Chapter Two

"A nother invitation?" Virgil asked as he set a glass of brandy on the table next to Ambrose Grey's elbow.

Ambrose sat in his favorite chair before the fire in his study, reading the letters he'd set aside from earlier. Outside, the wind howled, and a branch scratched against one of the windowpanes. "Two invitations," he replied to his butler. "Rothden is requesting my presence for Christmas this year. He seems eager to introduce me to his new bride." His long-time friend, Gabriel Hawthorne, Earl of Rothden, surprised everyone some months back with a sudden marriage to an unknown woman of no social standing. By the sound of his letter, he was besotted with her.

Ambrose rubbed at the uncomfortable tug in his chest and avoided thoughts of his own marital future. Gabriel had once declared himself an eternal bachelor, while Ambrose had hoped to find a sweet woman to settle down with. Odd how their fortunes could change so swiftly.

"And the other letter?" Virgil asked.

"My cousin, Patience, extending an invite to her home for Christmas as she does every year."

"And every year you decline."

"I must."

The butler hummed a sound that said he was unconvinced.

Ambrose shoved to his feet and tossed the letters on his desk. With the storm brewing, the post wouldn't run for a day or two anyway. There was no rush to torture himself with replies. "You know why I must decline," he growled.

"Of course, my lord."

"I can no more leave here than I can ask anyone to visit."

"Most assuredly."

Bloody patronizing man. Ambrose blew out a harsh breath. "What would you have me do, Virgil? Throw the doors open wide? Invite everyone that I love to visit and hope I don't go mad and hurt them?

Virgil clasped his hands behind his back. "That would be most unpleasant. But are you certain that you would pose a threat when you leave here? After all, you've only left once since—"

"Once was enough." Years ago, before he truly believed in the family curse, he'd come to Greyhaven Manor. He'd been warned away by his mother and grandmother, but as the Earl of Stamford, he'd needed to take account of all properties in his holdings. That day changed everything. The dark whisperings he thought were meant to scare a young boy into behaving were far more real than he'd imagined. The Grey family line was cursed, and he was proof. He should never have stepped onto this property. The one time he'd left, the voices had become so loud that his ears rang and he'd fallen unconscious for a full day.

"Shall I bring a tray in here for your supper, my lord? Mary made a delightful mutton stew."

"Very good." Maybe a warm meal would help him face those letters. "What news have you of this storm?" He squinted out the nearest window, straining to see past the reflected glow of the room into the darkness. Something banged against the side of the house, and the wind howled. Rain pelted the glass.

"It's growing stronger. I daresay it will last at least through the night. We may see snow," Virgil replied.

"Truly?" It was rare for snow to fall in November, but not unheard of.

"I shall put in an order for sunshine post haste, my lord."

Impudent man. Ambrose huffed a laugh. "Do let me know the cost. If it's exorbitant, I may keep the rain and snow."

Virgil bowed, a grin teasing his lips, and slipped from the room.

There were only a handful of servants left at Greyhaven since the ancestral estate became his new home. Most had left within the first weeks, frightened and wary of him when he stormed through the manor searching for the source of the voices or covered his ears, begging for them to stop. The rest, like Virgil and his wife, Mary, remained loyal. For that, he was grateful. With the absence of his friends and loved ones, Ambrose had grown lonely.

He returned to his chair before the fire and sipped his brandy. The letters would wait. After his supper, he would find a book to read and retire to his room, as he did every night. Perhaps tomorrow he would consider a response.

His thoughts drifted as he stared into the fire, listening to its crackle and the moaning wind outside. Why did the curse only afflict the men of his family, and only once they came to Greyhaven Manor? Not that he had any hope of breaking whatever bespelled his line. What madness existed lingered in his blood and his mind. Nothing could remove it now.

It was several moments before he realized that the moan he heard wasn't the wind or the swelling storm.

Ambrose swallowed his sip of brandy, which felt as if it turned to stone in his throat, and inched toward his stomach. He closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the whispers. They sounded as if they came from a distance. Unintelligible, but as real as if a dozen guests spoke at once, several rooms away.

He rose from his chair and paced before the fire, his muscles tense, and his stride quick. "Go away," he yelled.

The sound grew in volume until it was all he could hear and yet he still couldn't make out the words. Was this how his ancestors had felt when they'd realized that their sanity was slipping away? The helplessness? The hopelessness?

Ambrose had sequestered himself for more than two years. How much longer did he have before the last shreds of his mind vanished, leaving him raving mad or worse, violent like his great-grandfather? None of the men of his family who came to this place lived past their thirty-ninth birthday. At thirty-eight, Ambrose was mere weeks away.

China clattered behind him. He jumped and his heart thundered in his chest. Ambrose spun to find his butler entering the study with a tray laden with food.

"Apologies, my lord. I bumped my elbow on the door frame."

Ambrose watched him set the tray down on a sideboard and set the dishes out. "You're in danger here," he said softly.

Virgil eyed him. "If you say so, my lord."

"Perhaps you and Mary should leave. Take the others with you."

"If I was meant to tuck my tail like a dog and run, I should have done so two years ago, my lord. I didn't leave then. I shan't now. Besides, I'm certain you would starve and never bathe were I to leave. That would be a curse on anyone."

Ambrose's heart warmed. "If ever there comes a time when—"

"There will not."

"How can you be certain that I won't become a danger to you and the others?" It was a question Ambrose asked himself daily.

"My missus has a sense about these things. She's never wrong." Virgil looked at the storm. "It's begun to snow, as she said it would."

"What else did she say?" Ambrose returned to his chair and accepted a bowl of stew.

"I ought not say."

He paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. Virgil never withheld his thoughts. That was one of his finest qualities. Ambrose swallowed the bite of the savory stew and focused on his butler. "Then I insist that you do."

The butler shifted from foot to foot. "The storm. It brings changes to us all."

"What sort of changes?"

Virgil rearranged the position of Ambrose's brandy on the small table beside him and set a plate of thick bread down.

"Virgil."

"The storm brings someone with it."

How the bloody hell could a storm bring someone here? "Who?"

His man shrugged. "The missus didn't say, and I know better than to ask. As she often tells me, if I was meant to know, then I'd have the sense and not her."

Regardless, the likelihood of someone traveling in this weather was quite slim, and no one came to Greyhaven. "Thank her for the delicious stew."

"Of course, my lord. Might I get you anything further?"

"Has Alfred had his supper?" No sooner had the words left his mouth when a loud meow came from the doorway. Alfred the Great sauntered in, howling louder than the wind outside, his striped, orange tail twitching in irritation. "Apparently not."

"His royal highness, Alfred, would have had his supper if he'd roused himself from the cushion in the drawing room." Virgil narrowed his eyes at Ambrose's cat.

"Be that as it may, we shall not hear the end of his complaints until his stomach is satisfied. You can bring the food in here. I'd enjoy his company for a time."

Alfred hopped up on the arm of the chair and pushed his head into Ambrose's arm, a rumbling purr vibrating through the touch. It settled the restlessness he felt. The fear and the worry for the future faded, along with the hollowness in his chest whenever he looked at the letters.

"As you wish," Virgil said and quietly left the room.

"What do you think of this storm, Alfred?" Ambrose asked the cat.

His feline companion snorted and leaned more of his body into Ambrose, purring harder.

"Yes, I know. Your supper is far more important than a bit of rain." Setting his bowl aside, he stroked Alfred's short, silky fur. The storm might rage outside, but here in Greyhaven, nothing changed. It was as it always would be. He had to be content with that for as long as his sanity allowed.

Ambrose leaned his head back against the cushion of his chair and listened to the cat purr. It helped to block out the whispers that persisted at the edges of his hearing, and that was a blessing.