Determination had firmed and within a week she’d made her way to Northumberland and Waithe Hall. Bentley Close had been shut as well, but unlike Waithe Hall, a skeleton staff kept the estate running. Along with her maid, Alexandra had arrived late last night though she hadn’t been in a position to set out for Waithe Hall until late this afternoon. Her plan had always been to spend a few days here, but the rain made it so she now had no choice.
She would rather be here than in London anyway. Besides pretending she was unaffected by those who called her odd, her younger sister had finally made her debut at the grand old age of twenty. Lydia was taking society by storm, determined to wring every ounce of pleasure out of her season, and she had confidently informed their parents she didn’t intend to wed until she had at least three seasons behind her. At first horrified, their parents had resigned themselves to neither of their daughters marrying any time soon.
As the eldest of her parents’ children and a female besides, she had borne the brunt of their expectations in that respect, but at least Harry had now brought them some joy. He and Madeline Pike were to marry next year, the wedding of the heir to a marquisette and a duke’s daughter already touted as the event of the season. George had absconded to the continent, no doubt investigating the most macabre medical reports he could, while Michael was still at Eton.
Upstairs, a door slammed shut. Alexandra jumped, hand flying to her racing heart. It was the wind. It had to be. Even now it howled outside, rain pelting the roof and echoing through the hall as distant thunder rolled.
Hugging the notebook to her chest, she shucked off any concerns. There was no time like the present. She would start with an examination of the ground floor. The kitchens and servants rooms would take an age, so better to examine the family rooms and save the servants for another time.
The portrait gallery was as she remembered, a long stretch of hall that displayed the Farlisles in all their permutations. Quickly, she traversed its length, telling herself the dozens of eyes of previous Farlisles did not follow her, that they did not judge her an unwelcome guest. Cold slid up her spine and she moved faster, especially as she passed the portrait of the old earl and his sons, Maxim staring solemnly from the portrait.
Pretending she felt not a skerrick of unease, she noted the gallery’s dimensions in her diary and moved on to the second sitting room. Again, nothing in particular was out of the ordinary.
The library was at the end of the corridor, and the door opened easily under her hand. It really was most obliging of the steward not to have locked any of the doors inside the estate. This room was vastly different to her remembrance. Few books lined the shelves thick with dust, and holland covers draped most of the furniture, although one of the high-backed arm chairs before the fire was lacking the covering. Peculiarly, one of the windows here was unshuttered, the weak light of storm-dampened twilight casting eerie shadows on the wall opposite.
She’d always loved the library and its two storeys containing rows upon rows of books. As children, she’d insisted she and Maxim spend an inordinate amount of time within its walls, happily miring herself in book after book. Maxim had always been bored within seconds, spending his time tossing his ever-present cricket ball higher and higher in the air to see if he could hit the ceiling two floors above. He’d even managed it, a time or two.
Sharp pain lodged beneath her breast. Rubbing at her chest, she took a breath against it, pulling herself to the present. Somehow, night had encroached upon the room. How long had she been stood there, lost in memory?
Moving further into the room, she trailed her fingers over the side table next to the undraped chair. A stack of thick books was piled high, the top one containing a marker. Why was there a stack of books? Had an apparition placed them there?
A prickle rippled along her skin. She’d never seen a ghost. She’d heard hundreds, thousands of stories, but she’d never— Steadying herself, she flipped open the book to the spot marked, noting it was a history of the Roman invasion and settlement of Cumbria. Sections and rows were underlined with pencil, writing filled the margins, and there was something about the hand….
Closing the book, she placed it back on the stack. Why was this here? Every other part of Waithe Hall she’d seen had been closed, shut away. This room held an uncovered chair, a stack of books and…the fireplace held recent ashes.
Her heart began to pound.
Again, something—a door?—banged. Whirling around, she searched the encroaching dark, her gaze desperate as her chest heaved. What if the lights weren’t a ghost? What if it was a vagrant, someone dangerous and unkind? What if…what if it were a murderer?
The agitated sound of her breathing filled the room. Getting a hold of herself, she reined her imaginations in. Her thoughts could—and frequently did—run to the extreme. Though these anomalies were curious, there could be a perfectly mundane reason for their presence. There was nothing out of the ordinary, besides the books, and the fireplace, and— She took a breath. Calm, Alexandra. She was purportedly an investigator. She would investigate.
The fireplace had without doubt been used recently, newly cut logs placed in a neat pile to the side, while sconces held half-used candles, their wicks blackened and bodies streaked with melted wax. She could see no other signs of occupation—
Something banged for a third time, closer now, and brought with it a howling wind. Alexandra jumped, grabbing at the table for balance as the door to the library flew open, the heavy wood banging against the wall, the books wobbling and threatening to fall. Blood pounding in her ears, she looked to the darkened maw of the library’s entrance.
An indistinct white shape filled the door, hovering at least five feet above the floor.
A scream lodged in her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound, could only stare as the thing approached.
Lightning crashed, flashing through the room. She gasped, a short staccato sound that did little to unlock her chest.
Lightning crashed again. The shape became distinct in the brief flash of light, revealing a man dressed in shirt sleeves and breeches, his dark hair long about his harsh face. A strong, handsome face that held traces of a boy she’d thought never to see again.
Blood drained from her own face, such she felt faint. “Maxim?”
Find FINDING LORD FARLISLE here
Other books by Cassandra Dean
Stand Alones
Enslaved
Teach Me
Scandalous
The Diamond Series
Rough Diamond
Fool’s Gold
Emerald Sea
The Silk Series
Silk & Scandal
Silk & Scorn
Silk & Scars
Silk & Scholar
Silk & Scarlet
Tales of Dormiraa
Slumber
Awaken
Lost Lords
Finding Lord Farlisle
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe
Stealing Lord Stephen
Anthologies
Second Chances
The Mammoth Book of ER Romance
Smut in the City
Smut by the Sea
Box Sets
The Diamond Series Box Set
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Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 15