“What possible assistance could I offer to you? You’re a Marquess now, and I am a lowly, abased, younger son, a younger son of a duke, but still… impoverished and without anything to offer anyone, or so my father says.”
“Your father is an ass,” Ambrose said. He meant it. Nathaniel Strong, the Duke of Farnesworth, was in fact a bit more than just an ass. He was, in short, a horrible human being.
“Yes… but I am a dismal failure. Dismissed by the company,” Sebastian said as he lifted his glass again.
“The East India Company dismissed you because your morals surpass their own. You did the right thing in refusing to follow their orders. But if you’ll sober up for long enough, I have another job for you. One that will certainly make better use of your skills and one that will set my own mind at ease. Greatly. I’ll also pay you a thousand pounds for it.”
“What is it?” Sebastian asked.
“My ward is in danger. I need you to find out what the source of that danger is and eliminate it.” The words were uttered with complete sincerity and Sebastian didn’t question him or how he knew it. In the history of their friendship, Ambrose’s ability to simply know and understand when danger was present had been established as fact, if a mysterious one.
“Your ward?”
“Miss Anne Everleigh,” Ambrose replied. “I should warn you that she is in residence there with my aunts. The whole household is quite odd. ”
“Define odd.”
Ambrose sighed. It was difficult to explain without painting her in an unflattering light. “She’s a spinster. Quite confirmed. And a bluestocking of note… with very odd ideas about the role of women in our society.
“A reformer?” Sebastian asked, in much the same way one would ask if someone were infected with the plague.
Ambrose laughed. “Hardly. She has no aspirations to change the world, my friend. She merely wishes to be in command of her own little corner of it. And I have allowed it, because my bride has left me with no other option. I have given her a small estate to manage… and she has not asked for my assistance, and yet, I cannot escape this feeling that has come upon me of late that something at Evenwold is terribly wrong.”
“Where is this estate?”
Ambrose sighed. This would be the true test of whether or not he would be able to count on Sebastian. “It’s in Sussex. Near Arundel.”
The near empty bottle of brandy smashed against the opposite wall. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not going back there… not for you or anyone.”
“I need you to do this, Sebastian… and I hesitate to invoke your promise, but you do owe me. By your own admission, you owe me,” Ambrose said.
“Bastard.”
“Desperate, Sebastian. I sent her there.” He hadn’t wanted to. She was family after all, but his new bride had demanded it, and what Penelope demanded she received. If not, the penalties were steep. He would not tell his friend that, he would not burden Sebastian with the woes of his newly married state. “I allowed her to go. If something happens to her it will be on my head and I cannot have that,” Ambrose stated.
“Your conscience will be the death of us both,” Sebastian mumbled.
“Perhaps. Even if it means souring our friendship by calling in your marker, then I will do whatever is necessary. My family’s safety is paramount to me, Sebastian. You understand that better than anyone.” Sebastian would agree. Ambrose knew that in the same way that he knew Anne was in danger. It was simply part of their family, like being tall and having dark hair. They all knew things.
Silence stretched between them for several moments. Ambrose simply waited patiently for his friend to relent.
“I’ll leave tomorrow,” Sebastian finally offered with a heavy sigh. “But tonight, I intend to drink another bottle of this cheap and awful brandy and I intend to drink it alone.”
Ambrose rose to his feet and gave a curt nod. “This will settle your debt to me in its entirety, Sebastian… and it may in fact indebt me to you. There are worse positions for you to be in, my friend.”
“Tell me that again when I am within shouting distance of my father’s estate while my former betrothed is birthing my brother’s heir.”
“You didn’t love her,” Ambrose said. “It’s your pride she wounded. Not your heart.” He was not an expert on matters of the heart by any stretch of the imagination, but having recently found himself married to a woman he could barely tolerate much less claim any real affection for, he found himself far more sympathetic to his friend’s plight than he might once have been. Love would not be a part of his life. At best, he could hope for a peaceful marriage, but even that seemed unlikely. Penelope was difficult, demanding, and colder than any woman he’d ever known.
“I’d rather it were my heart. It would surely sting less,” Sebastian said before taking another generous swig of the brandy.
“It would sting less, but would fester longer I’m certain. Thank you, Strong… I am in your debt.”
CHAPTER TWO
One Week Later
Anne was sweating. It was impossible really as ladies were most definitely not intended to perspire, and certainly not over a cooking fire in the kitchen of a manor house. And yet, there she was—stirring a pot and feeling her face go red from the steam. An exasperated breath escaped her. She was exhausted from working, but also from a general lack of sleep. It had been the wee hours of the morning when she’d been woken by the barking of dogs. Rising from her bed, she’d seen the dim glow of lanterns in the woods near the house. Too near.
The adventurers were growing bolder. Since her encounter in the barn, she’d taken extra precautions. She kept a weapon with her at all times when she was outside the house, but even that did not have the end result of making her feel safe. It was the hiding, she thought. It was the idea that someone was out there watching them, cataloguing their every move and peering into their lives. Her skin crawled at the very thought of it.
There were other things, of course. The glimpses of movement from the corner of her eye when she knew she was alone in the house. Sounds that could not be made either human or animal.
All her attempts to hire men from the village to patrol the grounds had failed miserably. They were left alone, and should anyone wish to make free with the house in the dark of night, there was naught but the three of them to stop them. Or at the very least, the three of them were the only living obstacles. It pained her to even consider the option that the rumors of ghosts might be true, but she had no other explanation for all the strange things that had been occurring. And if there were ghosts, what on earth was she to do about it? It was best, she thought, to focus on the things she might be able to control.
Anne reached for the salt cellar that had been on the table, but it was no longer there. Turning, she scanned the kitchen for it and saw it across the room on a shelf near the window. “How—never mind,” she muttered. It was a question she didn’t want answered if the truth were told.
Crossing the room, she retrieved the item and moved back to the stove. After adding a pinch of it to the stew, she stirred the pot and considered her options. Just as she managed to put the most recent event from her mind, her aunt breezed into the kitchen. It was an unlikely place for her.
Neither Minerva or Athena seemed to be aware of or even willing to contemplate the nature of the danger they might be facing but for her, it was all she could think of. Her aunts were somewhat insulated from the ugliness of the world, primarily because they seemed to live in a reality entirely of their own making. It was a luxury that she hadn’t been afforded herself. Brushing a damp curl back from her forehead, she winced as her hand bumped against the fading bruise at her temple. She looked down at the pot before her as if it were the cause of all her ills.
“It’s so very good for your skin, darling!”
Anne rolled her eyes at her aunt’s pronouncement. She would know. She and her sister spent the better part of their days peering over a cauldron like they were players in a travelin
g Shakespeare troupe. Had she really believed that living on a small estate, just the three of them, would be preferable to the life of luxury and ease they’d experienced at Ravenner Abbey? No. But she’d done her absolute best to convince herself that it would be an adventure, that it would be an opportunity to test her mettle and find out just what she was capable of. Apparently, she was capable of very poorly executed domestic skills and a bad temper.
Anne knew that her mood was more than likely the result of exhaustion. She hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few hours each night. Plagued by dreams, by worries about what was happening on her property, about who might be lurking in the darkness, watching them and waiting for an opportunity to pounce, she was beyond tired.
“I very much doubt that preparing mutton stew will become all the rage in beauty treatments,” she snapped.
Minerva pshawed. “Must you be so very literal? You could cook up something a bit more exotic if you’d a mind to do so!”
Anne glanced back at the lovely but impossibly dramatic woman who was draped from head to toe in silken scarves and wearing the most bizarre assortment of jewelry and charms that one person could ever don. Eyebrows arched in dismay at how the woman could be so oblivious to their present situation, Anne replied stridently, “Yes, I must do it, as exotic or not, we’ve nothing else for dinner! Every servant we have hired has fled. We are three women in the wilds of Sussex with no butler, no maids, no footmen, no housekeeper and no cook. And while you practice your spells and chant naked in the garden—which I tend—I’m working night and day to keep us fed and in clean clothes. If you really want to help, you’ll put a bit of laundry in that gigantic cauldron you’re so fond of!”
Minerva primped her lips in a disapproving moue. “The caldron is sacred, Anne. If you paid more attention to your gifts, you’d know that!”
“I’ll add it to my list of things to do… Sweep the floors, dust at least one room daily, clean clothes for the lot of us, tea, three meals daily, dodge the squire and his ham-handed attempts at romance, shoo away misguided treasure hunters… and learn to practice magic that I don’t believe in,” Anne snapped again. At the end of her patience and no longer able to tolerate the magical ramblings of a relative who was more burden than help, Anne took a calming breath and said firmly, “Minerva, if you’re not going to do kitcheny things, then perhaps you should not be in the kitchen!”
Minerva squared her shoulders, thrusting out her impressive bosom. “Very well. I will leave you to rule over your domain with an iron fist… But you might want to don gloves. You’re developing a callus. I noticed it last night when we held hands during the seance.”
Minerva breezed out, her scarves wafting behind her until it was seven wonders she didn’t set the whole house ablaze. Anne let out a heavy sigh. Athena was much easier to get on with, but Minerva could vex her like no other. As if on cue, Athena swept in.
If Minerva preferred the drama of robes and charms, Athena preferred to dress as her namesake. At forty, she was well beyond the need to dress like a debutante, but she continued to do so of her own free will. Draped from head to toe in intricately embroidered white muslin, she wore it in the true Grecian fashion with only one very thin petticoat beneath. Even in the chill of winter, she was practically nude. But Athena could very nearly pass for a young girl fresh from the school room, if not for her impressive figure so prominently displayed.
It was a common trait amongst the women of the family. They were taller than most men, broad of shoulder and hip, with bosoms that made dressmakers wail in dismay and posteriors that made those same dressmakers throw their hands up in frustration, just before they recalculated their fees based on the difficulty of dressing such problematic women.
Athena hugged her, just a gentle squeeze of her shoulders. “Anne, dearest, you mustn’t let her needle you so! Minerva means well.”
“She does not,” Anne protested. She was tired, so very, very tired. And being tired, she had little enough resources left to deal with Minerva and her love of dramatics. “She means to sit back while I work like a servant, and I’m tired of it. I cannot hire village girls to come and help with the work so long as you all insist on playing Hecate and her minion for all the world to see! My goodness, a century ago they would have burned you both at the stake!”
“And you,” Athena said. “Association, dear… You may not practice but you live with women who do. Actually dear, it was less than a century ago. They were still trying witches here as little as fifty years ago… though the punishment then was not nearly as steep. They haven’t burned a witch in Sussex in at least eighty years.”
If she hadn’t been elbow deep in the ingredients for their dinner, Anne would have banged her head against the wall in frustration. But then she would have dropped the potatoes, and she might have to peel more, and she dearly hated peeling potatoes. But she greatly enjoyed eating them. So instead, Anne shook her head. “You danced a waltz around the point I just made… an entire waltz. And possibly a reel, as well!”
“Oh, a waltz!” Athena cooed. “We haven’t been to a ball in ages!”
Again, there was a point that had been made and it had sailed directly past Athena and into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again. Anne shook her head sadly. “And we will not be attending any balls, Athena! We are spinsters. More to the point, we are considered to be odd spinsters,” she pointed out. “Especially since the two of you, in your infinite wisdom, elected to tell everyone in the village that you believe we are witches. We’ll likely never be invited anywhere again.”
Why on earth her aunts had thought that a good thing to broadcast to their neighbors was simply beyond her. And yet, they had. In the length of time they’d been at Evenwold they’d had only two callers—Squire Alcott and his sister.
Of course that was nothing unusual for her. Social invitations had never poured in for Anne, regardless of where she’d been. Her seasons in London, all three of them, had been dismal failures as she was too practical, too intelligent, too tall and frankly too broad to attract the attentions of most gentleman and ladies found her conversation to be to too intellectual.
While residing at Ravenner Abbey she’d been invited to local parties and balls as a courtesy to her grandfather and then to Ambrose, but the fact that her company was more tolerated than desired had been glaringly apparent. Now, labeled a witch by two well meaning if certifiably insane family elders, even the prospect of a new beginning at Evenwold had been ruined.
Only Squire Alcott and his sister continued to entertain them, but their motives were suspect at best. She had the sneaking suspicion that the Squire and his sister were far too interested in the abilities that Athena and Minerva claimed to posses. But it hadn’t been the Squire in the barn. She was certain of that. The intruder had been stronger, younger. Though how she knew that remained a mystery to her, she was still certain of it. Naturally, he’d also been quite a bit taller than the Squire who barely reached her shoulder. How on earth the man thought she would be able to ignore that, along with all his other glaring faults, was as much a mystery as their trespasser.
“Not believe! We are witches!” Athena corrected adamantly. “You may not practice but you are very powerful… Oh, Anne, if you would just join us for a spell or two, this house would be over run with willing servants.”
Anne threw her hands up and her voice had risen to a near shout as she replied, “Assuming, that magic is real, and that you, Minerva and I are capable of doing magic, it wouldn’t be free will that kept them in this house, would it?”
Athena frowned at that bit of logic. “Well, if you intend to be a stickler about it…”.
Minerva came rushing through the kitchen doorway. “Athena, he’s here!”
“Who is here?” Anne demanded as Athena squealed in delight.
“He is here!” Athena answered as if that told her all that she needed to know. Athena often strove for an air of mystery and drama but typically failed at it epically. This was no
exception as her proclamation was followed by a giggle reminiscent of a girl still in the school room.
As her aunts scampered away, Anne looked down at the alarmingly greasy mutton stew. “Whoever he may be, when we serve him this, he will not stay long!”
***
Sebastian eyed the door knocker with dismay. As a general rule, they were a functional thing. Some were intricately carved and ornate on grand homes, but Evenwold was hardly that. A smallish manor house nestled on the edge of heavy woods and surrounded by just a bit of farm land, it might have been pleasant, had his experiences up to his arrival not been so very strange. Now, staring down at the particularly buxom, brass mermaid adorning the door, it was sensual and even a bit risqué and seemed terribly out of place. Sebastian lifted the ring that was held between her hands and let it fall against the plate.
The door opened instantly, as if the two women who greeted him had been hovering just on the other side of it. They were stunning. Tall, curvaceous, each with a wealth of dark hair that trailed over their shoulders and down their backs, they could have been sirens luring men to a watery death. Except they were at least a mile from the sea, by his best estimation.
“Hello,” the first offered in a sultry, low pitched voice. While her tone might have been more suited to the bedroom, the coy and flirtatious tilt of her head was a gesture befitting a much younger woman, or perhaps even a young girl.
“Hello. I’m Lord Sebastian Strong here at the behest of the Marquess of Blackraven.”
The second of the two woman was much more direct. She stared at him with pure carnality shining from her dark gaze. Her eyes raked over him from head to toe, as if taking his measure. “He should have written… It would have been nice to know he was sending such a temptation into our midst. We could have orchestrated a proper welcome for you, Lord Strong! Do come in and let us show you all that our hospitality has to offer.”
It was equal parts seduction and threat, he realized. Lifting his bag from the doorstep, he followed the women into the house and considered the grand scale of the mistake he’d made in agreeing to Blackraven’s offer. The other man’s assertion that anyone in the village would be able to direct him had failed to warn him that while they could, they might very well refuse to. Every person he’d spoken to, every one he’d importuned for direction to Evenwold had behaved as if he’d grown a second head.
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