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Chapter 1

Summer, 1813

Giles forceda smile to his lips to welcome Lord Winter to his country estate in Northamptonshire. “Winter,” Giles called. “Welcome back to Cottingstone.”

The newcomer shook his head. At least the old baron could pretend to look pleased that Giles had broken his rule about receiving a guest at Cottingstone Manor. But no, Lord Winter’s face wore a perpetual frown, just like every other time their paths had crossed in London.

“Daventry.” The older man’s quavering voice, pitched somewhat lower than Giles’, betrayed exhaustion. “The place hasn’t changed.”

Giles held out his hand. “You must be weary. Dinner won’t be served for an hour, but I have some excellent whiskey to soothe you while we wait.”

The baron crushed Giles’ fist. “Brandy would be preferable in its place—especially today. But first…” Winter returned to the carriage.

Giles took a step back toward his butler. “Dithers?”

“I shall switch the decanters when I return to the house, milord,” he promised.

“Do that, and ask Cook if dinner can be brought forward,” Giles murmured. “Lord Winter doesn’t appear in good health.”

“I don’t believe his health is the problem, milord,” Dithers replied.

Without another word of explanation, the butler stepped back, leaving Giles to ponder to whose health he had referred. The baron traveled alone and often. His servants all looked a disciplined, healthy bunch. But they moved carefully on the carriage and didn’t speak overloud. The horses were settled swiftly, too. Calm, efficient, eerie.

As Giles stepped out of the way of a burdened footman, a bloodcurdling howl erupted from beyond the house. Every man stopped and stared, not in the direction of the sound, but at the dark carriage they were unloading.

The steady pounding of paws heralded the arrival of Giles’ ancient wolfhound, Atticus. Judging by the dog’s speed and his whining agitation, something was seriously amiss with him. In fact, this level of energy from the hound was more than a little surprising. He had spent most of Giles’ visit lying under his feet snoring.

Atticus skidded to a stop beside the closed door of the carriage. If the door had been open, Giles was sure the hound would have barged his way in. He ignored the restless horses and stunned attendants to haul his beast out of the way. The dog was heavy and determined to stay exactly where he was, but Giles managed to pull him aside.

Lord Winter stared at the dog, nodded, and then stepped into the carriage. When he emerged a few moments later, he held a body in his arms.

Atticus, generally so docile, whined and whimpered, straining against Giles in such a fashion as to cause alarm. Lord Winter adjusted the black-cloaked figure, and the bundle moaned.

Every hair on the back of Giles’ neck rose. That was a woman’s moan—one in great pain. He renewed his grip on the restless dog.

Lord Winter moved slowly toward the house, keeping his movements smooth. The grim set of his features showed just how much effort he expended not to jostle his burden. There was agony on that rugged face, too much grief for one man to bear alone.

With a hitched brow, Giles glanced at his butler, but Dithers revealed nothing. The butler scurried ahead to push the main doors wide and gestured Lord Winter inside. Giles followed, imitating the baron’s quiet steps and keeping Lord Winter in sight.

Just inside the doorway, the baron stopped and bent his head to the bundle in his arms.

“Atticus.” A voice carried to Giles’ ears, eerily soft and pain-filled.

Giles only just managed to stop the dog from flinging himself at the woman.

“Atticus, come.” Again, that voice called his hound, and a pale arm slipped from beneath the black travel cloak to hang down limply.

Atticus whined, pulling Giles forward unwillingly. The dog reached the woman’s hand, rasping his wet tongue against it. At first, she jerked back, but returned to rub the dog. Since Giles held the beast, he couldn’t miss the shudder that vibrated through Atticus. Giles was stunned by the sensation.

“Atticus, heel.” The woman spoke again, and Giles tensed as the voice tickled his memory.

The wolfhound calmed instantly, pulled free of Giles’ slackened grip, and moved along with Lord Winter. Troubled, Giles followed them upstairs.

Once at the chamber, a nurse, who Giles only now noticed, pulled the drapes closed, ushering Dithers out with agitated flicks of her hands. Lord Winter lowered his burden to the high bed, removed the dark cloak, and pulled the blankets tightly around her.

From his position at the doorway, Giles noticed no more details of the woman, but her identity intrigued him. She knew his dog’s name? What was Lord Winter doing driving across England with an ill woman in tow? Surely, he could have arranged some other care, rather than dragging her on what appeared to be a painful journey.

To his surprise, Atticus padded across the room and stepped onto the dais. Once on the bed, the hound nosed in close to the woman’s hand. Surely Lord Winter would shoo him away.

But the woman clutched at the dog’s shaggy coat, pulling him against her side with a soft sigh.

His guest said nothing as he joined Giles at the door, so Giles stepped aside to allow the baron room to pass. Winter looked over his shoulder once before closing the door on the woman, dog, and nurse.

“What the devil is going on?” he demanded.

“Not now, lad,” Winter begged and turned away.

Giles stared after his guest in shock at his lack of manners then hurried to catch up. He rarely entertained guests for a reason. Giles liked privacy and peace at Cottingstone.

“I trust you had an uneventful journey,” he asked.

Winter grunted and strode for Dithers who was holding a glass of brandy.

An hour later, not even spirits and a pleasant meal had sweetened his mood or made him more forthcoming. The food had been more than satisfactory, braised duck with plum sauce, followed by truffles and plum pudding.

The company at the table, on the other hand, had been poor.

Giles was fast losing his patience with the baron. Unease knotted his shoulders. The woman’s voice nagged at the edge of his memory. She was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The man opposite offered nothing by way of explanation for her presence but stoically downed glass after glass of Giles’ best brandy as if determined to forget.

The baron had aged in the last few years. Iron-gray hair graced the sides of his head and candlelight reflected off the top. The once proud Corinthian dressed with supremely dull taste, but, given his habit of constant travel, perhaps that was more a matter of practicality than choice.

“Never thought she’d survive this long,” the baron began suddenly, staring into his glass as he swirled the contents around. “Been years more than I thought she’d have. Dragged her from one end of the country to the other in the hope of a cure, but it has all been for nothing. Quacks and charlatans. Every one of them useless.”

Lord Winter poured another large drink with unsteady hands. “She was such a bright little thing, always ready with a smile. Full of life. A perfect angel.” He shook his head as if frustrated by his own words. “I just could not bear to leave her behind. You have to be so careful with her.”

Giles didn’t respond, but he inched closer, intrigued by Winter’s words to be sure he caught them all.

“Too many accidents. Too many mistakes. Her reaction to your hound was the first real response I’ve witnessed in years. I’d stopped believing she was there. It has gotten my hopes up again, but nothing good can come to her now. It’s too late.”

“I’m sure you’re doing the best you can,” Giles said, not knowing if he spoke the truth, but positive he should say something rallying.

“I wish I could believe that. No man should live longer than his child.”

It took only a moment for Giles to review the Winter family tree in his mind. He reared back. “That’s Lilly?” Giles jerked at his cravat, suddenly hot at the thought of her.

“Who else did you imagine it might be?” Winter’s composed veneer blurred away fast under the influence of brandy. He sat forward, eyes alight with anger.

Giles had no answer other than the truth. “I was told your daughter died years ago, sir.”

Lord Winter’s face turned an ugly shade of red. “And who told you such a blatant falsehood?”

As a rule, Giles preferred to speak the truth, but in this case, he hesitated. He did not like to meddle between a man and his wife, but if Lady Winter had spread lies, the baron had a right to know. “I’m afraid your wife informed me, sir.”

Lord Winter slumped in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked up, the baron’s face held pain. “What is a man supposed to do when the mother of his child would rather her be dead?” Lord Winter sobbed on the last word, rusty grief shattering the peace of the room.

In his entire life, Giles had never been in the presence of a crying man. Drunk, vomiting, or fucking, yes. Occasionally all three on the same night, but never crying. Where was one supposed to look?

Lord Winter cried like a man who had held back years of anguish. Giles sat silently, waiting uncomfortably for the storm to pass. Lord Winter shifted in the chair, finally turning his face away. The man surely had to be embarrassed.

Perhaps he should pretend he hadn’t heard the sorrow. Giles rose from his chair, poured Winter another drink, and then moved to the window to look out into the stormy night. But his body screamed for flight.

Years ago, Winter’s daughter had fallen from Cottingstone Bridge into the stream that ran, flood full, through the property. She’d only been a young girl at the time, and her injuries were so serious that their betrothal had been severed soon after. When Giles had crossed paths with Lady Winter wearing mourning black in London, she had spoken of her lost daughter with credible grief. But why would Lady Winter wish people to believe her daughter was dead?

He glanced at Lord Winter as several odd things about his behavior fell into place. Lilly remained unwell after all this time. Had Lady Winter given up home and rejected the burden Lilly’s care would impose on her?

Behind him, Lord Winter blew his nose, then clinked glass against teeth as he took another drink. “I know my search for a cure cannot continue. I have to accept that, but I cannot take her home. Living at Dumas would certainly speed her death.”

The baron paused to clear his throat, as if his words had suddenly stuck. Giles was half-afraid Winter would suggest he still marry Lilly. Surely, God wouldn’t torture them both with such an ill-advised union.

“I have heard there is a place in Wales that might take her, a home of sorts. I have made plans to see it soon, but I do not believe Lillian can handle the journey yet. With your agreement, I would like to leave her here while I inspect the situation and make arrangements. She will be no trouble. It’s why I pressed for the invitation to visit. You see, Cottingstone is on the way. If it is acceptable, I will return and take her there as soon as she can travel again.”

Giles swallowed a sigh of relief, but panic still threatened. Giles had a well-deserved reputation as a rake and Lord Winter was so upset that he was not thinking properly. “You cannot mean to leave her in a bachelor household?”

“I know it is beyond the pale to impose on an old association. I would not consider it normally, but you see how she is. Travel is very hard on her; she can barely stand an hour in the carriage. If Lillian can rest here for a time, she will be stronger for the next stage of the journey. The nurse is capable of taking care of her. You need do nothing to entertain her. I hadn’t initially intended to tell her where we are, but she recognized the dog and remembers this place, it seems. She said to thank you for inviting her to stay.”

Giles caught his open-mouthed reflection in the night-dark glass and swiftly closed his mouth. Thank God his back was to Lord Winter. Giles hadn’t expected her to remember him; he hadn’t spoken to her since she was a child.

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of an excuse that would have them both gone tomorrow but the obvious one he’d already brought up. Lord Winter had to know of his reputation. His presence could ruin any innocent woman’s good name just by breathing the same air she did, no matter her physical state.

The baron must be barking mad to consider leaving his daughter without an army of stiff-backed chaperones between them. It was the grief talking, Giles thought. Come morning, the baron would see reason and change his mind.

Giles made a noncommittal sound, turned to the sideboard, and poured himself a very large brandy. God, he was going to need it. When Lord Winter eventually bade him good night, Giles took his brandy decanter to bed with him.

The ghost haunted his dreams that night.

In brandy-infused visions, the white-clad girl glided round and round him as he lay back on his soft bed. He yearned for her touch, but she remained elusive, just out of arm’s reach. Her soft whisper spoke to him of earthly delights she could no longer share.

Giles dared her to come closer, to spread her tattered soul over him, to ease the ache they both shared. A cold touch slid along his straining leg muscles. He breathed raggedly, begging her to come near, to keep her hands on him. Ghostly fingers brushed against his thigh and he groaned, kicking the remaining sheet off his body, overwhelmed by need.

Lightning cracked outside the manor and he woke with a start. He was alone, as if the ghost had never been. Flashes of light danced on the walls as he blinked away the remnants of sleep and sat up against the headboard of his large empty bed, breathing hard.

The memory of the ghost had plagued him the last two years, disturbing his dreams, invading his waking moments too sometimes. The little sprite had the instincts of a bloodhound and found him every time he dabbled in pleasure within the walls of Huntley House in London.

Tonight’s dream was different. The sense of being together was strong, more like the moments she appeared in his waking hours. Present but apart from him. Her watchfulness added to his arousal, but she usually kept a distance. Only he dreamed of further intimacies.

Giles’ laugh echoed in the empty, dark room as thunder boomed outside.

What folly. He lusted after a ghost—a dead woman.

* * *

Bartholomew Barrette clenched his fists to keep from strangling the blacksmith. Worthless, empty intelligence was all the imbecile could sprout. Instead of doing as he pleased, watching the blacksmith’s eyes bulge as he crushed his throat, Bartholomew barked an order for his groom to give the dirt-encrusted behemoth something for his trouble. Then he’d wait in the taproom for his carriage to be ready.

Voices stopped as he stepped through the low doorway. He paused to get his bearings. Farmers with sun-branded faces turned to watch his arrival, no doubt stunned by his fine appearance. It wouldn’t be every day that a man of his distinction graced this hovel, a village too insignificant to be recorded on any map. No doubt his presence would be the highlight of their puny, miserable lives.

He let them look their fill.

Satisfied with the awed silence his presence evoked, Bartholomew peered through the swirling pipe smoke and attempted to find a pleasing location suitable for a man of his station to sit. The inn was grimy and poorly arrayed, so he raised an eyebrow at the nearest mud-splattered farmer, choosing a window spot out of all the occupied chairs.

At the innkeeper’s prompting, the slow-witted farmer vacated the space. “A right busy afternoon we’re havin’, sir. Can I get you sommat to drink?”

Placated by the man’s attention, Bartholomew graced him with a look and gingerly lowered himself to the chair. “Ale, and be quick about it.”

The greasy innkeeper hurried to do his bidding, pausing to offer a stubby-toothed smile to a cow-faced piece of fancy before disappearing from sight. Bartholomew clenched his teeth, patience wearing thin at the innkeeper’s easy distraction.

The man could flirt when he’d done his duty and served a paying customer. How much he’d get would depend on how quick about it he chose to be. Given the state of Bartholomew’s temper, the man would be lucky to see a farthing.

Conversation resumed around him at a low rumble.

The blacksmith had claimed no black carriage had passed through the village today or yesterday. He’d heard the same news from every stop thus far as he retraced his steps. The old man couldn’t vanish from the world, no matter how hard he tried. Winter always relied on friends to provide him houseroom, for him and that greedy brat he carted about.

The barkeep scurried through the tables and pushed a tankard across the battered wood. Bartholomew didn’t thank him. He tossed a coin to the table with careless grace. The man took it and his rank stench away.

How to find them quickly?

The old man had never evaded him before. It was unusually slippery of him to depart in the dark of night without saying where he was headed. The nurse he’d bribed to report to him hadn’t managed to send him word about the last minute trip either.

He would have to backtrack, find where his uncle’s carriage had parted ways with his expected heading, and then use all possible speed to catch up with them before Lilly was buried.

He needed to see her body.

Given he was Lord Winter’s only male heir, he had a devilishly tricky need to avoid accusation of any involvement in Lilly’s murder. He couldn’t risk losing his inheritance.

Bartholomew swallowed a mouthful of ale then grimaced at the taste. The coaching house served pigswill instead of ale. He’d never been served a fouler drop. He pushed the tankard away in disgust.

The innkeeper hurried over. “Can I get you sommat else, sir?”

Bartholomew didn’t bother to reply. His mind burned with anger as yet another simple wish failed to eventuate. He curled his fingers into a fist, but a movement at the door diverted him from the innkeeper. “Carriage is ready, Mr. Barrette.”

At last.

As he strode out the door, he made a vow not to let the old man and that pathetic bitch forget him. A man with Winter blood pulsing through his veins could not tolerate a snub from his own flesh and blood. He would not.

The stable hands held his horses and carriage at the ready. He flung himself into the dim recesses, thumping the wall in anger to signal his wish to be off with haste.

The hard lurch fed his rage, and he cursed the limits of his purse. When he had Dumas, and rescued Lilly’s dowry from limbo, things would change. He would have the respect he deserved, and the money to pay for the best of everything.

As the village fell behind and the thought of ruling over Dumas turned his mind from anger, he smiled. The title would gain him his rightful position, the death of his cousin would ensure his coffers were never depleted to dangerous levels, he could afford to marry whomever he chose, and he would have the current Lady Winter at his mercy.

He’d had enough of the haughty bitch too.

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