The Haunted Miss Hampshire

By Kasey Michaels

A Kasey Michaels Classic Alphabet Regency

You've heard about them, "those perfect little books" USA TODAY and NEW YORK TIMES bestselling author Kasey Michaels penned in the 1980s and early 1990s, known to her many fans as her "Alphabet Regencies." These are classic Regencies, not Regency historicals, and they center on the foibles of the day, the eccentrics that populated the drawing rooms (and there were many of these silly people, especially when Kasey is the one telling their stories). The love scenes fade to black with the reader encouraged to use her or his imagination to fill in the blanks — oh come on, you know how to do that, right! Classic, traditional Regencies are sophisticated, lighthearted character studies if you will, and a fine introduction to the Regency Era.

They're also a lot of fun.

Being Kasey, she didn't start with the letter A, and then move on to B, C, etc. No, she started with B…and then danced up and down the alphabet, in 1992 landing on H, for THE HAUNTED MISS HAMPSHIRE. Why? Because nobody told her she couldn't, that's why. That's the beauty of being a writer — when it hits you, it hits you, and you run with it.

Miss Cassandra Hampshire is yet another poverty-stricken young lady of quality, but her luck is about to turn, for her distant relative, Lucinda Benedict, has willed her a small estate rather incongruously known as Wormhill. But the gift comes with a catch. Cassandra only inherits the estate if she and Philip Rayburn, Earl of Hawkedon, can share the residence for the space of two months without killing each other.

You see, Lucinda Benedict was a romantic, and she believed that putting these two fine people in each other's company would prove to be a fine bit of matchmaking. The only problem (other than these two very matchable people killing each other) is that Lucinda didn't realize that she would be an earthbound ghost until the marriage took place.

The widow Benedict, known to readers of THE TENACIOUS MISS TAMERLANE and THE PLAYFUL LADY PENELOPE as a dotty dear who speaks only in quotes, has gone to her reward … except that she hasn't. She's still residing at Wormhill, with only True Believers able to see her … and Philip is far from a True Believer…

Thanks to the wonders of technology, Aunt Lucinda is back for a third and last time, along with Cassandra and Philip, and all the other eccentric characters that make up Kasey's delightful ghost story, THE HAUNTED MISS HAMPSHIRE, of which Affaire de Coeur said at the time of the original publication: "One of the most delightful Regencies to hit the bookshelves in a long time … witty, slightly wacky, and totally charming."

Be sure to search out THE TENACIOUS MISS TAMERLANE and THE PLAYFUL LADY PENELOPE, and more of Kasey's Alphabet Regencies, soon available in e-book form.

After all, everyone needs a good laugh now and then, right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kasey Michaels
• Release date: May 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452431192

Kasey Michaels

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than one hundred books. She has earned four starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has won an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award and several other commendations for her contemporary and historical novels. Kasey resides with her family in Pennsylvania. Readers may contact Kasey via her website at www.KaseyMichaels.com and find her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorKaseyMichaels.

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Reviews for Kasey Michaels ...

Ms. Michaels' eye for the ridiculous is without peer in this very demanding genre.

— Romantic Times

Kasey Michaels never fails to entertain! She has an amazing talent for creating realistic and memorable characters.

— Literary Times

A writing style, voice, and sense of humor perfectly suited to the era and genre.

— Publishers Weekly

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The Haunted Miss Hampshire

A Regency Novel by

Kasey Michaels

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Kathryn A. Seidick

Originally published 1992.

www.KaseyMichaels.com

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Prologue

Dawn tiptoed into the quiet drawing room on tentative kitten's feet, picking its way carefully through slight chinks in the faded velvet draperies where they had been pulled together against the night. At first there could be seen nothing more than a slight graying of the previously dark room, a faint outline of the furnishings.

The light increased as the sun rose above the horizon, bringing with it a better, and therefore slightly depressing, vision of the mismatched contents that decorated the main room at Wormhill, a smallish country estate located just outside Buxton.

Even though it was the first of April, a chill could be felt in the air. But the fire in the grate had been allowed to go out, and wouldn't be relit until Pansy Farnley, the butler's meek wife, rose from her cot, checked beneath it for demons, fed her demanding husband his breakfast of fresh hens' eggs and two fist-size chunks of sausage, and stepped outside the kitchen door to make the sign against the evil eye three times in quick succession while facing directly north, as Farnley had taught her, therefore insuring safety from calamity for another twenty-four hours.

Thin fingers of sunlight slid farther into the drawing room, slipping across the faded Aubusson carpets, creeping silently past elephant foot tables, faded striped armchairs, and a pair of slightly frayed Chinese brocade couches that faced each other across a massive low square table, which had taken its toll on several generations of gentlemanly shins as they made rude contact with its sharp corners.

The sunlight continued its journey as the mantel clock ticked out the minutes to nine o'clock, twisting its way toward two dark shapes in the very center of the large room, two large wooden chairs that seemed to have been placed in deliberate prominence, even though they were of such an ugliness that, by comparison, the rest of the furnishings could have been fashioned by master craftsmen.

A single, slender fingertip of sunlight dared to reach out and touch the back leg of the closest chair, then slowly crept up its length to the top. Neither chair benefited from this illumination.

The first, the one now striped with splayed fingers of sunlight, was armless, its back composed of an intricately carved, grinning griffin's head, neck, and spread wings atop a crosspiece of wood over which a length of fringed fabric had been draped, tossed over to the back, and tacked down. From beneath the seat cushion, a fringed length of the fabric dangled between the front legs, which were carved to resemble those of dogs and topped by shaggy, maned canine heads, one on either side, connected by a reeded rail.

The companion chair was similarly armless and draped in the same fabric, but it gloried in its own unique ugliness. Instead of griffins, it had camels' heads as back supports, and camels' legs as back legs, while its front legs featured lions' heads atop fiercely clawed forepaws. The heads sported kingly wooden crowns, which could no more be explained than Thomas Sheraton's need to create either of these monstrosities in the first place.

As the sunlight bridged the gap between the two chairs, lighting on the fabric seat stretched between the crowned lions, something strange occurred. Something most extraordinarily strange occurred.

The sunlight seemed to gather itself into a small, throbbing sphere, an intensely bright orb of light and energy that rapidly grew until its brilliance outshone the watery sunlight and cast the remainder of the room into darkness.

Eeeek! Sir! Farnley! Come quickly! Oh, come quickly, do! Pansy's shrill shrieks destroyed the morning silence, reverberating in the strangely lit drawing room even though she was, in fact, standing far away, outside the closed doors of the room, at the head of the stairs, shouting down into the foyer.

The butler, still adjusting his jacket about his nearly nonexistent shoulders, raced into the foyer on long, spindly legs to glare up at his wife. What is this commotion, Pansy? You know I'm not to be disturbed when I am fixing Mrs. Benedict's morning tray. I might have dropped a spoon, thanks to your carelessness, and you know that brings bad luck upon the mistress of the house.

Pansy's head bobbed up and down furiously in agreement as she struggled to find her voice. I made the sign, sir, I swear I did. Three times, just like every morning. Her bottom lip began to quiver as she clasped the stair railing tightly with both hands. It didn't work today, Farnley, sir. I went in to Mrs. Benedict just now, to help her sit up for breakfast—and there she was, a-lying there, her hands folded just so across her belly, and the most beautifulest smile on her face that I ever did see.

Her face crumpled. Oh, Farnley—sir—Mrs. Benedict's gone and died on us!

The butler's sallow face faded to a sickly yellow as he bounded up the stairs, determined to prove his missish wife wrong. He had his butler's keys at Wormhill, and might not be able to find so favorable a position in another establishment, especially with his mistress cocking up her toes before she could so much as furnish him with a recommendation. A recommendation? If the butler had possessed even a single shred of humor, which it must be said he did not, he would have laughed aloud at such a ludicrous thought. How could he hope for a recommendation from a twit of a woman who spoke and wrote only in quotes?

Farnley wrung his bony hands in abject fear and self-pity. What would he do if Mrs. Benedict were truly dead? Where would he and Pansy go? How would they live? He could always go back to being a valet, he supposed, cringing, while Pansy, his dearest, dumbest Pansy, was fit for nothing more than minding mice at the local crossroads.

Oh, what a terrible business, what a crushing blow—what a terrible turn of luck! He knew he should have hung that new hagstone on the lady's bedpost instead of keeping it for himself in the hope it would hasten the conception of his heir. His heir? And where would the next generation of Farnley's sleep—under the hedgerows?

But wait—perhaps the old woman had provided for them in her will. This thought—and this thought only—gave Farnley the courage to go on.

Out of my way, missy, he commanded his wife, who was showing a disquieting tendency toward repeatedly flinging herself into his arms in order to indulge in fits of weeping. Having pried her loose one last time, he burst into the darkened bedchamber. And get me that hand mirror over there. We'll hold it to the old nodcock's lips and see if she's breathed her last or not.

While Farnley and his wife tiptoed toward the bed, soon to discover that Lucinda Benedict had indeed quietly passed over in her sleep sometime during the night, the sphere of throbbing light floating above the second Sheraton chair reached its zenith and burst, its fiery brilliance dissipating in the wink of an eye.

All that was left behind was the faint, nearly transparent figure of a small, plump woman dressed head to toe in flowing, filmy draperies, sitting at her ease in the camel- head-topped chair.

The woman sat very still for a moment, blinking and looking about her as if startled, then raised a be-ringed hand to her dyed blond curls, patting them confidently as a beatific smile lit her pudgy features. Reaching down, she smoothed her hands along the seat of her beloved chair, one of the pair her dearest, sadly departed Jerome had left her.

She noticed the absence of both the usual pain in her fingers and the early morning stiffness in her limbs that had plagued her for so long. She felt no hunger, no thirst, no earthly urges or discomforts. Only peace. Sweet, glorious, comforting peace—and a heady sense of curiosity directed toward the plans she had made in anticipation of this wonderful day.

Lucinda Benedict pressed her palms together, as would a child in prayer, and raised her eyes toward the sunlight peeking in through the gaps between the draperies. 'O Lord,' she intoned, barely able to suppress a giggle, 'how manifold are Thy works!' Proverbs.

Chapter One

I still can't believe it, Cosmo, truly I can't. We was just here last month, and the old bird was as twittery as ever, bless her heart. Cyril Rayburn collapsed his long frame onto one of the Chinese couches, careful not to snag his new hose on the corner of the center table that had cost him dearly in the past.

It came as a shock to all of us, Cyril, his brother answered, sticking out his chin so that it would not quiver as he thought of his scatterbrained, but totally lovable, late aunt. We had barely gotten to know her.

Penny and Lucien are that upset, not being able to be on hand for the planting tomorrow, but with the Leighton heir due to appear any day, there was nothing else for it, I suppose. Not that Lucien didn't have to all but tie Penny to a chair to keep her from coming anyway. What a stubborn chit.

Cosmo Rayburn, Cyril's identical twin, sat himself down on the facing couch, carefully arranging his coattails about him so as not to wrinkle the fabric. We're not planting Aunt Lucinda, you twit. That's barbaric. We're walling her up. Didn't you see the mausoleum out back?

Cyril sat forward and stuck a gaudy, gilt-edged quizzing glass to his eye. Never say it's in the garden, Cosmo. That's a little too close for my taste. Damned distressing, as a matter of fact! Don't they usually set such things on hilltops or something, far from the house, nestled among trees and other soothing shrubberies?

It is on a hilltop—behind the house. What's the matter, Cyril? Aunt Lucinda always liked you best, feeding you comfits from morn till night until you nearly outgrew your waistcoats every visit. You don't really think the old dear might come back to haunt you or something, do you? And take that thing out of your eye, if you please. You look depressingly like a beached fish.

The quizzing glass dropped from Cyril's eye, to hang near his waist from its black riband. He relaxed once more against the back of the couch, crossing his long legs at the knee. You're right, of course, Brother, on both counts, as I've seen you with your quizzing glass. You look exactly like a fish, too. It was only a momentary revulsion anyway, this burial thing, most probably brought on by the sight of dearest, die-away Farnley as he met us at the front door. Now there's a fellow who could haunt to effect, even while still aboveground. Aunt Lucinda would be a most kind, accommodating ghost, if there were such things.

Which there are not, Cosmo pointed out, being twelve minutes older than his sibling and therefore believing himself to be in charge of making such serious decisions for the both of them. And I wouldn't let Penny or Lucien ever hear you supposing that there are ghosts walking among us, or there'd be the devil and all to pay then. I can see our sister now, drifting down the stairs one fine midnight, dragging chains and moaning terrible moans, just so that she can watch your face drain white. I tell you, Cyril, our only hope is that motherhood will take some of the frisk out of her, or else I may just stop visiting the pesky creature so often for a while.

Cosmo held his peace as Farnley appeared with a tray bearing suspiciously meager refreshments, then ignored the battered silver teapot in favor of the glass decanter on a nearby table. Don't like the looks of those sandwiches, do you? I think they're cucumber. Dreadful! Care for a little brandy, Brother? Of course you do. Just to rid us of the chill left behind by that walking cadaver, you understand.

He carried two snifters back to the table and handed one to his brother before taking a liberal swallow of the throat-burning amber liquid. Ah, that's better. Thank heavens our beloved brother-in-law took it upon himself to stock Aunt Lucinda's cellar which, by the by, is one reason why, if you choose to stay away from dearest Penny, I shall not do likewise. Between the cook Penny hired and Lucien's taste in wine, their home has fast become my favorite stopping-off place.

Unless Papa's there, Cyril grumbled into his snowy cravat, the thought of his father making him careless about the creation that had taken his valet an hour and four ruined cloths to achieve that morning. He's forever after us to begin making something of ourselves. Truly, Cosmo, aren't we too young to be making something of ourselves? Papa should find a hobby now that Penny's off his hands, something to do that would keep those same managing hands off us!

Do I hear my fair father's name being bandied about? said a third male, just entering the room. What's dear Philo done now, Brothers, cut off your allowances for that little trick you played on poor Assistant Vicar Wilkinson? Running off with the only copy of his sermon, and on Easter morning, no less? Really, couldn't you have thought of something more original?

Papa should have given us a reward for that, Philip, Cosmo said, rising to greet his older brother, Philippos Rayburn, Earl of Hawkedon, and as fine an older brother as two mischievous younger brothers could wish for. We read it, you know, and it was enough to bore the entire congregation into a stupor. He held out his hand, taking Philip's in a strong grip. Terrible thing about the old girl, ain't it? You come to help us wall her up?

I do wish you'd stop saying that, Cosmo, Cyril complained, rising as well to greet the earl. I heard from Farnley—the twit—that the Dowager Duchess of Avonall is to be descending upon us shortly, unfortunately minus her grandson, the duke, and his duchess, who are off traveling somewhere on the continent, the lucky devils.

Philip nodded, moving to the drinks table to pour himself a glass of wine. I've already heard, Cyril. Avonall, his dearest wife Tansy, and their sons are all in Italy, and Avonall's sister, Lady Emily, and her husband—Digby something or other—live too far north to make the trip worthwhile. To tell you the truth, I'm rather surprised to find myself here, but the dowager duchess was rather insistent when I saw her three days ago in Bond Street. Said something about my name being mentioned in Aunt Lucinda's will, I believe.

Cyril's bottom lip came out in a small pout. Your name, Philip? I know Cosmo and I are in the will somewhere, but you barely knew Aunt Lucinda. What could she have been thinking?

Thinking? Oh, that is splendid. A sharp laugh came from the doorway and three male heads turned to see the Dowager Duchess of Avonall striding into the room, stripping off her gloves as she came. Consider it for a moment, you daft boy—Lucinda never did think. She didn't even speak, except to quote other people's words and ideas rather than using her own—which may have been a blessing, she added in an aside to Philip as he aided her in divesting herself of her cloak, for I shudder to think what, left to her own devices, the widgeon would have said. Hello there, Philip, how good of you to come. It is amazing. Three days of traveling, and we arrive within minutes of each other. My congratulations. As I traveled the road to Wormhill I could barely make out the ruts your boots had made as you dragged your heels all the way from London.

Philip's blue eyes never wavered, although the left side of his mouth (including the left half of the mustache he had lately grown, hoping it would dispel much of the Botticelli angel look of his youthful features) did rise a fraction in recognition of the dowager's well-placed barb. "If I had known we would arrive so closely together,