“Miss Felicity, has somebody died?”

Felicity stood and bobbed a curtsy at the earl. “Not that I am aware, my lord. Thank you for inquiring. How do you do?”

“There’s something rather singular about your appearance this evening, isn’t there? Have you done something different with your hair?”

“No, my lord. I’m simply a tad underdressed for visiting. Only, I had a favor to ask my sister and it couldn’t possibly wait.”

“Oh, did you?” The earl turned his tawny eyes on his wife.

Alexia tipped her chin up and to one side. “She wants to come stay with us.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“Here.”

“Here?” Conall took his wife’s point exactly. They could hardly have Felicity stay in their new town house and not actually be living there themselves. What if that information got out? Felicity would be known to have resided with a pack of werewolves and no chaperone.

“Why not at Woolsey? Bit of country air? Looks like she could do with it.” Lord Maccon grappled for a better solution.

“Felicity has involved herself in some”—Alexia paused—“questionable charitable work here in town. She seems to believe she may require our protection.”

Lord Maccon looked confused. As well he might. “Protection . . . protection from whom?”

“My mother,” replied his wife, with meaning.

Lord Maccon could understand that and was about to demand additional details when a ghost materialized up through the plush carpet next to him.

Under ordinary circumstances, ghosts were too polite to simply appear in the middle of a conversation. The better-behaved specters took pains to drift into front hallways at the very least, where a footman might notice and inquire as to their business. In a startling fashion, this one wafted into existence out of the center of the new rug, directly through the bouquet of flowers depicted there.

Lord Maccon exclaimed. Lady Maccon let out a little gasp and firmed her grip on her parasol. Floote raised one eyebrow. Felicity fainted.

Alexia and Conall looked at each other for a moment and then left Felicity slumped over in her chair by mutual and silent agreement. Alexia’s parasol did have a small bottle of smelling salts among its many secret accoutrements, but this ghost required immediate attention with no time to revive troublesome sisters. The Maccons turned the full force of their collective attention onto the specter before them.

“Floote,” asked Lady Maccon slowly, so as not to startle the creature, “did we know this house came with a ghost? Was that in the leasing documentation?”

“I don’t believe so, madam. Let me ascertain the particulars.” Floote glided off to find the deeds.

The ghost in question was rather fuzzy around the edges and not entirely cohesive in the middle either. She must be close to poltergeist state. When she began speaking, it became abundantly clear that this was indeed the case, for the ghost’s mental faculties were degenerated and her voice was high and breathy, sounding as though it emanated from some distance away.