Chapter 2

Chapter Two

L ord Ethan Harrington hated being coddled.

Coddling reeked of pity, and he wanted none of it, especially from his older brother James, the Earl of Manderly. James had a tendency to take charge, which Ethan, the younger by two years, had always found annoying but never more so than now. Ethan had come to this manor in the middle of nowhere for one reason: to be left alone. Yet there his older brother was, paying a visit and putting his nose where it did not belong.

From across the desk, James perused the study. "Your manor is, er, coming along, old boy."

"It's a rubbish heap," Ethan said bluntly.

Which is fitting, considering where my life is headed.

The familiar darkness welled inside him. Beneath his desk, he clenched his hands…or tried to. The damage in his left hand prevented him from forming a fist, reminding him of everything he'd lost. Of the man he'd been and who he was now. Three years ago, at eight and twenty, he'd been a rising piano virtuoso, hailed as the next Beethoven.

Now he couldn't use his left hand to wipe his own arse.

Ethan fought back the tide of rage and despair. After his injury, he'd been gripped by grief of such intensity that he'd feared he might drown in it. Nay, not feared—sometimes he'd wished it would kill him and end the torment. The anguish of waking up day after day, knowing that the one thing he was meant to do in life—the thing that had absorbed him from the time he played his first note on his grandmama's piano—was no longer a possibility.

Music had been his unrelenting obsession, his joy, his everything.

Now, there was only…silence.

The silence followed him like shit on his shoe. He couldn't bloody get rid of it. The sudden hush when he entered a ballroom. The anxious quiet of his parents and siblings, who tiptoed around him and treated him as if he were made of glass. The silence was even louder at night. He'd never been a good sleeper, and the only cure he'd found was playing. Beethoven's Sonata quasi una fantasia had always relaxed him, untangling him from the troubles of the day, but that was lost to him too.

Then there was the silence that had surprised him six weeks ago, when his fiancée had jilted him just before the wedding. That silence had doused his last spark of hope for normalcy and instead fed the demons of self-doubt and failure. It was a wonder he had any pride left. Yet he must have at least a shred because, as bad as things were, he refused to let his older brother condescend to him.

"Why are you here?" Ethan asked. "Did Mama and Papa send you to check up on me?"

James studied the perfect crease in his fawn-colored trousers.

Knowing him, he'd come because he felt duty-bound to look after his pathetic cripple of a brother.

"I came because I wanted to see how you were faring," James said. "After the…er, incident."

"By ‘incident,' are you referring to my former fiancée running off with my former crony? Or perhaps you are inquiring after my shattered hand?"

"There's no call for sarcasm. As it happens, I was inquiring after the former."

"My engagement ended over a month ago," Ethan said curtly. "I've nearly forgotten what's-her-name. I'm fine."

James studied him for another moment, and Ethan returned his stare. There was a family resemblance in their height and the general shape of their features. However, James had inherited their papa's bronze hair, steel-blue eyes, and brawnier frame, whereas Ethan took after Mama with his black hair and indigo eyes. As boys, they'd gotten along in the way of brothers close in age: they had fought and bickered and competed over everything. They'd also defended each other, and woe to anyone who even dared to look askance at their younger brother Owen or their baby sister Georgiana, whom everyone called "Gigi."

The incident three years ago had changed everything.

Now the thought of Owen filled Ethan with emotions too volatile and painful to bear. At their last meeting, the tension between him and his youngest brother had erupted into a scene so ugly that they had avoided each other since. That had been over a year ago. All the while, the rest of the family continued the futile campaign of pretending things were as they once were, refusing to give up on anyone.

Ad Finem Fidelis.

Faithful to the End …that was the family motto.

Ethan had tried to live up to those ideals and look at where he was now at one and thirty: angry, aimless, and living in the manor he'd bought because he lost a bet.

" Are you fine, Ethan?"

James looked around the study, and Ethan knew what the other saw. Paper of an indeterminate hue was peeling from the walls and plaster crumbling from the ceiling. Woodworms had punctured the bookshelves. The rug was moss green, likely due to the clumps of moss growing upon it. Moth-eaten drapes framed the dirty windows that looked out into the garden, where a vine-covered gazebo looked like an ancient temple rising from a jungle.

The place was a dump. Yet it was still better than the glittering salons where polite society smothered him with pity and spitefully shredded Constance's reputation—yes, that was his ex-fiancée's name and the irony of it did not escape him. Although Constance had brought the situation upon herself, hearing the cruelty aimed at her and Armand Blake—his former friend and the fellow Constance had jilted him for—depressed him further.

Ethan didn't know whose betrayal angered him more. Then again, he didn't have to choose, did he? Being enraged with the world was becoming a habit.

"I am perfectly well." He picked up a pen, tapping out an irritable ditty. "I have been meaning to check up on this place and set it to rights."

"As I recall, you bought this manor because you lost a wager," James replied. "You and your cronies were three sheets to the wind and decided that whoever cast his accounts first would have to buy the most ridiculous property the lot of you could find. You lost—no surprise there, little brother, as you could never hold your liquor—and that is how you became the proud owner of the Bottoms House of Chudleigh Bottoms. Or, as your friends dubbed it in a fit of infantile inspiration, Double Arse Manor ."

As lamentable as the tale was, Ethan almost missed those days. When he and his cronies, Parkhurst, Canning, and Blake, had been young and carefree. As second sons, they'd reveled in the unique freedom of being the spare. The fact that they all had artistic inclinations had strengthened their bond, and when Ethan's star had risen as a piano virtuoso, Blake, Parkhurst, and Canning had been there to cheer him on.

Until it had all fallen apart.

You despise pity, remember? So stop heaping it upon yourself.

"The manner in which this house came into my possession is irrelevant." Ethan tossed the pen onto a tray. "It is mine, and it's high time that I did something with it."

"You don't have to do this, you know." James's gaze was steady. "If you don't want to be in London—and God knows no one can blame you for that—you could stay at Grove Hall. No one would disturb you there…except Evie. But the two of you have always rubbed along, and she values privacy as much as you do."

Grove Hall was James's country estate, but he seldom stayed there, leaving it to his wife Evie. In truth, if Ethan had wanted company, he wouldn't have minded staying with his sister-in-law, who was one of the few people who didn't act as if he were broken and held together by glue and spittle. She was also pretty and intelligent, and for the life of him he couldn't understand the bloodless arrangement between her and James.

However, Ethan was no hypocrite. If he didn't want James nosing around in his business, then he owed the other the same courtesy. He would leave the meddling up to their parents, who had a singular talent for it.

"I am undisturbed here," he said. "Since I moved in, no one has come around."

James arched a brow. "The local folk think this place is haunted by a ghost, you know. When I was in Chuddums, I heard them talking about some curse. They say the new owner had better watch his back."

Ethan nearly laughed. Truly, what further misfortune could befall him? He'd lost his ability to play piano—his one passion and purpose in life. He couldn't stand being in the same room as his youngest brother, and his relationships with his other family members were strained. Oh, and he'd been betrayed by his betrothed and his best friend.

Go ahead, ghost. Do your bloody worst.

"As the villagers also read fortunes from cherry pits," Ethan said, "I'll take my chances."

"You are going to need these cherry-pit-reading townsfolk to help you run this place. Do you have any staff? If memory serves, it was you who opened the door when I arrived."

And don't I regret it.

"My butler Brunswick recently hurt his hand," Ethan said tetchily. "And I am looking for help. The process cannot be rushed."

Although it had been two weeks, and he was getting nowhere. He'd found a cook, but she hadn't lasted long after supposedly spotting "Bloody Thom"—yes, the resident phantom came with a name—roaming the servants' quarters. Neither Ethan's reasoning that she'd had a nightmare, nor his bribe of higher wages could assuage her. She'd taken off, her wagging tongue scaring off potential candidates. The other staff member he'd hired, a footman by the name of Dobson Gill, had shown promise…until Brunswick had caught Gill with his hand in the silver cabinet. Gill had had the gall to become belligerent, threatening retribution when Ethan had tossed him out on his arse without pay.

As a result, Ethan's current staff consisted of his valet Mr. Valentine, his groom Spencer, and Brunswick. None of them had any talent in the kitchen; Brunswick had tried to cook…and promptly scalded himself. Ethan's diet consisted of burnt toast and rubbery boiled eggs, and he would do almost anything for a properly cooked meal. Anything but admit his desperation to his brother, that was.

"Lucky for you, I have come to help," James said.

"You?" Ethan scoffed.

Growing up, James had assumed the role of leader among their siblings. He'd commanded everyone and delegated everything. Ethan had been the artist and rebel who largely ignored him.

"I don't expect much will get accomplished," Ethan said, "since I don't take instruction well, and you don't enjoy lifting a finger."

"As it happens, I've already come up with a solution."

Before Ethan could tell James and his solution where to go, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it."

Words, undoubtedly, that James had never uttered before. Despite his curiosity, Ethan decided not to scramble after the other like a damned puppy. He remained in his chair like he owned the place because he bloody did. When James returned, Ethan was forced to rise because of the female accompanying his brother.

She looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't place her. Then again, she would be easy to overlook. She resembled a dormouse with ash-brown hair bound in a topknot. Large spectacles magnified her dark eyes, and her pert nose twitched with the effort to hold them up. She was a tiny thing, likely a foot shorter than he was. Whatever figure she had was concealed by drab bombazine.

They stared at one another, and recognition dawned.

For both of them, apparently.

"It's you ," she breathed.