Chapter Three

L ady Daniella never understood why a woman of twenty was considered ‘on the shelf.' She was neither a book nor a dish, and, with every passing year as the weight of societal expectations fell away, she felt more invigorated than ever.

She'd had her fair share of proposals. Eight, in fact. An unheard-of number of offers with no acceptances. After the first refusal, society had congratulated her on her sensible and discerning taste. After the fifth, society had dubbed her the less complimentary title: ‘London's greatest tease.'

Her mother was beside herself with exasperation. Her papa merely shook his head each time a suitor left his office, knowing whatever dandy came to call, fortune hunter or saint, his daughter would never have him.

It had been rotten luck to find the perfect man at the end of her first season. After a disappointing round of balls and rides in Hyde Park with people far too charmed by their pretentious outlooks, the dark and mysterious man—though not to her—had disrupted her life with adventure and passion, subsequently ruining every other man in recent and future acquaintance.

And then he'd vanished into the night, never to be seen again, and leaving her with a kiss that was seared in her memory for all time.

Danny sat in the Deime Townhouse drawing room, her book open in her lap and her concentration broken—a travesty Lord Mullbury had ruined her reading since her most recent study on the growing industry of America was fascinating—when her papa entered.

For a man of five and fifty, he was quite square jawed and shouldered, adding another layer of intimidation to his six-foot height and esteemed title.

Lord Bromley nodded silently to her chaperone—a matronly woman by the name of Mrs. Pebblestone, the woman and her name a credit to her inflexible outlook on propriety—and the woman quit the room, leaving Daniella alone with her papa.

"You refused him," Lord Bromley said. It wasn't a question.

The Earl of Mullbury had left, coattails flung behind him, with a loud shout of, "What an insult!"

She was sure the neighbors had heard the disgusting outburst through the brick and mortar.

Her papa, the Earl of Bromley, picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantel and glanced her way as if to check her current state. "He was rather vocal." He shook his head. "No, it wouldn't do to have a son-in-law so in love with his own voice. Better to wait for someone more reserved."

Danny closed her book and rose. She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand, eternally grateful for her papa's revolutionary ideas on his daughter's happiness—as in, believing it mattered.

Her mother may have thought Danny was the manifestation of past sins—the reason Lady Bromley was currently church-bound on a Tuesday morning to pray for a more pliable and obedient daughter—but her papa never gave reproach. If the earl thought anything unbecoming of her refusal of eight proposals—nine, including Lord Mullbury—he hid it behind genuine humor and an unfashionably oiled mustache.

"Thank you, Papa."

He released her hand and turned to the fireplace. "I believe you are a woman of sound mind and impeccable character. If you were a son, I daresay you'd be a force unparalleled by your peers." He shook his head. "But you are not a son, and a father does wonder." He patted her shoulder. "You are of fine design and good humor. It is of no wonder why men seek your hand. Old, young, rich, connected. Lord Mullbury, while a honking goose, has an income any man would covet."

Danny waited. She'd learned men—especially the more internal and cautious of speech, like her papa—had a tendency to speak plainly when given a reflective partner.

He sighed. "Your mother wishes you to marry."

Danny cringed. "And you, Papa?"

He huffed and put the pipe in his mouth, though he would not light it until she'd left the room. "I wish for your brother to take over my seat in the House of Lords. I wish for your sister to remember her place in public. You..." He smiled. "My wishes for you are selfish ones, my Danny. If you were to marry and leave, I would need to immerse myself in modern employment to avoid your siblings' natural inclinations towards dramatic nonsense. And I am far too old to start any new endeavors."

It was not an uncommon statement for her papa. Her siblings were indeed full of sport and vigor, but his cadence held a note of reservation that normally gave way to humor. Today, it gave way to silence.

"Something is troubling you?" she said.

He waved her concern away. "It's of no importance."

"Papa." She waited.

He smiled and relented. "There's been commotion over the succession of the Grandfellow title and estate."

"No heir was found?"

"One was found. By Bernard's estimations, a most suspicious man. Didn't believe the truth of it until the old man had given the full family tree."

Their families as close as blood, her papa and the late Duke of Grandfellow had been friends since boyhood—both sharing a neighboring plot as well as the use of the same puffed-up solicitor. Danny took her papa's hand again. "I'm sure the man was surprised is all."

Her papa smiled over their clasped hands. "Just so. I plan to ride over this afternoon and offer my support and aid as the new duke settles in."

Danny's heart gave a squeeze thinking of a stranger living in the house of the man they'd all loved so dearly. The former duke wouldn't hear of his neighbors and friends using his title. As a child, Danny had known Lord Grandfellow only as ‘Uncle Jack,' the man who'd boosted her into trees when her little arms couldn't reach the branches, or the man who'd offered her lemon candies before dinner when nothing but gamey pheasant and boar had been on the menu.

When her governess had scolded her for her informal greeting to His Grace, Danny made sure to use the proper honorifics at their next weekly dinner. To which she'd received the greatest lecture of her life, from a man—the refined and honorable Duke of Grandfellow—as he'd rolled up his sleeves and pointed to every scar he'd ‘earned' chasing around his beloved goddaughter.

The man had been a staple in her life for its entirety. And now he was gone.

Danny pushed away her grief and offered her papa a smile. "Uncle Jack would approve of your charity and neighborly concern. Shall I accompany you?"

It wouldn't be proper, she knew. Gentlemen greeted other gentlemen as strangers before formally introducing acquaintances, but the Grandfellow and Bromley estates had a long history of friendly connections, and the rules of propriety were laxer in the country than in the city. And, frankly, she didn't want her papa to be alone when he rode by the family cemetery and saw his friend's name carved in grey stone.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, his smile warming. "You know I'd never turn down your company." His smile turned sly. "We'll take the curricle, if you don't mind? I'd like to drive today."

Knowing the two-person carriage would make it impossible for one rock-named chaperone to accompany them, Danny returned his smile. "I don't mind at all, Papa." She dropped a kiss on his cheek. "I'll go change."

She headed for the door, prepared to clip any emotional threads if it meant staying strong for her papa's sake. She'd be civil and charming no matter what the new duke was like.

But as she glanced back at her papa, his pipe forgotten in his hand and staring into the cold hearth with that same blank expression he'd had when he'd received news his oldest friend had passed, her heart gave a painful ache. She vowed, duke or not, whoever the new Duke of Grandfellow was, if the man so much as insinuated insult to her papa, she'd take the dandy by the ear and give him a tongue lashing to rival those of her dearly departed Uncle Jack.

*

Death has to be better than this , Percy thought.

Standing in the drive, Percy sneered up at what had to be the grandest house in the English countryside.

Columns—taller than the mighty oaks along the drive—lined the front of the house in startling white marble and supported a triangular overhang that had to run a mile long from edge to edge. The yard in front lay green and lush, broken only by a staircase that had been impressive even from the bend on the carriage ride over.

With the inconvenient death of the previous Duke of Grandfellow—a pretentious name if ever he'd heard one—and a rather annoying family relation, Percy was expected to move into this ghost mansion, or whatever pompous name the structure was given: Grand Manor. Grand Hall. Kill Me Now Estate. Damned nuisance!

As if he needed the trouble of a big house and a nosy staff gossiping to every wagging tongue and grocer about his comings and goings.

And then there'd be the introductions. As misfortune had it, with the season being two weeks from over, every lord and lady would migrate to their country estates—too close to not stop by—and offer their names to the new lord in residence. There'd be country balls and weekly fairs, and idle chitchat.

Forget the blasted servants. He'd cross the border into Scotland and leave the title to rot.

"Your Grace?"

Percy eyed the man approaching in pressed pants and a sharp tailcoat, the grey at his temples and in his vest stating for the whole world the man was the butler of this monstrous house. The man didn't even have the decency to be overweight and balding. Lean and clear eyed, he no doubt would be a credit to his position and impossible to tolerate.

Percy rubbed the ache in his temples seeing the other servant in the butler's wake, a woman in middle-age wearing a frown sharp enough to cut a would-be duke in two.

Remembering the names from the solicitor, he asked, "Which of you is Smith and which is Lancaster?"

The woman stepped forward. "I am Mrs. Smith." She nodded in the direction of her counterpart. "This is Mr. Lancaster. Would you care to meet the rest of the staff, or would you prefer a tour of the house and grounds, Your Grace?"

The noose or the firing squad? There were forty-two servants lining the front stairs—he couldn't help counting—starting from the top step all the way down to the rough gravel drive.

It would take a man half a day to make that climb. "Grounds," he said.

Mrs. Smith nodded and called a man in a smart frock coat and brown gaiters over. "This is the groundskeeper, Your Grace. Any questions you have about the property, Mr. Brinkley can answer. I shall be in the study working on the household accounts when you wish to address the running of the staff."

With a single clap of her hands, the servants dispersed, revealing the full scale of the grand, stone steps. A mountain of limestone to ascend after miles of walking across meadow, moor, and whatever auspicious topiary garden an estate like this had to have somewhere to impress people who wouldn't know the difference between a maple and a bonsai tree.

Percy groaned, his feet aching already. "Let's go in the back entrance when we're done."

Mr. Brinkley nodded. "As you like, Your Grace. Where would you care to start? Gardens? Stables? Lakes?"

Percy didn't miss that all options came in the plural. He should've changed into his moleskin instead of the coat and boots he'd worn into the solicitor's office. Any jaunt in nature and his ensemble would be hopelessly ruined, along with his feet. "What's closest?"

"The hedge maze," Mr. Brinkley said, nodding towards the south side of the estate, where Percy had mistaken a massive wall of trimmed shrubbery for a single-level addition.

The full scale of the maze indiscernible from this angle, Percy sighed and waved the man on. Maybe he'd get lucky and find himself lost in the maze for the next decade, where he could grow monstrous and wild. A damning Minotaur let loose to pass judgement on unsuspecting heroes. Not that baring his torso and legs would work. He was far too fond of his toes to skulk around naked when the snow hit.

No, he would be a wraith, darkness lingering in the shadows of his victims. He nodded to himself, sure if any of these refined servants were privy to his thoughts, they'd run screaming for the hill of stairs before disappearing into the house. An option for later if the staff became unmanageable.

He smiled. Yes, he would do nicely as the ghost of...

"What is the name of the house?" he asked.

Mr. Brinkley pushed aside a low-hanging vine to reveal a small opening between the hedge, where a neat, wooden gate stood open in invitation. "Fellow Hall, Your Grace. Though the parks on the grounds all have different names."

To make it easier to identify to which their lord and master referred when demanding trimming or sprucing, no doubt.

Percy rolled his eyes. "Fellow Hall." That wouldn't do at all. No one would flee in terror from the Ghost of Fellow Hall . Not when it sounded like an advertisement for recruiting militia.

"Any way to change the name?" Percy asked, three darker, albeit inappropriate for society to mention, descriptors coming to mind.

The older man scratched his head, displacing his cap and revealing disheveled, greying hair.

"Not sure about any of that. My knowhow is for greens and horses. You got questions about those and I'm your man. The rest..." Mr. Brinkley shrugged. "Seeing as the place is yours, don't see why you couldn't call it anything you like."

Percy spied another door at the far side of the entrance to the maze, impenetrable walls standing seven feet on all sides in spiny-looking shrubbery sharp enough to draw blood. Renaming the maze ‘Fellow Prison' wouldn't be out of the question.

"If you're up for suggestions?" Mr. Brinkley said.

Percy cocked a brow, hoping he hadn't imagined the spirited tone in the other man's voice. "Eh?"

Mr. Brinkley nodded in the direction of a stone statue of a woman tipping an urn, the contents a mystery.

"That there is called The Grieving Woman ."

Not so mysterious, then. How gothic and morbid. Perhaps the place wouldn't be so insufferable. Percy asked, "The previous duke commissioned it?"

"Nah." The other man rubbed his chin. "Been here since the original construction." He shuddered. "Always gave me the creeps as a kid." Mr. Brinkley ducked his head. "Pardon, Your Grace. I was raised on the grounds. Took over from my father when he passed."

Percy waved his apology away, along with an unpleasant sense of kinship to the man's circumstances. "No need to placate my sensibilities, Mr. Brinkley. The whole place looks like a marble mausoleum."

The older man grinned. "Not a bad name there."

Percy's smile was a surprise, as was the man's informality. "Shall we compromise? How about ‘The Woman's Crypt'?"

Mr. Brinkley returned the smile. "I'm partial to the Grieving Mausoleum myself."

"Then ‘The Grieving Mausoleum' it is! Well done, Mr. Brinkley. I say, you've a new skill to add to your repertoire. I shall have you rename all the parks on the estate by the end of the day." He twirled his hand to encompass the whole around them. "I assume they're all just as bad?"

In his element or finding solace in the new duke's relaxed demeanor, Mr. Brinkley leaned in conspiratorially and said with no shame, "Wait until you visit Fellow Pleasure Park. It has so many nude sculptures, the name is justified."

Wondering if any of the sculptures depicted a goddess in a tight-fitting dress with hair that looked like coiled silk, Percy inclined his head. "Lead the way, good man. Daylight is wasting."