Hattie and Charlotte huddled together behind the massive oak desk, holding onto each other. As usual, the sisters wore elaborate examples of the gowns of the time. Charlotte’s was the more fashionable of the two, made up of yards of shimmering dark blue muslin and sporting a small bustle, a tiny waist almost certainly created by a tightly laced corset, and a rather revealing bustline. Hattie, who believed more in comfort and in not damaging her internal organs, wore a simple shirtwaist-style teal bodice with a high, lacy neck, tucked into a straight black skirt that fell to her ankles. Both women’s expressions were wary, their materializations weaker than normal.
Two other ghosts flew around the room at dizzying speed, engaging in fisticuffs. One landed a punch, the other exploding in a puff of particles. The air across the room shimmered as he reappeared, and they circled each other once again. At ceiling height.
Malachi took one look and fled to the back of the house.
Jordan recognized one of the ghosts as Frank Lewis, Hattie’s handsome, brawny lover from the 1890s, whom Jordan had posthumously cleared of any involvement in Hattie’s murder. The other ghost, however, Jordan had never seen before.
For a brief moment, she considered quietly backing out and returning to the pub. Someone would surely offer her and Malachi a bed for the night. Or there was always the porch swing. Maybe the ghosts would be gone by morning. Then again, her house might be rubble by morning.
“Oh!” Hattie spied her. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she breathed, wringing her hands. “I haven’t been able to make them stop.”
“Do something!” Charlotte cried, fading in and out spastically.
“Hey!” Jordan tried to get the men’s attention, but they ignored her.
A lamp bit the dust as Frank exploded, then rematerialized on top of the leaded glass shade, shattering it.
Jordan put two fingers to her mouth and whistled loud enough to raise the dead.
The ghost she didn’t recognize halted in a hover not far from her, clapping his hands over his ears. “Good Christ, woman! Cease that infernal racket! Have you no sense of decorum?”
She scowled. “Who the hell are you?”
Frank lingered not far away, his expression still murderous. Jordan shot him a stern look, just in case he was considering landing another punch.
The other ghost dropped to floor level, straightening his cravat and black swallowtail coat. “Must you swear like a sailor as well?”
“ ‘Hell’ is perfectly acceptable as part of modern-day speech,” Jordan retorted. “Who are you?”
He executed a mocking bow from the waist. “Michael Seavey, at your service.”
She gaped. “The shanghaier?”
“Please, madam.” He looked offended. “I merely supplied a much-needed commodity.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. This was bad. Having ghosts around who had been hardened criminals in their former lives was very bad. Light-headed, she reached out to brace a hand against a bookshelf.
Seavey withdrew a cigar from an inside breast pocket. He ran it under his nose, sniffing appreciatively before preparing to light it.
“This is a no-smoking establishment,” she said faintly. When he looked confused, she clarified. “I don’t allow anyone to smoke in my house.”
“Then we shouldn’t have a problem,” he replied smoothly, holding the flame to the tip of the cigar and drawing to create an even burn. He eyed the tip of the cigar critically, seemingly satisfied. “For unless I’m mistaken, this house belongs to Hattie.”
“Michael …” Hattie began hesitantly, sending Jordan an apologetic glance.
“You are, in fact, quite mistaken,” Jordan said, recovering enough to walk over and set the wing-back chair upright. “I bought the house last month.”
“Nonsense.” Seavey ignored her request. “You may currently have squatter’s rights, but the house remains Hattie’s.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jordan shoved an armload of books onto a shelf, then turned to face him, waving at the cloud of smoke. “Put that out, dammit.”
“You’re the only human who can see and smell the smoke,” he said, amused. “Except, interestingly, for the odd interloper in my hotel suite. If I blow smoke right in their faces, they seem to get a whiff.”
“You have your own place here in town?”
He inclined his head. “I maintain a suite of rooms at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, of course.”
“Then you could go back there, right?”
“You’re being uncommonly rude,” Charlotte admonished Jordan.
“Now, Charlotte,” Hattie reproved. “I think Jordan is taking all this quite well.”
“That’s only because after the day I’ve had, nothing could faze me,” Jordan muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Seavey blew smoke in Jordan’s face, and she waved her hands more frantically. “Dammit! You’re putting me at risk for secondhand smoke.”
He looked exasperated. “You humans persist in talking in riddles. What the devil is ‘secondhand smoke’?”
“Your smoking can cause cancer in the other people in the room. Now please, do as I say, or I’ll take that cigar away from you and dispose of it myself.” It was an empty threat—she doubted she could put out a spectral cigar.
“Michael,” Hattie said quietly. “If you would be so kind …”
Seavey shrugged, giving Hattie a surprisingly tender look. “Very well, my dear.” He made a production of disposing of the cigar in an ashtray.
Jordan folded her arms. “Okay. Now would someone please tell me what is going on here?”
“It’s quite simple, really.” Seavey flicked ash from his sleeve. “I’ve come to ask for Hattie’s hand in marriage. And this cretin”—he gestured in Frank’s direction—“seems to think he has a prior claim.”
“Oh, dear,” Hattie murmured.
“How romantic,” Charlotte sighed, clasping both hands over her heart.
Chapter 5
I may not deserve Hattie, but I will never stand for her belonging to the likes of you,” Frank growled to Seavey.
“At least I avenged her death, Lewis,” Seavey replied calmly.
“I was hanged, man! I had no choice in the matter.”
“How thrilling,” Charlotte gushed, “to have two such charming suitors fighting over you.”
Jordan held back a snort. Only someone so young could hold such an unrealistic view. Then again, what constituted “realistic” when one was standing in a room with four ghosts, contemplating the marriage of two of them?
She had to admit, if she were forced to choose between the two men, she would find it a tough call. Rawboned and dressed like a nineteenth-century dockworker, Frank Lewis was nevertheless handsome, highly educated, and ethical, though at times admittedly moody, bordering on downright surly. But Michael Seavey embodied the very essence of a stylishly attired, charming sociopath, not unlike her deceased husband and just the type of man she found irresistible.
In a terrifyingly, psychologically unhealthy sort of way.
“You’re so lucky!” Charlotte told Hattie.
Hattie looked pained.
“Are ghosts even allowed to marry?” Jordan asked the room at large. She was ignored.
She needed to check into a hotel. No, she needed to quietly slip out of town. She’d take Malachi, of course—she couldn’t leave him behind. But really, a new town sounded like just the ticket. Her friend Carol would probably agree to prescribe a nice sedative to help her deal with her grief over losing Longren House …