A GHOSTLY GUARDIAN

  Midlife Mysteries #1

  by

  H.P. MALLORY

  Other Books by H.P. Mallory

  PARANORMAL WOMEN’S FICTION:

  Midlife Mysteries

  Haven Hollow

  Misty Hollow

  Gwen’s Ghosts

  Midlife Spirits

  Trailer Park Vampire

  PARANORMAL & FANTASY ROMANCE:

  Witch, Warlock & Vampire

  Ever Dark Academy

  Gates of the Underworld

  Lily Harper

  Dulcie O’Neil

  PARANORMAL REVERSE HAREM:

  My Five Kings

  Happily Never After

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE:

  Age Gap Romance

  SCI-FI ROMANCE:

  The Alaskan Detective

  TRILOGIES:

  Dragon’s Birthright

  Crown of Lies

  The Dark Circus

  Midlife Mermaid

  Chasing Demons

  Dungeon Raider

  Here to There

  Arctic Wolves

  Wolves of Valhalla

  Lucy Westenra

  A GHOSTLY GUARDIAN

  Copyright © 2023 by H.P. Mallory

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  A Ghostly Guardian

  PROLOGUE

  Dr. Archibald Russe, a renowned archaeologist, known the world over (well, to those interested in archaeology, anyway) embarked on an expedition to Mongolia in the year 1850. Accompanying him was his curious and spirited eight-year-old daughter, Philippa.

  Even though it was quite rare (and some might argue unfashionable and irresponsible), Dr. Russe insisted his daughter accompany him, as he did on all his travels. He did not view Philippa as a girl with a brain feebler than any boy’s. Instead, he saw her as a child with a blank slate of a mind—one that was primed for learning and experiencing the world in a way that other children would never know. After Philippa’s mother passed while giving birth to her, Dr. Russe became all the more determined to keep her by his side where he could ensure she would always be safe.

  The two, along with their team, ventured deep into the unexplored lands of the vast Mongolian plains, in search of an ancient archaeological site rumored to hold invaluable treasures from a forgotten era. The site was known as Khara Khorum, the location of the once-great Mongol capital, established by Genghis Khan himself in the thirteenth century. It held immense historical and cultural significance, and served as the political, economic, and cultural center of the Mongol Empire during its peak.

  The archaeological expedition led by Dr. Russe aimed to uncover the remnants of this ancient city, hoping to shed light on the empire’s rich history and offer insights into the lives of its inhabitants. The site was believed to hold invaluable artifacts, including remnants of the palace, temples, and defensive structures that had once stood proud within the city walls.

  The team of archaeologists, accompanied by their local guides and laborers, painstakingly excavated the area, carefully unearthing fragments of pottery, tools, and writings that painted a vivid picture of Khara Khorum’s glorious past. Dr. Russe and his team meticulously recorded their findings, striving to piece together the puzzle of Khara Khorum’s rise and fall.

  One night, as Dr. Russe and his team were enjoying conversation around the fire, their trusted interpreter, Bayar, came to sit beside Dr. Russe, begging his ear. A man of Mongolian descent, Bayar possessed a deep understanding of the local culture and traditions. He had an air of wisdom about him, evident in his eyes, having witnessed the passing of many years. Bayar leaned in and shared a solemn revelation with Dr. Russe.

  “The shaman, the revered medicine man of our village, has bestowed a message upon me,” Bayar spoke, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. “He believes your daughter possesses a rare gift.”

  “A gift?” Dr. Russe repeated, frowning because he did not understand what sort of gift Bayar might mean.

  The interpreter nodded. “A gift from the heavens—but one that involves the dead. One that will only come to fruition with the loss of someone dear to her.”

  Dr. Russe’s brow furrowed, a mixture of intrigue and concern etching his face. He glanced at Philippa, her cherubic countenance radiant under the flickering light of the fire. His love for his daughter was immeasurable, and the thought of her being burdened with such a fate weighed heavily on his heart, even if he didn’t fully accept Bayar’s words. Certainly, they were just the beliefs of a very superstitious people and Dr. Russe didn’t clutter his mind with superstition as he was a man of science and learning.

  “I don’t quite understand, Bayar,” Dr. Russe said, his voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

  Bayar sighed, his gaze distant, as if peering into a realm unseen by mortal eyes. “The shaman believes that your daughter’s abilities are intertwined with the ethereal fabric of life and death. Someone near her must face their mortal journey’s end for her true gift to awaken.”

  ###

  Days turned into weeks, and the excavation of Khara Khorum progressed steadily. Dr. Russe and his team delved deeper into the mysteries buried beneath the hard ground, unearthing relics that spoke of an ancient civilization long forgotten. Yet, a lingering unease followed him and plagued his mind, owing to the prediction of the shaman. No matter how many times Dr. Russe told himself he didn’t believe in such prophecies, the feeling remained. While the archaeological wonders unfolded before their eyes, the forecast of the future weighed heavily on his mind, and he grappled with the prophecy concerning his daughter.

  With each day, the expedition inched closer to unraveling the secrets of Khara Khorum, all the while honoring the legacy of the Mongolian Empire.

  Philippa, unaware of the burden that rested upon her small shoulders, reveled in the adventures of their journey. She ran through the open plains, her laughter echoing in the wind, as she explored the vast Mongolian landscape. To her, it was a playground of endless possibilities, a world ripe with magic waiting to be discovered and one so different to the bustling city life of Boston, her home.

  As time passed, Dr. Russe found himself caught between two worlds—that of academia and that of a loving, concerned father. He battled his own beliefs, unsure of whether the shaman’s words held any truth or if they were merely the imaginings of an ancient culture steeped in superstition.

  CHAPTER ONE:

  PHILIPPA

  I never imagined I’d find myself sitting behind bars in a holding cell in Scotland Yard.

  But then again, I never imagined my stepson would accuse me of stealing a diamond necklace in the first place. When I awoke this morning, I certainly didn’t plan to spend my day like this.

  As far as I could tell, Scotland Yard (also known as The Metropolitan Police Service) had several holding cells for the temporary detention of suspects, as well as those awaiting trial. I certainly wasn’t awaiting trial but would have been considered a suspect, I supposed. Either way, I wasn’t at all pleased to find myself in this unlikely quandary.

  As the constable escorted me through the dimly lit and poorly ventilated holding cells, I noticed with some dismay they were quite overcrowded. The constable paused at one cell and, with the help of his comrade, emptied it of all the occupants, shooing them into the already overcrowded cells on either side. Then he turned to face me with a quick nod.

  “In you go, Mrs. Fairfax.” He gave me an apologetic smile, seeming quite embarrassed about the whole situation. “I’m awfully sorry about your husband, ma’am. He was a good man.”

  It wasn’t as though my husband had recently passed—he’d been gone now for more than a year, but the condolences were appreciated, all the same.

  “Yes, he was,” I answered, realizing the constable didn’t want to put me, a lady of polite, London society, in with the other poor wretches (men and women alike), so I thanked him for his kindness.

  My cell was furnished with nothing more than a wooden bench and a straw mattress on the floor. I didn’t dare sit on either, loath to know what vile creatures could be sharing this domicile with me. Overall, the place was quite depressing, austere and inhospitable. The briefer my stay here, the better.

  I leaned back against the cold stone wall and let out a deep sigh. I guessed I should have been grateful that the constable had jailed me on my own. Hearing the sounds of whatever was happening in the holding cells beside me, it was a small mercy to find myself alone.

  But as to the whole incident, it was absurd, really. Yes, I’d stolen the necklace, but only because it was mine to begin with! My no-good stepson had first stolen it from me and I’d simply taken it back. Furthermore, not only had I offered to purchase Andrew as many diamond necklaces as he liked, I’d actually made good on my offer! Hancocks & Co. had hand delivered not two, but three, diamond necklaces to Andrew’s home, all of which were far higher quality than the one in question. The only reason I cared about my diamond necklace was owing to its sentimental value.

  “Mrs. Fairfax,” came the sound of another constable’s voice as he turned the corner and appeared in front of my cell. The sound of the cell keys jingling ar rived before he did. “The inspector will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” I answered, giving the man a quick smile, which he returned. I was quite certain it wasn’t common for a lady of the ton to be incarcerated in Scotland Yard as a thief. And if the newspapers caught a whiff of what was going on, I had no doubt I’d be on the cover of every one of them in the morning. Not that I gave a snuff—the more you cared about your reputation, the more you lived for other people.

  The constable escorted me out of my cell and down the long hallway. We passed holding cells on either side of us, each of them near overflowing with all manner of law breakers. As we passed, those incarcerated had plenty of colorful comments for the constable or, perhaps the comments were aimed at me; I wasn’t certain. As an American in London, I still couldn’t quite grasp the English accent in all its various dialects.

  After taking the stairs, we were greeted with yet another hallway and when we reached the office at the end of it, the constable paused before he rapped on the door exactly three times. “Inspector Stirling, I got Mrs. Fairfax here for ya.”

  “Escort her in,” came the response, delivered in a heavily Scottish accent.

  The constable opened the door for me and I took my cue, bursting past him in an array of skirts. As to the particular gown I was wearing, well, let us just say it was an absolute shame I’d been arrested in this particular ensemble as it was one I’d just received directly from Paris. The fabric, a lightweight silk, was both delicate and airy, with lace and ruffles embellishing each sleeve. The bodice was fitted, the neckline high and the sleeves long and slender. My waist was cinched in tightly with a corset, and the bodice extended over my hips, creating a smooth, elongated line. The skirt was full and trimmed with lace at the hem along with gathers at the waist, creating a voluminous effect while the back of the skirt extended into a bustle, but one smaller than what was currently all the rage. As to the fabric, well, it was quite lovely, the color a sapphire blue, the latest rage in Paris. I imagined sapphire would soon catch on in London, if only because London was really a gray city and, thus, needed a dab of color.

  My wide-brimmed hat was the exact same hue as my dress (along with my gloves) and decorated with feathers. And because I was careful not to overdo it, my jewelry was minimal, just a brooch to add a touch of sparkle.

  Before you suppose I’m quite a vain creature, I must inform you that it was my responsibility of sorts to notice such details where ladies’ wear was concerned. Among the ton of London, I had (inadvertently) made a name for myself as a bit of a fashionista—mostly because I’d spent the last year or so living in Paris, among the most fashionable of all fashionable ladies.

  “Detective Inspector,” I greeted the man I found standing before me.

  As to the inspector, I knew his name was Grant Stirling because my late husband had said as much. Patrick told me that he and Inspector Stirling were quite close—not just because Patrick was the inspector’s superintendent, but they were also friends. I’d never met Inspector Stirling before, but from what I understood from Patrick, Grant Stirling was a true gentleman, a hero in his own right, and a Scot to boot. I couldn’t help but wonder what he would make of me, an American heiress accused of theft and the wife of his deceased boss—one who’d left town as soon as her husband died. Well, now I was back and stuck in this... mess.

  Inspector Stirling looked up from where he was standing behind his desk, rifling through a stack of papers as I entered his office. He immediately took stock of my gown with an expression of... well, let us just say it wasn’t admiration. But men are very rarely in the know when it comes to high fashion.

  “Mrs. Fairfax,” the inspector greeted me before facing the constable. He gave the man a single nod to send him on his way. I was quite embarrassed to admit (if only to myself) that I’d completely forgotten the constable was still standing there! But that was the inspector’s fault; his presence was quite formidable and I imagined most people would forget any others who happened to occupy a room with him.

  I imagined Grant Stirling towered over most people with his imposing height (upwards of six feet, were I to guess), standing tall and straight, his shoulders square. He was also exceptionally handsome with a sharp, angular face with chiseled features and a strong jawline, accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, the same shade of black as his hair.

  As expected, he was dressed in the attire of a detective, exuding a sense of authority and professionalism. A long black coat lay folded over one of the leather chairs in the corner of the room, something that would have paired nicely with his white, crisp shirt, buttoned up to the collar, with a matching waistcoat and dark trousers. His black leather shoes were polished to a high shine, giving off a sharp reflection. A pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat pocket, and a silver chain linked it to a fob, marking him as a man of some class. On his desk lay a black bowler hat and beside that, a black leather satchel.

  “I knew your husband quite well.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” I answered, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice, but there was something about the inspector that I found intimidating. Perhaps it was the thunderous sound to his voice or the storm that brewed in his eyes.

  “Although I’ve never met you,” he continued, eyeing me narrowly as if that fact were somehow my fault.

  “A shame, I am certain.”

  Inspector Stirling nodded and gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs opposite his large mahogany desk. I did as he instructed and found him leaning over his desk directly in front of me, his blue eyes narrowing on my own. “It’s not every day we get a lady of your station... here. Never mind one who was married to the Superintendent.”

  “I should imagine not.”

  He studied me for a moment, as if trying to decide if we were playing some sort of game and if so, which character he should assume. “As I understand, you’ve been brought in on charges of theft?”

  I took a deep breath. “I haven’t stolen anything that didn’t belong to me.”

  “And, yet, your stepson seems to believe you have.”

  At the mention of Andrew, Patrick’s son from a previous marriage, my stomach dropped. “The necklace in question was a gift from Patrick. He gave it to me on our wedding day, thus it was mine and still is.”

  The inspector raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t appear convinced—not in the least. “And how did the necklace come to be in the possession of your stepson, Andrew, then?”

  “That’s just it,” I said, sparking with anger as I reminded myself to stay in control of my emotions. If there was one thing I wanted to avoid, it was losing my temper. Men had a stupid inclination to believe women had an ‘inability to think rationally’ and if I was anything, it was rational. “Upon my return to London,” I started.

  “And where were you before your return?”

  “Paris.”

  He nodded. “Hence the reason none of your husband’s colleagues have ever met you.”

  I nodded once. “Correct.”

  “Go on.”

  “Upon my return to London a month or so ago, Andrew came to visit me, claiming the necklace was rightfully his.”

  “And why did he think that?”

  “He said Patrick left it to him in his will.”

  The inspector nodded. “And according to said will, Andrew was correct.”

  “No, he wasn’t correct.”

  Stirling’s eyebrows rose exceptionally high at that. “According to Patrick’s will, you and he both kept separate the belongings, money and otherwise, with which you both entered the marriage.”

  I nodded. “That’s so.”

  “A strange legal arrangement to be sure,” Stirling continued—and that was certainly the case as most women ceded all their belongings and money to their new husbands upon marriage.

  “Patrick organized his will in such a way to ensure that should anything ever happen to him…” I took a deep breath at this point because I very much disliked thinking about what had happened to Patrick. “…That none of my extensive wealth would pass to Andrew.” I swallowed hard. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about Andrew’s penchant for gambling?”

 

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