He was a thief and a liar.
Someday, when Max came here, he wouldn’t hide in the woods under the dripping tree branches, cold water trickling down the back of his neck. No, he’d walk right up the front drive and through the door, and he’d take his father’s house back.
For now, though, there was nothing to do but return home, where there were no garlands, no silver cups, no golden lamplight. His father would have fallen asleep on the worn leather chair in his study by now, an empty bottle of brandy lying on the floor beside him.
Max dragged the back of his arm over his damp cheeks, the wool of his coat prickling his skin, and turned to go—turned his back on the bright lights of Hammond Court, leaving it behind until next year.
Hewasn’tcrying. Not over a villain like Ambrose St. Claire.
The dampness on his cheeks was just drops of water falling from the branches above, nothing more.
CHAPTER1
Fairford, Gloucestershire
December 12, 1819
It was snowing inside Rose’s bedchamber.
The chill woke her, the draught of wintery air biting at her nose and setting her toes atingle, rousing her from a fitful sleep. She struggled onto her elbows and peeked over the edge of the coverlet. Muted morning light filtered through the thin draperies, catching the pale gleam of downy snowflakes swirling through a jagged fissure in the window.
The snowflakes were pretty, but alas, it wouldn’t do. A glittering flurry of harmless flakes could become a blizzard in the blink of an eye, and the steely gray clouds beyond the window promised more snow.
More snow, and here was Fairford, already half smothered in it as it was. It had begun snowing in early November and had hardly let up for a single day since.
Now the dratted flurries had found their way indoors.
She tossed the coverlet aside with a sigh. If it had been any window, in any other bedchamber, in any other manor house, an indoor squall would have been shocking indeed, but at Hammond Court, the boundary between indoors and outdoors had grown increasingly indistinct as the golden days of autumn slid into the deep chill of winter.
At least, that’s how Ambrose would have put it. He’d always fancied himself something of a poet. It was one of the things she’d loved most about him.
A hot ache pressed behind her eyelids, but she shook off the tears that threatened with an impatient jerk of her head. He wouldn’t have wanted her tears and mournful sighs. Why, if he could see her now, he’d scold until her ears burned.
Anyway, when had sniveling ever helped anything?
She rolled out of bed, snatched up the coverlet, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then skidded over the wooden floorboards in her stockinged feet to inspect the snowdrift gathering under her window.
Or puddle, rather. A large puddle. It had been snowing for some time then, likely most of the night. She jerked the worn draperies aside to get a better look at the damage to the glass. It was early still, the gray light too weak to dispel the shadows lingering in the corners of the bedchamber, but there was no missing the fracture splitting one of the upper panes.
Well, that explained that menacing crack that had woken her last night. It hadn’t been a ghost after all, then. That was some comfort, at least. Not that she believed in ghosts, of course. She wasn’t such a fool as that. But in the deepest dark of the night, with the house creaking and moaning around her, it had occurred to her that if there was ever a man who’d find a way to walk amongst the undead, it was Ambrose.
Yes, he’d take great delight in haunting her, the scoundrel.
She edged closer to the window, careful to avoid the puddle, and squinted at the crack in the gloomy light. Yes, it was certainly longer than it had been. She’d marked the end of it yesterday with a smudged thumbprint, and it was well past that point now. It reached the top edge of the windowsill and was surrounded by a spiderweb of finer cracks, like wrinkles fanning out from the corner of an eye.
It was spreading, along with the dozens of other cracks that decorated the walls.
She could stuff rags into the gap at the top, but already the windows were more rag than glass. It was a wonder the ceilings hadn’t toppled down upon their heads by now. If she didn’t come up with some way to put a stop to the deterioration, they’d have to leave.
“Well, that’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
Rose turned around to find Abby hovering in the doorway, her grizzled gray hair standing on end. “It’s just a bit of water, Abby. Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.”
“It’s a miracle you haven’t caught your death in this damp, drafty room.”
“All the rooms are damp and drafty.”
“None so much as this one.” Abby pointed an accusing finger at the puddle. “For pity’s sake, Rose, why won’t you come and share my bed with me? It’s dry, and we’d both be warmer that way.”
