Cynthia Merrithorpe was dead.
Sad news. Very sad. She could not have been more than one-and-twenty. What had killed her? An accident, a fever?
A sigh broke free of his throat. She’d been only eleven the last time he’d seen her, just before he’d left Cantry Manor behind. He hadn’t seen his young neighbor since, so why did his gut feel suddenly knotted up with grief?
His fingers dug into the mess of his dark blond hair and pressed into his scalp. Perhaps it wasn’t memories of Cynthia twisting his gut. Perhaps it was more that the letter was a sign that his world was on the descent and likely to continue in that direction.
You thought it could get no worse, foolish mortal, some wicked god was chuckling from above. Or actually…perhaps, Your troubles cannot be compared to poor Cynthia Merrithorpe’s, selfish man. Lancaster felt chastened at the thought.
She’d never married. Never left Yorkshire. A short and lonely life.
He’d thought she would have grown into an attractive young woman. Thought her wise gaze and stubborn chin would fit a woman’s face better than a child’s. He must have been wrong. She’d died a spinster. But she’d been so lively in her youth. Honest and open, country-free and peaceful. Nothing, for instance, like Imogene Brandiss.
He grimaced at the thought and tossed back the last inch of liquid in the glass.
No, Miss Imogene Brandiss knew nothing of honesty, though the terrible things she’d shrieked tonight had seemed honest enough. A real man doesn’t look to a woman for money! A real man works for it! Have you ever done one real thing in your sorry life?
Some weight inside him, some weight that had been slowly adding to itself over the past months, finally made its presence known. It pulled at his bones and tendons, threatening to collapse his body in upon him. Threatening to collapse his whole world.
Too much had gone into this, the plans were too far forward. His family’s creditors had retreated to await the bounty brought by his marriage to an heiress. If he called off now…
He pictured crows picking at his eyes and knew he had no choice.
Something dark and overwhelming breached the surface calm he always displayed to the world. Something black and trembling with strength. Lancaster recognized it. He’d been well acquainted with it all those years ago. Rage. Fury. And fear. All of it coiled so tightly together that it seemed to have formed some heretofore unknown emotion. There was only one way to deal with it.
Rubbing a hand over his numb face, Lancaster took a deep breath. He ignored the harsh buzzing in his ears and tried to summon his customary smile. It didn’t take hold the first time, nor the second, but eventually it felt in place on his lips, and he tugged the bell pull next to the desk.
A few minutes passed, though the buzzing stayed.
“Milord?”
“Please have a light supper sent to the White Room for Lord Gainsborough and inform him I shall be in for our chess match momentarily.”
“Of course,” the young man answered with a bow.
He would project good cheer, offer a happy evening for a man still grieving his dead wife, and pretend not to notice the darkness writhing inside his own soul. His smile slipped as Beeks turned away. The buzzing was only growing louder. “Wait.”
“Milord?”
“I believe…” Lancaster started, the idea forming as he spoke. “I’ve received word…” The buzzing began to recede, so he rushed on. “A neighbor has died. I’ll need to travel to Yorkshire to pay respects. It’s only right.”
Beeks nodded.
“You’ll need to pack, of course, and make my excuses to Miss Brandiss’s family.” Eager as he was, Beeks was not predictably knowledgeable.
“How long do you expect to be gone, milord?”
The sound rushed back into his ears, louder than before. He shook his head, looked at the letter. The weight pulled him down, pressing him into his seat. The beast writhed against the pressure. How long? He’d say his wedding vows to an unwanted wife in only two months.
“Six weeks, I’d think.”
“As you say, sir. And you’ll leave…?”
Now, he wanted to bark, but he didn’t, of course. He only squinted thoughtfully and tried to tamp down the need to flee. “Tomorrow morning, I suppose.”
“Yes, milord.” Once Beeks had departed to start the frantic packing, Lancaster gave the letter one last glance, allowing himself the luxury of a few more deep breaths. He only needed a little time. Marriage would not be the worst thing he’d ever done for his family, after all. Not by far.
Once the surface of his soul was calm, Lancaster walked from the study and stepped into the White Room with a grin. The broad-faced man standing in front of the fireplace raised his head and his sad mouth broke into a smile. “Lancaster! It’s bloody good to see you.”
“And you as well, of course. Have you prepared for our match?”
“Prepared?” the older man snorted. “By dulling my wits with whisky? ’Tis the only preparation I need for a chess match with you.”
Lancaster inclined his head. “Then I have you exactly where I want you, Gainsborough. I shall strike when you least expect it, pounce upon you like a doxy on a drunkard. Or a debutante on a duke, I suppose.”
“Oh!” the old widower chortled, holding his gut against the laughter. “Oh, by God. You do cheer me up, young man. Every single time.”
Lancaster chuckled and glanced toward the mantel clock. Twelve hours more and he would make his brief escape.
Chapter 2
Spring may have begun its arrival in London, but it hadn’t yet touched the coast of Yorkshire. Freezing rain drummed against the carriage roof and tinged the air with ice, despite the brazier hidden beneath the seat. Lancaster watched his breath form mist before him, and marveled that he’d planned to stay here for six weeks.
They’d just passed the village of Neely, where he’d spent so many hours of his youth, so they were nearing Cantry Manor.
His family had abandoned their smallest estate when they’d moved to London ten years before. He’d never returned, had never even thought much about it, despite all the years spent here during his adolescence. It was cared for by Mrs. Pell, the housekeeper, and the rents were just enough to support the nominal upkeep. No thought required.
But of course, it was deeper than that. He did not like to think about his time here because that led to other memories, other histories…. It was a testimony to just how desperate he’d been to escape London that he’d given no thought to the demons that might be exhumed here.
I am a man now, he told himself as he shifted in the hard seat. Not a boy to run from nightmares.
Just as anger began to rise like bile in Lancaster’s throat, the coachman shouted something and the carriage began to slow. They’d arrived. Old Mrs.
