Wolfbane Sanderson livedin Marplestead, not at Bancroft House near Marpleton with his two half-brothers—Mandrake, Bane’s dearest friend and the nearest to him in age, and Hemlock, the eldest, who had insisted on the name Colin since he was seventeen.
On the death of their father, Colin had inherited his father’s estate, including Sanderson Medicinals. Larkspur, their onlysister, and the child of Father’s third wife, was married and gone by then, and Colin had evicted Bane, who was the son of Father’s mistress, as soon as the funeral was over and the will had been read. He tolerated Drake, son of the second wife. In fact, he ignored his younger half-brother as much as he could. Drake in turn tolerated him, because living as cheaply as possible suited the plans that Drake and Bane had made for their eventual escape.
“Can I come and stay with you?” he asked Bane a few days before Christmas. “Frances has taken the children to visit her parents, and Colin has invited some of his lordly friends to stay while she is away. You know what sort of a party that is going to be,” said Mandrake, wrinkling his nose.
Bane wondered idly which came first—the decision by Frances, Colin’s wife, to take the children to her parents, or the invitation from Colin to be with the dissolute aristocrats he called friends.
“You are welcome to stay with me, Drake,” he said. “Plenty of room in the barn loft.”
If Colin guessed where Drake had gone while he and his guests drank themselves stupid and misbehaved with the prostitutes he had imported from the nearest town, he didn’t care.
The party had become the talk of the three villages in the vicinity by New Year’s Eve. Not only were the villagers fascinated by the goings on at Bancroft House, but the local viscount, Lord Marple, was also part of it. Though he was at least a decade younger than Colin, he already had a reputation for dissolute carousing, as did his dear friend Curston.
Perhaps it was in the blood, for Lady Marple, the young viscount’s mother, had developed a certain amount of notoriety herself since her husband died. Indeed, local gossip had it thatCurston and Marple had first met because their parents were lovers.
That said, she was a widow and discreet, so her suspected sins could be forgiven, especially since the house party at her place was an all-lady affair apparently designed to allow her daughters to make friends before they made their debut at the coming Season.
The villagers had their gossip updated every day when the servants from the two major houses collected mail, purchased milk, or otherwise met up with the neighbors, and the news circulated swiftly from that point.
Everyone agreed that Lady Marple was behaving just as she should, and Colin was riding for a fall.
On the day before New Year, Drake was in Bane’s office at the blacksmith’s forge. He had made a hot toddy while he waited for Bane to finish totaling a column in the accounts for the local baker. Bane’s share stood at his elbow. The baker had poor handwriting and the tendency to transpose numbers, so Bane didn’t need to muddle his brain with alcohol.
“Colin would hate to know that you do the books for all the tradesmen and shopkeepers in Marplestead and most in the other two local villages,” Drake commented.
“No one is going to tell him,” Bane pointed out.Ah. That was a seven, not a one. The man always forgot to cross them.“The blacksmith owns his forge, but most in Marpleton and a few of the others pay rent to Colin.”
“Silly duffer,” Drake said. “He cut off his nose to spite his face when he threw you out. Lucky for him he has Frannie, who has taken over the books for Sanderson’s Medicinals. He’d do well, if he’d listen to her advice.”
“Not likely, and he was certainly not going to listen to mine.” Father’s will had reminded Colin that Bane, the base-born son, had been educated to manage the accounts for the business.Since Colin had deeply resented his father spending money on Bane’s education, his reaction was to toss Bane out of both job and home. “I’ve been comfortable enough in my rooms above the blacksmith’s barn,” Bane added.
“Not for much longer.” Drake had finished half his toddy and was waxing loquacious. Bane knew perfectly well that they planned to be in London by Spring, shaking the dust off their feet as they left their boyhood haunts.
A knock on the door stopped Drake from embarking on a soliloquy about how much more convenient a London location would be for keeping track of their investments and finding new ones.
“Come in,” said Bane.
It was a boy from Marplestead Manor—an orphan the house employed to clean boots, carry firewood, run messages, and other tasks beneath the other servants. “Sir,” he said to Drake, “Are you the Mr. Sanderson who lives in Marpleton?”
“I am,” Drake agreed.
“Then this note is for you, sir,” the boy said.
He handed it over. Drake opened the seal and read it, then handed it to Bane. It was written in a feminine hand. If that was not clue enough the sender was a woman, the ink was purple and the paper a soft blue that had been liberally doused with a floral perfume. Bane grimaced. He didn’t even need to hold it to his nose to inhale the scent. It had been not so much sprinkled as drenched.
“It’s not a good night for a man to be out in Marplestead,” Bane said, but he might as well have saved his breath.
“I don’t plan to be out for long,” said Drake, “but the lady invites me to a private celebration. What sort of a gentleman would I be if I ignored her?”
“A wise one?”
But Drake only laughed.
“Who is it?” Bane asked. If it proved to be one of the maids at the tavern, he would worry less. But the hand seemed too fine for a tavern maid, and Drake wasn’t aware of any with a name starting with “A”—the flourishing initial that was the letter’s only signature.
Bane shrugged. “I cannot bring a likely candidate to mind,” he admitted, “but I daresay I shall know her when I see her.”
Bane wasn’t easy in his mind, but Drake was a grown man. Bane had no right to prevent him, nor any way to do it, either.
