The wave of heat flooded Nathaniel’s face. He grappled with a flare of anger and hid his face in his coffee cup as he took another, bitter gulp. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to simply get up and walk out. Not that his brother’s observations were unwarranted. Quite the opposite. They forced Nathaniel to look into a mirror of truth, and he had no desire to gaze upon the reflection.
Not trusting himself to respond in a civil manner, Nathaniel stood and raised his now empty cup to indicate he needed more coffee. What he actually needed was a real drink. Or a wall to punch.
“When you were six years old, you spent a summer at Allonby Chase with Great Aunt Beatrice,” Basil said, his lighter tone an obvious attempt to placate. “Do you remember?”
Nathaniel took a breath, filled his cup, and reined in his emotions. He had no desire to fight with his brother, but neither was he in the mood for a lesson in propriety. “Yes, of course I remember.” He wandered back to his seat. “Why bring that up? The old bird hasn’t cocked her clogs, has she?”
“No, she hasn’t.” Basil opened the snuff box on his desk. “Do you recall why you were sent there?”
Nathaniel frowned at the question, which was obviously a leading one. He decided to play along, however.
“It was the year Mama died.” Nathaniel took a sip of coffee, his hand steadier now. “I always assumed the intention was to take my mind off things.”
“Partly right.” Basil placed a pinch of snuff close to a nostril and inhaled. “You were being unruly at the time, to put it mildly. Father didn’t know what to do with you. Shipping you off to Aunt Beatrice’s was his solution.”
“I was only six years old and I’d just lost my mother, to put it mildly.” A ridiculous suspicion hovered on the edge of Nathaniel’s still-foggy brain. “So, Father foisted me off. Something he was adept at, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nevertheless, it worked. You were a different boy when you returned.” Basil took a second pinch and administered to his other nostril, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s. “Quite reformed, in fact.”
Nathaniel’s suspicion sharpened, going from ridiculous to ludicrous. “What are you suggesting? That I take myself off to Cumberland for some kind of a renewal?”
Nose still twitching, Basil closed the snuff box. “I’m not suggesting anything.”
Patience thinning once again, Nathaniel set his cup on the desk and tugged down on his waistcoat. “Then what is this about, Your Grace?”
“An opportunity.” Basil picked up a letter from the desk. “If I were fanciful in nature, I might take this to be an orchestration of fate. In any case, the timing of it, I think, is certainly fortuitous. Here. Read it.”
Written on paper of the finest quality, the penmanship was exquisite and most decidedly feminine. Curiosity aroused, Nathaniel flicked his gaze to the bottom of the page, to a name obviously written by a different hand to that of the letter’s writer. Indeed, the signatory appeared to have been afflicted by a tremor similar to his own. It looked as though a spider had hauled itself out of the inkwell and wandered across the paper.
Yet the name was, nonetheless, legible.
“Beatrice Juliana Parsonby,” he muttered, and began to read, the slight frown on his brow deepening as he digested the written contents. One section in particular he read twice, his still-sluggish concentration not quite able to absorb the meaning of it.
It announced the death of a man by the name of Charles Ichabod Parsonby. A second-cousin to Great Aunt Beatrice, and the sole heir to her estate. A long-suffering fellow, who had apparently died from the complications of an old wartime injury.
As a result, therefore, I have been obliged to make changes to my will. With no blood relatives remaining, I had little choice but to choose an heir from those who are related solely through marriage.
You, my dear Basil, might have been perceived as the next logical and, perhaps, expected choice. I have, however, bypassed you entirely in favor of your younger brother. Why is that, you may well ask? Quite simply, it’s because ––”
“She’s always had a fondness for you,” Basil said, interrupting Nathaniel’s perusal. “I don’t know how much you remember from your childhood visit, but Allonby Chase is a fine Jacobean house. Been in Beatrice’s family for several generations. The estate is without entail and title, and it isn’t the largest holding in the north, but I happen to know it’s productive. There’s a home farm – sheep and cattle, mainly – as well as two smaller holdings. And the nearby coastal village has an inn and a small fishing fleet. Three or four boats, I understand. I don’t know if you remember that from your time there.” He picked up a second letter from the desk. “This one is addressed to you. No doubt it contains all the details. Personally, I believe this entire thing is the answer to a prayer – for you, and for those of us who care about you.”
Nathaniel’s heart seemed to have stopped and glued itself to his ribs. He took the letter, his hand, oddly, now as steady as his brother’s.
“Good lord,” he said, aware of a faint rushing sound in his ears. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw the old girl. Must be three or four years ago, at least.”
“She was here this time last year, Nathaniel.”
“She was?” Nathaniel frowned. “I can’t say I remember.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not surprised.” Basil heaved yet another sigh. “She came to London for Lord Peverell’s wedding, which you neglected to attend due to your being, shall we say, under the weather. She only stayed with us the one night. You were out, as usual.”
A memory stirred, and Nathaniel shifted in his chair.
“Ah,” he said, grimacing. “Now you mention it, I think I do recall something about that.”
Basil grunted. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe you spent that particular night in here, because you were too drunk to make it up the bloody stairs.”
Unbidden, another image arose in Nathaniel’s head. Images from that same night. Was it a memory or just a dream? The vision of a young woman, with a rather lovely profile, her slender form surrounded by a golden halo. Candlelight, he realized, as the events played out in his mind. Yes. Candlelight. She’d held the candle aloft as she moved along the bookshelves, perusing.
Fascinated by what he was witnessing, and not quite sober, Nathaniel had held his breath and continued to watch from where he lay on the sofa. Who was she? Was she real, or a dream?
All at once, she’d parted with a soft gasp, raised up on her toes, and reached for a book. But her fingers had barely been able to touch it. And that’s when the woman had spoken. Or, to be more accurate, and to Nathaniel’s surprise, she’d cursed.
“Bloody hell.”
Then she’d giggled. Genuinely amused, and oddly charmed, Nathaniel grinned. Obviously, the woman needed a ladder. Or his help. He slid from the sofa and approached her.
“May I be of assistance, my lady?”
But his chivalric gesture had not been received quite as he’d imagined. He’d been rewarded with a stifled scream and a brief glimpse into a pair of… blue? eyes, wide with apparent shock. Then came a mumbled apology, followed by darkness as the candleflame was blown out. Dismayed, he’d reached out, wanting to touch her, needing to be sure she was real. But his hands had met only air.
“I can’t believe I’d forgotten about that,” Nathaniel muttered, twisting to look over his shoulder.
“A consequence of over-indulgence,” his brother quipped, obviously misunderstanding Nathaniel’s remark. “Leaves gaps in the memory.”
“Tell me, did Aunt Beatrice have someone travelling with her?” He turned back. “A young woman, perhaps?”
“Um, yes, she did, as a matter of fact. A travelling companion. Why do you ask?”
“I think I remember her. She was in here that night, snooping around. I frightened her. Unintentionally, of course.”
“Snooping?” Basil looked dubious. “I highly doubt it. She was a quiet, homely little thing. Kept to hersel
f. I forget her name. Helen? Henrietta? Something like that. She never attended any of the functions that week. Rather like yourself, except that she wasn’t invited, and you were.”
Nathaniel ignored the jibe. The girl he’d seen had not been in the least homely. She must have been a dream, then. A shame. For some undefinable reason, he’d wanted her to be real.
“Ruins,” he said as he snapped the seal on his letter.
“Ruins?”
“You wondered how much I remembered from my childhood visit,” Nathaniel said. “I remember the boats and the farm, but what I remember most are the castle ruins.”
“Ah,” Basil said. “Castle Canaan. Yes, the ruins lie on Allonby land.”
“At one time, a De Wolfe stronghold.” Nathaniel cleared his throat and began to read. It felt quite odd, the sensation of looking forward to something. Not a feeling he’d often entertained. “Even the remains of it are impressive. Would have been quite the bastion in its heyday.”
“Then it appears history has come full circle, since a De Wolfe is set to take possession of it again,” Basil replied. “And as a result, I suggest you find yourself a bride and start producing heirs. It will be easier now that you have something other than a titled older brother as a lure.”
Nathaniel ignored the suggestion. He had no intention of marrying. He needed to make a will, not look for a wife. His nephews would be his heirs. “It would appear I’m to be reformed after all,” he said, reading through Great Aunt Beatrice’s letter, the exquisite penmanship once again finished off with the old lady’s chaotic signature. “This is an official invitation to spend the summer at Allonby Chase, to familiarize myself with the running of the estate.” He glanced at his brother. “You don’t think she’s ailing, do you? And I only ask that out of sincere concern.”
“No, I don’t think she’s ailing, but she is aging. She’s just being prudent. And realistic, of course. So, that gives you a month here to prepare, since I intend to lock this place up before the end of June.” Basil glanced about. “A little earlier than usual, but our social calendar is almost clear and the London air isn’t good for the boys. Lydia’s eager to get back to Northumberland. She’s never been keen on the city. Why are you looking so worried? This is a godsend, Nate. I hope you realize that.”
“I believe I’m beginning to.” Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair as he read the letter one more time. His heart had apparently unglued itself, for it now rattled along at a fine pace beneath his ribs. He shook his head and looked at his brother. “Bloody hell, Basil. My own estate?”
“One day.” Smiling, Basil leaned forward and pointed his chin at Ghost, who had stretched out beside the desk. “And he’s going to love it.”
* * *
“I remember the summer at Allonby Chase with great fondness, my lord,” Boscombe said, as he brushed several white dog-hairs off Nathaniel’s waistcoat. “Splendid countryside. You dragged me across most of it.”
“Mmm.” Nathaniel regarded himself in the mirror and adjusted his cuffs. “I do seem to recall you huffing your way over the hills.”
Boscombe pulled a clump of dog hair from the clothes brush and gave it a disapproving glance. “I never huff, my lord.”
Nathaniel suppressed a smile. “Then I must have imagined it.”
“I fear so.” Boscombe scowled as he picked another white dog hair off Nathaniel’s shoulder. “I must say, I’m beyond delighted to hear of your good fortune. I have long admired Lady Beatrice.”
“I’m still coming to terms with it all.” Nathaniel raised his chin and fussed with his cravat. “I can hardly remember the last time I saw the old bird. It was a year ago, apparently.”
“Indeed it was.” Boscombe’s brow furrowed as he stood back and inspected Nathaniel. “She travelled down for Lord Peverell’s wedding, and spent a night here. You were somewhat under the weather that weekend, as I recall.”
Still fiddling with his cravat, Nathaniel grunted. “So I’ve been told.”
Boscombe’s discerning gaze halted at Nathaniel’s throat. “Is that le nouveau mode, my lord? I declare I have never seen a cravat arranged in such an interesting fashion.”
Nathaniel dropped his hands and gave his valet a withering look. “Just fix it, Bossy. I have a rendezvous with a lady this evening.”
Boscombe’s nostrils flared. “How nice,” he said, retying Nathaniel’s cravat. “And is this, er, lady someone we might have the pleasure of meeting in the near future?”
Nathaniel frowned. “Probably not.”
“As I thought.” Boscombe straightened to regard his handiwork. “There, that’s better. I feel compelled to point out, my lord, that you’re unlikely to find ladies of a similar ilk in the wilds of Cumberland.”
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that.” Nathaniel tugged down on his shirt sleeves. “These next few weeks will serve as a farewell to my old life. I’m about to learn the whys and wherefores of rural lordship and farm husbandry, not to mention the mechanics of sea fishing. It will be a transformation of Benedictine proportions, I should imagine.”
“Indeed,” Boscombe said, in a grave manner. “Your dear mother, God rest her soul, would be proud beyond words.”
Boscombe had a knack of making a point by not actually making it. In other words, Nathaniel’s year-long departure from decorum would have broken his mother’s heart.
Of course, Nathaniel had felt the prod of his valet’s remarks before, but always ignored them. This time, for some reason, the comment gave him pause.
He regarded himself in the mirror for a moment longer. “To Hell with it,” he mumbled, and untied his cravat.
Boscombe frowned. “Is it not tied to your liking, my lord?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Nathaniel said, tugging the length of silk from around his neck. “I won’t be going out after all.”
“Are you unwell?”
“Not at all,” Nathaniel replied. “Just thought I’d see what it was like to spend an evening at home for a change. Where are the boys?”
“I, er…” Boscombe looked decidedly perplexed. “I believe they’re in the front parlor, my lord, playing cards with His Grace.”
“Good.” Nathaniel handed the cravat to his valet. “Bossy, did I ever tell you that you’re a thorough pain in the neck?”
“Many times, my lord,” Boscombe replied, “and apparently it is not always your neck which suffers. It was only last week, I believe, when you said I was a colossal pain in the—”
“Yes, I believe I do remember that,” Nathaniel said. “Thank you. I’ll not be needing you again this evening.”
Chapter Three
Five weeks later
Nathaniel’s coach had crossed the treacherous Lancaster Sands the previous evening. The direct route over the bay cut twenty miles from the journey, but the benefit came with a measure of risk, quicksand being the biggest danger.
Ahead, their ancient and rugged lines burnished by the sunset, stood the impressive range of Cumberland and Westmorland fells. The sight of them had sent a tingle of anticipation down Nathaniel’s spine. After a problem-free crossing, they’d stopped overnight in the quaint, medieval village of Cartmel.
Now, following another change of horses in Grasmere, the final few miles of their journey were disappearing beneath the stagecoach’s rumbling wheels. Ghost lay at his master’s feet, shifting every once in a while, as if unable to find a comfortable spot. Nathaniel sensed the hound’s pent-up energy. Indeed, he shared it. Pilot, Nathaniel’s horse, had been dispatched to Allonby Chase a full fortnight earlier, to be there and rested in readiness for his master’s arrival.
A faint snore interrupted Nathaniel’s musing. He regarded his valet’s haggard face with some concern, and a fair measure of compassion.
“A few days of proper rest for you when we reach Allonby Chase, Bossy,” Nathaniel muttered, turning his gaze back to the passing scenery. “No arguments.”
Not that Boscombe heard the remark. He slept, as he had f
or the past hour, propped in the corner of the coach, chin lolling on his chest. Nathaniel knew the week’s journey had been hard on his valet, but not once had the man complained.
As they drew near to Allonby Chase, Nathaniel slid the window down and drank in a lungful of damp air that stirred long discarded memories. Images sprang up from his childhood as he glanced at the gray skies. Ah, yes. He’d forgotten about the unpredictable weather; the mist that rolled in with the tides, and days of endless drizzle. Blue skies were less common in this wild, northern land, but when the sun did shine, few places he’d seen could match its beauty. He sucked in another breath and licked the salt from his lips.
At one time, this wide, lush valley, with its lively beck and rugged hills, had been of strategic importance, since it served as a thoroughfare to the borderlands and Scotland. Castle Canaan had been the mighty bastion that had stood guard over it.
Interest aroused by the blood connection, Nathaniel intended to do some digging, in the metaphorical sense. The first De Wolfe at Canaan had been an ancestral uncle, but Nathaniel knew little else, including the historical details of the fortress. He resolved to rectify that. After all, he was now heir to what remained of it.
“The Wolfe has returned,” he muttered, his heart quickening as he at last spied the familiar ruins atop a distant rise. Moments later, the conveyance halted at the gated entryway to Allonby Chase.
Boscombe stirred and opened his eyes. “Why have we stopped? Is something wrong?”
Nathaniel smiled. “We’ve arrived, Bossy, that’s why. They’re just opening the gates.”
“Arrived?” Boscombe blinked several times, cleared his throat, and peered out of the window. “I didn’t mean to sleep for so long, my lord. You should have awoken me.”
The coach jolted as the horses turned onto the gravelled carriageway.
“I had no reason to wake you,” Nathaniel said, casting a cursory glance at a small stone cottage nestling in the trees at the side of the carriageway. A pretty place. One he couldn’t recall from his previous visit.
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