The east wing looked as if it had been ravaged. The windows had been planked over, and the roof looked, even from below, as if it were in ill repair. Black stains marred the limestone.
And though he had sent word ahead, notifying the permanent staff of domestics which remained at Marchmont—the steward, the gardener, the gamekeeper, the parkkeeper, the small group of servants the steward had promised Alessandro he had hired from the nearby village to assist in the airing of rooms—no one seemed to be about. Indeed, for a building so immense and august, the quiet was undeniably eerie.
More carriages were arriving in the lane, bearing the servants he had brought from London.
That was when he realized there was no groomsman.
The stables appeared deserted. Not a horse or a human to be found.
Alessandro had a sinking, desperate feeling he would not even find his steward to deliver upon him the beating he so soundly deserved. It would appear the bastard had not just deceived him but also robbed him with the proficiency of a cutthroat pirate.
“Alessandro.”
Somehow, Catriona’s dulcet voice cut through his wild musings. He jerked his attention back to her.
“Lady Rayne,” he said formally, for there were servants all about them. “Welcome to Marchmont.”
And what a welcome it was. ThankCristohe had been cautious enough to bring a good number of domestics from Town. It had been some time since he had been forced to think of households, servants, and travel. His every day had been concerned with warfare, troop movements, and attacks on invading enemy soldiers. Strange how easily his old life returned to him.
Even though it had never felt right, and even though he had never felt as if he belonged here, it was still what he knew. Still in his blood. He carried the obligation of his birth. His mother had adored Marchmont. So had he, as a lad. Before his mother had died.
Before everything had changed.
“Marchmont is beautiful,” his new wife said then. “But it seems to be rather closed up. Did you not send word, Rayne?”
“Oh, I sent word,” he gritted. And he suspected that was the reason Marchmont had been vacated. “Await me here, if you please.”
Without waiting for her response, he strode away from her, his boots crunching on the gravel of the drive, then echoing on the limestone stairs flanking the double doors beneath the portico. He took them two at a time, reached the front portal, and rapped angrily.
Predictably, no one answered.
He rapped again.
Sound reached him. Footsteps on the marble in the entry hall. So small they were almost soundless. The door opened a crack. One eye appeared, situated somehow within the face of what appeared to be a grimy urchin.
“Who goes there?” the creature rasped.
Dios.
“The Earl of Rayne,” he bit out. “The owner of this home.”
The eye scowled. “The mad earl be abroad.”
“The earl is standing before you,diablillo, and he is not mad. Now let me pass.” He said the last with as much kindness as he could muster.
“No.”
The door slammed shut.
Alessandro stared at it, disbelief coursing through him, along with impotent fury. He had spent the past two days hauling his wife and a small army of servants through the countryside, only to arrive in Wiltshire, weary and prepared for his dinner, to find he had a miniature squatter.
He knocked again.
Once more, the portal opened. This time, two eyes and a scowl on a distinctly dirty, childlike face greeted him. “Oh, devil. Youisn’tthe mad earl is you?”
“Yes, I am,” he growled. “And if you know what is best for you, you will open the door and let me pass. Where are the domestics? Where is Bramwell?”
“Bramwell is gone. Left with Mrs. Fitzpatrick and half the paintings. I don’t expect either of them to return any time soon.” The urchin stepped back, pulling the portal with him. “I am the only one here, m’lord.”
