John Rookwood peered through the grimy leaded windows and saw lights approaching along the driveway. It was the same every year—uninvited guests always arrived on their anniversary.
“Captain, they’re nearly here! Stop preening, man!”
“Guests!” Captain Cornelius Sheridan didn’t look away from the ornate mirror where he was admiring his own reflection. He beamed at himself before pouting, then placed one hand on his hip. As John watched, Sheridan turned a little to the left, a little to the right, admiring his own form, clad as he was in a suit of shimmering gold silk.
He frowned and adjusted one of his lace-shrouded cuffs very slightly, then considered his reflection again, turning his shapely calf a little before he leaned down to brush an imaginary smut from his white stocking. “Does one need more powder, Rookwood? One doesn’t want to look gauche for one’s chums!”
“You have natural pallor enough, Captain. Besides, they’re not our chums.”
A large conveyance had drawn up to the front door. John turned up the collar of his greatcoat, watching as two passengers, a man and a woman, climbed out.
“The damned impertinence of it, turning up uninvited every year. Wandering about my house, disturbing our peace. They’re lucky I haven’t taken a pistol to them.”
“Natural? Lord preserve me from natural! More powder and a touch more rouge on the lips, I think.” Sheridan put his elegant hand to his silken cravat and slightly adjusted the diamond pin there. An even larger diamond was housed in the ring he wore, and it glittered as brightly as his eyes. “My home, Mr. Rookwood, lest we forget.”
At the sound of their guests letting themselves in at the front door, John sighed. “Rookwood Manor has been in my family for generations, as well you know, you damned dandy interloper!”
“Indeed, sir, Sheridan Manor was once home to your people, but one believes there was the small matter of a duel and now it is mine.” Sheridan glanced at John and beamed, his handsome face now fashionably pale. He bowed low, a cloud of rose perfume billowing from the decadent cuffs. “Let us go and say hello to our newest friends, Mr. Rookwood!”
John bowed in return, doffing his tricorne hat. “That duel was unfair—therefore, in default, Rookwood Manor is still mine, I think you’ll find.”
As John’s heavy boots thumped over the floorboards, a woman’s voice echoed up from the entrance hall.
“Did you hear that? I swear I heard footsteps!”
“Ooh, the young lady sounds so terribly nervous!” Sheridan hugged himself in amused excitement then clapped his hands together. His grin was positively wicked as he added, “What fun!”
“Should be easy to get shot of them, then!” John looked over the bannister as the couple began to set up their equipment. He’d seen quite a lot of this caper over the years, gadgets galore ranged through his house with nary a by-your-leave. How terribly rude. “Well, then, Captain, as my footsteps have served to scare her witless, would you like to go next? I’d wager you shan’t terrify them in the least, but I’m happy to watch you try!”
The two men peeped down into the baronial hall below, where the enormous studded oak door stood open on the autumn night. Leaves swirled in around the feet of the second visitor, a young man with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He threw it down and looked up at his splendid surroundings, his face set into a scowl.
“Oh, now what a handsome gent!” Sheridan touched his hand to his breast and quirked one eyebrow. “If my heart had not already stopped, it would certainly have just skipped a beat. Who have we here?”
He began to descend the staircase, polished shoes shining in the light of the chandelier, the diamond buckles on his toes twinkling. With a glance back at John, Sheridan hopped down the last two risers and landed neatly in front of the couple, who continued to unpack their infernal equipment. Then he blew a sharp blast of rose perfume into the young lady’s face.
She stumbled back a step and nearly lost her footing on the uneven floorboards. “What—what was that? Dan, can you smell it? Roses. They say that the highwayman who haunts this place smells of roses. I’m not imagining it, am I? And it’s suddenly so cold in here!”
“You do know that it’s all bollocks, don’t you?” Dan tutted and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve even talked me into this. The sooner it’s on the market, the sooner some big hotel chain buys it and the sooner I get to buy that Ferrari I’ve always wanted, so let’s get the night finished and lock the bloody door on this dusty old hole.”
“Can you please not say bollocks when I’ve got the EVP recorder on, Dan?” The young woman crouched down to rummage about in a trunk. “I can’t believe you want to sell this place—my family lived here too, you know. And anyway, a haunted house is much cooler than a Ferrari.”
“Oh, he’s one of yours!” Sheridan called upstairs to John. “A Rookwood, which makes him suddenly far less attractive! A Rookwood who intends to sell my bally house!”
“Balderdash—it’s Rookwood Manor, after all, and will you just look at that handsome face!” John followed Sheridan downstairs. Could the young lady hear him, or even see him? She had glanced in his direction and was gawping at the stairs.
“Dan! I can hear footsteps again!”
But Dan had turned his back, so John prodded him on the shoulder to get a better look. Was this impertinent young man worthy of the name Rookwood?
“Stop pissing about, Jenny,” Dan huffed. “Funny isn’t it, really? Here we are, a Rookwood and a Sheridan, spending one last night in the place where our great-whatever-uncles however far removed supposedly rattle their chains and flap their sheets? And by tomorrow the For Sale board will be up!”
The Captain's Cornish Christmas
Jago frowned as he heard the weather warning come in over the radio. It was the last thing he needed on Christmas Eve.
He barely noticed the cold sting of the sea spray striking his face as he powered the rescue boat over the waves. There hadn’t been an SOS, but he had left Polneath harbor anyway. Sam Coryton and his yacht, Morveren, hadn’t returned to the marina, and with bad weather moving in and little daylight left, Jago knew he would have to go out to find him.
No response on the radio. No distress flares sighted.
Jago kept his grip firm on the wheel, his jaw set with determination.
He rounded the rocky headland, so beautiful and yet, he knew only too well, so dangerous—and he saw it. The white hull and sails of the Morveren. And it appeared to be in distress. The yacht rocked from side to side in the water, the depths already boiling in anticipation of the oncoming storm. In the windows of the vessel bright Christmas lights twinkled merrily, but there was no other sign of life, no indication that Polneath’s favorite son was anywhere on board.
A chill ran through Jago’s blood as he steered closer to the yacht, and it wasn’t just at the thought of what this oceangoing Maserati must have cost. No man with an ounce of sense in his head would be so stupid as to still be out here now in the dying hours of the Christmas Eve daylight, with the maelstrom somewhere on the horizon. He remembered from summer Sam’s bad habit of swimming alone from the deck of his yacht, but surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it in the depths of winter?
Even Sam Coryton wouldn’t be so idiotic as that.
Jago pulled up alongside the yacht and let the engine idle. He called over the sound of the waves and the seabirds, “Sam! Sam Coryton—it’s Captain Treherne. Are you there, Sam? Can you hear me?”
He paused, but heard no reply. There was no sign of anyone in the water, and Jago wondered if Sam had been taken ill, alone in a cabin on the yacht. “I’m coming aboard!”
Jago lashed the rescue boat to the Morveren, then heaved himself onto the deck. His boots squeaked as he crept along the deserted craft.
“Where the bloody hell is he?” Jago muttered to himself as he lifted the hatch on the companionway and stared down into the vessel. The Christmas lights were the only illumination in the stairwell, but from beneath he could hear the gentle strains of light classical music and smell fresh coffee, suggesting that someone was or, in the worst-case scenario had been, aboard until recently.
Jago called Sam’s name again, carefully descending the stairs into the yacht’s living quarters. He had seen some impressive vessels in his day and this was certainly high among them, a sleek craft from the outside and a comfortable home within. The hallway that stretched ahead of him was brightly lit, the walls decorated with enormous canvases showing cheery riots of color, but that made the scene feel somehow even more uneasy. There was something in the air, an indefinable tension that fired Jago’s instincts as he looked in on the rooms and found nothing out of the ordinary, but no sign of the man who had sailed this vessel from the safety of the harbor.
Where was Sam Coryton, successful crime author? Surely this wasn’t one of Sam’s thrillers come to life? Would Jago pull open a door and find—no, he couldn’t bear to think of that. Not on his watch, not Polneath’s famous boy.
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
He shouldn’t have thought of Sam’s thrillers. Now Jago was thinking of the bright Cornish villages with their casts of colorful locals and the violence just beneath the surface, of murder and—this was just the sort of plot Sam Coryton would come up with—Christmas lights on a floating yacht with a gory surprise lurking somewhere within.
Only one set of double doors remained in the living quarters now and they stood, as they would in a murder mystery, right at the end of the hallway ahead of Jago. He hadn’t seen a master bedroom so this must be it. Despite himself the lifeboat captain, sturdy, brave, fearless, paused with his hands on the door handles. He drew in a deep breath, told himself he had seen worse than a dead author and pushed the doors open.
Jago had only time to see a brief impression—a figure, sprawled across a bed. A naked body. Was this the work of some depraved psychopath? “Bloody hell, no—Sam!”
The Captain's Flirty Fireworks
When Rob Monteagle pushed open the door of the King’s Head, he walked into a lull in the conversation. He’d only recently moved to Longley Magna, and it seemed that the locals of the South Downs village were still getting the measure of him.
Rob nodded and gave a small wave to the other drinkers, and once they seemed satisfied that they knew who he was—a rather loud stage whisper from someone in the pub of “He’s that new fireman!” helped—they went back to their Saturday night conversations.
He ordered a pint of the local ale and leaned back against the old bar, wondering how to strike up a conversation—wondering who would want him to. Everyone seemed settled in their own little groups, and when Rob had attempted to join in on his last visit to the pub, he’d received a jovial barrage of remarks about helmets and hoses. Still, he had to try.
Before Rob had a chance to move, the pub door swung open, admitting a blast of cold November air to the busy taproom. It admitted a man too, and the very sight of him sent a frisson through Rob just as it did every time he caught a glimpse of the stranger, who was usually to be seen on horseback.
Tonight, though, he was on his own two feet and his handsome face was lit by a smile brighter than any fire. He stood just inside the pub doorway and called to the assembled drinkers, “I need a hero who doesn’t mind heights, at the double!”
Rob put his pint down on the bar. Now here was an opportunity to be useful to the community and—well, he had to be honest, the bloke was gorgeous.
“I don’t know about a hero, but I’m not scared of heights. Been up a fair few ladders in my time!” He crossed the room and smiled into the man’s sparkling dark eyes. “I’m Rob, the new fire officer at Longley Magna station—don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“Ollie, and you look just like the hero I need,” the man told him. He took Rob’s hand and shook it, the dark green waxed jacket he wore rustling as he did. And jodhpurs, Rob noticed, though he tried hard not to. Why did this handsome man named Ollie always have to be in jodhpurs? “Terrified of heights, but always trying to save a damsel in distress—even if she does have a tail and whiskers!”
“Is it Smudge again?” the landlord called. Ollie’s nod elicited a chorus of long-suffering groans from the drinkers. Then, still holding Rob’s hand, he towed him out into the late afternoon dusk.
“There.” Ollie pointed to the oak in the middle of the village green, where a black and white cat was sitting quite contentedly among the boughs. At the foot of the tree was an elderly woman, a dish in her hands that was clearly intended to tempt the creature down. “Can you hop up the tree and do the necessary for Mrs. Cooper’s pride and joy?”
“Don’t see why not!” Rob grinned.
Easy-peasy.
The old tree was a breeze to climb, with several low branches and thick bark that gave Rob purchase as he nimbly ascended the trunk. Once he was level with the cat, he sat astride the branch she had settled on and beckoned her.
“Smudge? Hey there, madam. Would you mind climbing down now?”
“Be careful!” Ollie called from where he had joined the lady with the dish. At the pub door drinkers gathered, watching the new firefighter save the day. The cat, meanwhile, began edging along the branch until she reached Rob. Then she nuzzled against him and let out a long, low purr.
Rob waved down to his audience. “We’re okay!” He stroked Smudge, whispering assurances to her before slipping her into one of the large pockets of his peacoat. He made his way down carefully but jumped the last few feet and produced Smudge from his pocket, like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. A cheer went up from the assembled drinkers as the cat nuzzled against his chin.
The lady took the cat in her arms despite the dish, snuggling her close as she told Rob, “Thank you! She does this every time I won’t give her a sausage—she’s a terror!”
Rob grinned. “We all like a sausage!”
“Some of us more than others.” Ollie laughed. He patted Rob’s shoulder and asked, “Buy you a beer to say thanks?”
“You don’t have to do that, really, I’m happy to help.” Rob was still grinning. “But go on then, I won’t say no! Back to the King’s Head?”
Which, Rob realized, was a daft question, because as far as he was aware, it was Longley Magna’s only pub. And he had left a pint on the bar, and he couldn’t really have two since he was on bucket duty in an hour, but despite all of that, he wasn’t going to say no to the handsome man in the form-fitting jodhpurs.
“What’re you drinking?” Ollie shepherded him through the drinkers who were on their way back into the pub, where the fire roared and the conversation hummed. He knew them all, Rob could see, with his companion receiving slaps on the back and cheery welcomes from what seemed like everyone. “Something fit for a hero?”
Awkward, Rob shook his head. “No, I’m not a hero—just a reckless fool with no fear of heights!”
He picked up his pint and was dismayed to see the spectacle of a pork scratching bobbing on the surface of his ale. “Wouldn’t mind a new one of these, Ollie, if there’s one going? A pint of the local ale without the garnish, please.”
“Another leading question.”
