by Hazel Hunter
As they walked past the painted outer wall of the dining room, Meredith stopped and looked up at him. “What of Emerson’s journals? Harshad never had the chance to remove them from the cases. Do we dare to leave them behind?”
“I think we must.” Thorne watched her frown. “We can replace the children’s books to conceal the cache. As you said, only we will know they are there.”
“Perhaps it is best to leave some of Dredthorne’s secrets for others to delve.” She tucked her arm through his. “And you may make me very unhappy, and I will leave you and return here to wallow in my misery over our broken marriage. I will need something to read.”
“You will never leave me,” Thorne predicted. “But I might leave you.”
“Then I will know where to find you, and what you are reading.” She tugged him away from the wall. “Come along. You must make good on your threat to ravish me a dozen times a day. I am keeping count, you know.”
He kissed her temple. “I am never leaving you.”
A week after the Thornes and the Naveyas departed Renwick for their new home in the west, Dredthorne Hall stood empty, wrapped in a thick cloak of winter white. Frost had crept up the windows, furring some of the panes and etching glittering scrolls across others. Within its cold walls the hearths stood empty, and the furnishings draped in dust cloths. Behind the Pandora panel in the dining room the hidden library once more lay concealed, its cache of secrets hidden behind rows of children’s books.
Night fell, and day rose. In the darkness creatures that crept near the hall sniffed at its doors and windows before slinking away. After dawn, sunshine poured over the soot-stained chimneys and ice-coated roof tiles, melting the lightest layers, and causing cracks in the thick white beneath them. Birds, now gone south to warmer climes, no longer brightened the air with their songs. The estate seemed enchanted, and asleep, as if trapped by some fairytale curse.
Yet on this day horse-drawn carts creaked slowly along the drive, each filled with wood and plaster and boxes of tools, driven by men with weathered faces and shrewd eyes. More men followed the carts in wagons, their homespun garments rough, their hands shiny with calluses. They gathered in front of the hall in a loose, uneasy group. Mutters about the place were traded, outlandishly embellished and cuttingly simple.
Three people had fallen to their deaths here less than a month past. Everyone needed work, no one particularly wanted this job.
“Right then. We’re to finish the flooring on the third, and then begin the tower.” The carpenter Thorne had hired as his foreman gestured to the other men. “We’ve got a pile of work, lads, let’s get on with it.”
As the men reluctantly retrieved their tools and supplies to carry them inside, a few looked up at the dark windows above them. From their angle it seemed as if the house had eyes fixed on them. One of the more religious men made the sign of a cross over himself. Others thought longingly of home, and family, and whiskey, or anything that would keep them from looking into those huge black eyes.
Dredthorne Hall remained as it had always been, silently watching them.
THE END
• • • • •
Another adventure awaits you in Mistress of Darkness (Dredthorne Hall Book 2)
For a sneak peek, turn the page.
Sneak Peek
Mistress of Secrets (Dredthorne Hall Book 2)
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
Nothing had ever been good enough for Regina; not even her fiancée. As Gwen listened to the soft clapping of the horse’s hooves against the packed snow, she reviewed her sister’s cryptic letter again. Its meaning was clear, even if it was lacking in the thousand specifics Gwen would have liked: Regina had run away from home. Her betrayal still carried a razor edge of pain. Her sister had run away mere weeks before the elaborate wedding that Gwen and her mother had spent months planning, preparing, and slaving over. She wasn’t merely thoughtless. Regina was ungrateful. Gwen would have done anything for the beautiful, white-and-crystalline celebration that she and her mother had devoted so many countless hours to making possible.
“Regina, where are you?” she whispered into the growing country darkness.
The crisp air, with a few gently pirouetting snowflakes, made the jingling of the halter sing all the clearer in Gwen’s ears. The sound reminded her not of Christmas, but of the tiny, sparkling bells that they had imported from Paris specifically for her absent sister’s nuptials. Gwen had been looking forward, with a tinge of jealousy, to the sound of so many bells ringing while Regina and Christopher walked down the aisle. Now, all that Gwen had to look forward to was the dread responsibility of her current mission. Gwen, older and only sister, now carried the weight of telling poor Christopher that his willful bride had become wayward.
Gwen sighed, closing her eyes, trusting the horse to do its work. The loss of her sister was almost too much for her to bear. Regina had been a constant presence in Gwen’s life, and she had never thought that they would be apart. They would marry and live in the same town, see each other every Sunday for dinner, raise their children together...
I do not know who I am anymore, Regina had written in a wobbly script. But I know that I cannot be with Christopher, not now. Perhaps not ever.
If there was a hideous truth behind her words, Regina’s parting message did not specify it. Gwen’s own letter to Christopher avoided telling him any of the dire news.
Please, meet me, sir. I need to speak with you about my sister and my family as soon as can be arranged.
Gwen’s note was enigmatic, perhaps, but it wouldn’t be right to tell Christopher the crushing news in any other way than in person. She had at least been able to summon that much courage.
She peered ahead and spied Dredthorne Hall looming in the distance. The house was foreboding, a large harbinger of doom, if the rumors from town were to be believed. Gwen knew some of the details of the place already. It was of overwhelming size, with fifty-eight rooms and four floors, and was one of the oldest halls in the region. Gwen spared a thought for the poor staff that would have to keep the house. It reminded her of an aged lady of class and manners who had once been beautiful in her prime. While the overarching structure was still there, the details were fading into the background, overwhelmed by time, decay, and inevitability.
How the Sheratons came to own it or what exactly they planned to do with the place was less clear to Gwen. She had avoided the family prior to the engagement due to the poor manners of Christopher’s older brother, Robert. She hoped that her mission to Christopher could be completed without having to deal with that ogre. It was fortunate that Regina had found a match with such a worthy family, but that did not mean Gwen had to like her new brother-in-law. Her mind hurried to correct the detail: the man who could have become a brother-in-law had Regina not vanished into the night with little more than a crumpled piece of paper left behind.
The rig rolled past the gate, the gentle beat of hooves on snow being replaced by the clack against brick. Stately twin lions carved from Italian marble sat atop pedestal columns and seemed to gaze down on her in disapproval. Gray slate roofs capped the soft buff stone of the house. Two towers flanked it, as though it were a small castle. The closer she got, the higher its weathered facade rose, along with her anxiety. Gwen took a deep breath as she slowed the rig to a stop. She was up to this task, she assured herself, for she had to be. There was simply no escape from it, short of finding her lost sister.
A footman approached and held out his hand to help her. She took it, lifting her dress as she stepped down, and it took everything in her to keep her face agreeable at the sight that greeted her. In that moment, she desperately wished that her home was close enough to Dredthorne Hall for her to return this evening, but nothing was close to Dredthorne Hall.
Robert Sheraton, Christopher’s elder brother, stood tall in the midst of a small army of servants, with no Christopher in sight. The older brother’s dark hair and eyes matched his somber dress. He wor
e a white shirt, cravat, and waist coat, accompanied by a black jacket and trousers.
Gwen had the prudence to withhold the groan that he inspired. There was nothing about Robert that appealed to her. He was prickly, quick to speak his anger, easy to enrage, and condescending. Robert made friends with no one, and had always seemed to prefer it that way. She watched as he tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear and his movement reminded her of her own appearance. She smoothed her skirts and tried to stand taller as she approached him.
Hiding her displeasure as best she could, as she had been trained, Gwen said, “Mr. Sheraton, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
With satisfaction, she noted that she had managed to sound the perfect picture of politeness. If Robert could find anything disagreeable in their meeting, it would not be her words.
He cleared his throat, smoothing a minuscule wrinkle along his coat, and bowed slightly.
“Miss Archer. How wonderful to see you,” he said with a deep voice that was suited to his large frame. But she wondered if anything he spoke besides her name was true, remembering their last encounter, in her youth. “My brother has not yet arrived from London. He asked that you remain here to await his presence in order to personally receive your….news.”
• • • • •
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Dedication
For Mr. H.
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 Hazel Hunter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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