency romance, available again in print and e-book, as are the five others that followed. Then I expanded into the longer, more complex, and spicier historical romance.

An Unlikely Countess, published in March 2011, was my 35th novel, and like all my recent ones, ranked high on the New York Times Bestseller list. A Scandalous Countess will be out in February 2011.

I write what I want to write, with my focus on bringing pleasure to my readers. Reading for pure pleasure is glorious, and I try to do my bit, and always leave my readers with a smile.

Publisher’s Weekly declared me “Arguably today’s most skillful writer of intelligent historical romance,” and Booklist declared my work, “Sublime!”

To find out more, please visit my web site.  You can sign up there for my occasional newsletter. I have an author page on Facebook.