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“All those roses!” the woman exclaimed, gesturing towards the climbing rose bushes that sprawled over the archway and up the stark stone walls, softening the fortress with a wild, romantic charm. A soft smile played about her mouth, and an adorable dimple appeared to the left of her chin.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

“How unexpectedly delightful.” She clasped her hands together. “I mean, from a distance the hall looks terrifying, but once the carriage enters the courtyard, one has the feeling of entering an enchanted place of some sort. All those flowers.” She deeply inhaled the air, heavy with fragrance.

“Eh. Yes. I suppose so.” He cast a cursory glance at the roses that had been allowed to grow wildly. He’d wanted to cut them right back, but seeing the entranced look on her face, he instantly changed his mind. He supposed it would do no harm to leave the flowers to grow rampant for a while longer.

The heavy oak door opened, and Marks appeared. He was even more aged and stooped than when he’d last seen him, the white shock of hair on his head long and uncombed. But despite his age, he was fit as a fiddle, and his mind was sharper than the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

“Here we are again,” Phoebe muttered darkly.

“Welcome home, my lord, Miss Phoebe.” Marks bowed. Then he peered at the woman who’d descended from the coach and was now looking at him with a quizzical look on her face as she fiddled with her reticule.

“This is Miss Hilversham. Miss Hilversham, this is our butler, Marks. He will see to everything.” He waved a tired hand. “If there is anything you need, ask Marks. Marks knows everything. Marks can do everything. Marks is, in short, the man to turn to for the fulfilment of every wish you might have.”

“With the exception that Marks will hardly ever be in the mood to do so,” Phoebe, forever cheeky, amended.

Marks cleared his throat reproachfully and ignored her. “Welcome to Hungersford Hall, Miss Hilversham.”

“How do you do, Marks,” Miss Hilversham replied, clearly overcome.

He felt leaden tiredness overcome him, and the telltale dizziness that heralded a new, oncoming attack. He gripped the door of the carriage to steady himself. “Marks, show her to the room.”

“The guest room in the north wing?”

The north wing. It was cold and there was no sun, and the fireplace smoked. It wasn’t good enough for her.

“No. Give her the—” He pressed his hand against his brow, as a flash of pain shot through him. “Give her the—the Rose Room.” She liked roses, didn’t she?

Marks froze visibly. “The Rose Room? But my lord. Are you certain?”

He was as certain as he had ever been in his entire life. He waved him away. “Yes.”

He had to get away. Now. Before it took a complete hold of him once more and it was too late. With a spark of regret but without as much as a glance back to the woman and his niece, he strode ahead, fleeing into the cool darkness of his sanctuary.

* * *

“The Rose Room. Good heavens,” Marks muttered, shaking his head before striding ahead through the heavy oak door and disappearing into the hall where the earl had gone just a few moments ago.

“What is wrong with the Rose Room?” Anna whispered to Phoebe, apprehension filling her.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Phoebe’s eyes slid away. “Except that maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

Phoebe pursed her lips. Then she rattled off so quickly Anna could barely follow her: “It’s haunted-because-all-the-women-who-sleep-in-it-die-eventually-which-is-why-I’d-never-ever-sleep-there.”

“What utter nonsense.” It took no effort at all for Anna to lift her eyebrow haughtily in Miss Hilversham-style.

Phoebe gave her a level look. “Well, if you don’t believe in it and think it’s nonsense, then that’s all very well, I suppose. Uncle also says it’s tosh and nonsense. It’s a pretty room. The prettiest in the entire manor, the warmest, with the most light. You might as well use it and forget that a woman died in the very bed you sleep in.” There was a naughty glint in Phoebe’s eyes.

“Haunted, indeed,” Anna muttered. But she couldn’t help feeling an unsettling chill cloaking her shoulders.

The hall, so awe-inspiring from afar, had stolen her breath when she saw its turrets rise out of the misty landscape, powerful and gloomy, stern and austere, like an ancient ruler surveying his dominion. But now that she stood at its threshold, she felt a sense of unease taking hold of her. She cast a wary glance into the cold, dark hall ahead. The walls were panelled in heavy, brooding wood, the fireplace was so massive it took up an entire wall, darkened with soot. Above it hung an oil painting depicting a hunting scene of birds in flight. One of them (was it a swan?) seemed to be dying.

Anna shivered and rubbed her arms. Her eyes lifted to an intricately carved wooden ceiling and a large, iron chandelier hanging by chains from exposed wooden beams. Antlers were mounted on the walls, and the three threadbare sofas that were arranged around the fireplace with worn and faded fabric looked well past their prime. It was the most melancholic room she’d ever seen.

“Well. Are ye coming?” Marks stood on the stairs, giving them a testy, impatient look. “Womenfolk. That’s what we needed,” he muttered under his breath.