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 twoanyway. 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.”
