by Juliana Gray
The wind blew cold against his cheek, ruffling the papers. He wasn’t looking at the words now; he knew precisely the nature of the problem before him. He was wet and cold and cross, having walked ten miles along the muddy Tuscan road while the ladies, curse them, had ridden in comfort atop his horses; he had found the fortitude to keep marching only from the knowledge that this would soon be over, that they would reach the castle and the women would be on their way, and he would no longer have to bear the siren call of Miss Harewood’s floating laughter, the heartbreaking image of her graceful, straight-shouldered outline against the gray rock and brown winter grass.
And then they had arrived at the castle itself, and the horrible truth—the truth he had half suspected, perhaps unconsciously expected, from the moment he had first spotted the ladies at the inn—had at last been understood.
One castle. Two legal leaseholders.
Roland coughed gently, next to his elbow. The horses began to move about, hooves cracking restlessly against the pebbles of the track. Wallingford cleared his throat and looked up. To his right, Miss Harewood looked down at him from her lofty perch atop Burke’s handsome chestnut; he could feel her gaze upon his face, her whole attitude bursting with eagerness.
To his left rose the castle itself, a distant shadow against the clouds. An odd frisson touched the back of his neck, a sense of otherworldliness.
“Well,” he said. “Rather awkward. It appears Signore Rosseti is either a senile fool or . . . well, or a scoundrel.”
Another gust of wind battered against his back. Lucifer, carrying Lady Somerton and her boy in the saddle, gave a vigorous nod of his head, jingling the metal rings of his bridle.
Wallingford held up both papers before him and went on, in his best judicial boom. “The letters are nearly identical, except that the ladies appear to have negotiated a better price for the year’s lease than you have, Burke.”
Burke scowled. “I was told there was no room for negotiation.”
“Oh, rubbish, Mr. Burke,” said Lady Morley, with a little laugh. “Merely tactics, as anyone knows.”
“We have paid for a year’s lease on the castle, and we intend to take it,” Burke shot back, crossing his arms against his chest.
Wallingford frowned at them both. The day was growing late, the light already fading against the gloomy landscape. He thought for an instant of Miss Abigail Harewood trudging through the night, seeking shelter, chilled and hungry, and a shaft of pure instinctive horror bolted through his heart.
A solution would have to be found, and straightaway. Was there some alternative housing nearby? A village of some sort? Surely the castle oversaw a village; that was in the very nature of castles. The people there would know where this Rosseti might be found, and the matter could be cleared up. If necessary, the gentlemen could leave the ladies in possession of this particular castle and find something else. Something—he cast a glance at the ancient building, the unkempt row of cypress wavering precariously in the bitter wind—something perhaps a trifle more welcoming.
He was a fair man, after all. As long as his opponent played by the rules, he could do the generous thing. Perhaps it was all for the best.
He opened his mouth to speak, but in the same instant, Lady Morley made an impatient noise, a little grunt of decision, and wheeled her horse about.
“What the devil,” he began, but his words were lost in the thunder of her departing hoof beats, galloping down the drive toward the castle.
Everyone stood frozen, even the horses, staring at the departing hindquarters of Penhallow’s borrowed horse, which grew smaller and grayer in the mist, until both steed and rider faded into a shadow.
“Good God!” shouted Burke, breaking the spell. “Come back here!”
“What the devil,” Wallingford said again, in an awed whisper. He looked at Miss Harewood, whose face was lit with amusement, her elfin eyes round and large in her pale face. “What the devil does she think she’s doing?” he demanded.
Miss Harewood glanced down at him and smiled. She gathered the reins in her hands and nudged her horse with her heels. “Taking possession, I expect,” she said, over her shoulder, as Burke’s chestnut moved her down the track at a merry canter.
FOUR
Abigail knew something was afoot the instant the great hall opened up around her.
She had felt it already. When the smudged outline of the Castel sant’Agata had at last emerged from the drizzle, she had thought it seemed to shimmer, to waver against the clouds like some unearthly creation. She had sensed some mystery stirring in the air in the courtyard, in the abandoned lichen-crusted fountain and iron gates. A sort of expectancy, a holding of some invisible breath.
She let her gaze travel slowly about the bare stone walls, the great staircase curving up to the gallery, the mighty timbers crossing the roof above them. Not a stick of furniture obstructed her view; not a rug covered the flagstones beneath her boots. Abigail’s imagination expanded with a whoosh, taking in the stark splendor around them and filling it with history. With life.
She crossed the room to the casement window, protected by a set of long and mildewed curtains. With one hand she pushed aside the fabric and peered out. “What a splendid adventure. Such delicious grime! I daresay it hasn’t been washed in years. Do you suppose there’s ghosts?”
“Of course not,” Alexandra said sharply. “The very idea.”
“I expect there’s dozens of them. An old pile like this. And Italians! Always poisoning one another and so on. I shall be very much disappointed if I don’t discover a ghost in every corridor.” Abigail turned from the window to find Philip standing in front of her, gazing owlishly about the room. Lilibet wandered about behind, settling her woolen scarf more closely about her neck, her fair brow deeply creased.
“Really, it’s the wonder of the world you haven’t found a husband yet,” said Alexandra.
“I never wanted one. Come, let’s explore.” She took Philip’s hand and led him across the great hall at a brisk trot, heading for the passageway at the other end.
“Slow! Slow!” said Philip, laughing, struggling to keep up.
“Hurry, hurry!” Abigail urged, and he broke into a run, filling the air with his giggles. From behind them came Lilibet’s voice, begging them to wait, but Abigail, full of delight and anticipation, had no intention of waiting. Her lungs drew in the damp, musty air; her mood lifted and soared into the ancient stone and wood of this extraordinary castle.
“Abigail!”
Abigail skidded to a stop and looked up.
A figure hovered before her in the shadows of the passageway, its white apron catching the feeble light from the hall with a preternatural glow.
“Hello there,” said Abigail. She kept Philip’s hand firmly within her own.
“Buon giorno,” the woman said, stepping forward. She wore a dress of homespun wool beneath her long apron, and her hair was covered by a plain white headscarf. She had pleasant features, deep-set and regular, and her dark eyes regarded them warily.
Alexandra came up next to Abigail and spoke briskly. “Buon giorno. Are you the owner?”
The woman allowed a smile and a modest shake of her head. A warm scent drifted in the air around her, as if she’d been baking bread all day. “No, no. I am the . . . what is the word? I keep the house. You are the English party?”
“Yes,” Alexandra said. “Yes, we are. You’re expecting us?”
Lilibet walked up and quietly took Philip’s hand from Abigail, leading him into the shelter of her arms.
“Oh yes,” said the woman. “We have much pleasure to see you. Though I think you are a day before? We are expecting you tomorrow. You like the castle?” She made a broad motion with her arm, indicating the vast emptiness of the great hall behind them, the hard sweep of the stone staircase to the right. Her face seemed to light with pride, as if a candle had been set aglow beneath her skin.
“Who could resist such an inviting scene?” said Alexandra.
“Is so long when the family is live here,” said the woman, with an expressive Italian shrug. “Is only me to keep the house.”
“Haven’t you any help?” asked Alexandra in horror.
“Oh, the maids, they stay in the village. They are not staying here, when there is no master. Is so lonely. Giacomo, he keeps the . . .” She rubbed her fingers together. “The earth?”
“The grounds,” said Alexandra. “He’s the groundskeeper. Very well. And what is your name, my good woman?”
The woman curtsied. “I am called Signorina Morini.”
Signorina Morini. Something about the words caused a little shiver to spread down the length of Abigail’s spine. Something about the woman herself, with her kind, almost lyric voice, the glow of her skin, the dance of her dark eyes. Something about the way the still, expectant air of the hall seemed to gather and lighten around her.
Here. The mystery, it was here, all bound up somehow in this woman’s serene presence, shadowed with the faint scent of baking bread.
Abigail burst out. “Oh, what a lovely name. I do so like Italian names. I’m Miss Harewood, signorina, and I think your castle is perfectly magnificent. Could you perhaps show us about?” She waved her hand at the staircase. “Are our rooms upstairs?”
“But yes, they are upstairs.” She frowned and cast her eyes about the great hall behind them. “But . . . the gentlemen? Where are the gentlemen?”
Alexandra went rigid. “The gentlemen? What about them?”
“Do you mean you were expecting us both?” asked Abigail, in excitement. Oh, this was better and better. “Signore Rosseti did it on purpose?”
Signorina Morini lifted her shoulders and spread out her hands, palms upward. “I only know there come three ladies, three gentlemen. They are not your husbands?”
“I should say not!” Alexandra snapped.
“Your brothers?”
Abigail laughed with delight. “Oh no. Not at all.”
Lilibet broke in. “It was all a great mistake. We understood . . . we thought we had taken out a year’s lease, but it appears the three gentlemen made a similar arrangement, and . . . perhaps you can find Signore Rosseti, and he can explain . . .”
Morini’s brow had furrowed in thought. She tilted her head to one side and pushed at a few strands of black hair that had escaped from her headscarf, looking as if she were attempting to solve a large and complicated puzzle. “I see, I see. Is very strange. The master, he is very careful, very particular. Is very strange mistake.” She straightened and clapped her hands. “But is good! Six English is very good! We have talk, laughter. The castle will be . . . transform. Buon. I will find your rooms.”
Morini turned with an air of unshakable purpose and headed for the staircase, homespun skirts swishing against her legs. She lifted her arm and summoned them to follow her.
Abigail leapt after her.
“But, my good woman!” Alexandra called out desperately. “What about servants? Has the place been readied for our arrival? Is there dinner?”
Signorina Morini, striding across the hall at a brisk pace, did not stop to answer. She turned her head and said, over her shoulder, “We are expecting you tomorrow. The servants, they arrive in the morning, from the village.”
“In the morning?” Alexandra demanded. “Do you mean there’s no dinner? Is nothing ready?”
“Where is Rosseti?” added Abigail.
“He is not here. I make all arrange. Come, come. Is growing late!” Morini had reached the staircase and was positively bounding up the stone steps, propelled by purpose.
Not here, thought Abigail, leaping up after her in a surge of excitement.
Then where the devil was Rosseti?
* * *
The lantern cast a shimmering glow around the stable entrance, causing the very stones to move about in the walls.
Or so it seemed to Abigail.
For the first time, it occurred to her that it might perhaps not have been her cleverest notion, to steal out of a strange castle at midnight and across a courtyard to a building she had never before entered. One, moreover, that she suspected to contain ghosts and specters of all sorts, to say nothing of some eternal mystery that hovered just out of her brain’s perception.
But what else was she to do? She had clearly seen a light wobble across this courtyard from her bedroom window; she had clearly seen it enter the stable. If she meant to discover the source of the mystery, she might as well begin now. The thought of danger hadn’t entered her head. This was not a malevolent sort of mystery, she was sure. Mischievous, perhaps even tragic, but not cruel.
Still, she couldn’t deny the shiver that coursed down her body just now. And her body, Abigail knew, was seldom ever wrong.
She reached out and pushed open the stable door anyway.
She was, after all, Abigail.
“Who’s there?” someone snapped, in a loud and commanding voice.
Abigail felt her shoulders sag in relief. “Oh, it’s only you,” she said. “I might have known you’d be skulking about the stables at midnight.”
“I might have known you’d be doing the same, Miss Harewood.”
Abigail worked her way toward the pool of lantern light at the far corner of the space. Around her, the horses whickered in subdued welcome. “We seem to share the same habits, then. Is he settling in all right?”
“Quite all right.”
His shape was visible now, tall and dark, covered rather romantically by a long cloak. His face turned away from hers, toward the dark shape of Lucifer’s head, with its long white blaze gathering the feeble light.
“He was a very brave fellow tonight, weren’t you, my lad?” she said, stopping just short of them, breathing in the comforting scent of horses and hay. “Bore up like a trooper.”
“What are you doing here, Miss Harewood?” Wallingford asked with a sigh.
“I saw your lantern, heading for the stables. I wasn’t sure what it was.”
“So you decided to investigate? At midnight?” He turned at last. “In your nightgown?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Was I supposed to put on my stays and petticoats?”
“You’re a fool. It might have been anyone.”
“But it was you, after all. You’d never hurt me.”
He breathed steadily, one hand curling around Lucifer’s neck. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged again and hung her lantern on the hook, near his. “My instincts are never wrong. You’re full of bluster, Wallingford, but you have a kind heart.”
“A kind heart?” he asked, incredulous.
Abigail stepped forward and placed her hand on the other side of Lucifer’s neck, stroking him gently. “Look at you, here in the stables at midnight, checking on the horses.”
“Horses are one thing. People are another.” His tone was bitter.
She let his words sit there between them in the damp air. The strands of Lucifer’s mane, stiff and wiry, brushed against the back of her hand. She combed them thoughtfully with her fingers. “Do you feel it?” she asked, in a whisper.
“Feel what?”
“Around us.”
He paused. She felt his breath near her ear, warm and spreading, carrying the faint hint of the old wine they’d drunk at dinner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Abigail couldn’t tell if he spoke the truth or not. There had been that pause, after all. “Don’t you think there’s something odd about this place?” she ventured.
“Yes. Damned odd. Starting with the fact that the three of you are here with us.”
“It’s fate, obviously. We’re meant to do something extraordinary together.”
“Together is out of the question.”
She turned and smiled. “You’re not still thinking about that silly wager, are you? Vows of monastic seclusion and all that? We’re civilized beings, after all. We can rub along quite well with one another. We sorted everything out so agreeably over dinner, af
ter all.”
“That agreement is not meant to be permanent, Miss Harewood,” said the duke. “Only until Rosseti can be found, and our rights asserted.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Women in the east wing, men in the west. Why shouldn’t it go on all year, if we mind our language and manage to keep our laundry separate?”
He sputtered. “Because it’s impossible. Because three ladies and three gentlemen cannot go on in close proximity without . . .”
“Without what?”
“Without driving one another mad!” he burst out, stepping back and turning away.
“Oh! Are you talking about carnal urges? Because I do think . . .”
“Miss Harewood,” Wallingford said, into the stable floor, “I assure you, I don’t wish to hear your thoughts on the subject of carnal urges, at the moment.” He lifted his woolen hat, brushed his dark hair, and replaced the cap in an angry jerk.
“But why should it bother you? Why is it so necessary that we resist our natural inclinations?” Abigail asked. “Are you really so desperate to win your silly wager? I assure you, I don’t care two hoots . . .”
“Damn the wager! Damn the whole silly project! I must have been mad.” Wallingford leaned his forehead against the stable wall.
Lucifer gave a sympathetic whicker.
“Then why don’t you simply turn about and go home?”
“Can’t,” came Wallingford’s voice, from the stable wall. “Too late.”
“Too late for what?” Abigail scratched Lucifer’s forelock and gazed at the duke’s dark form against the wall, at the curious way his head bowed, as if in despair, exposing a sliver of his nape to the damp air of the stable. When he made no reply, she went on gently: “Why are you here, Wallingford? The last place in the world anyone would look for you. No comforts, no ceremony. Not even your valet.”
He said nothing.
Abigail said softly, “What are you hiding from, Your Grace?”
His hand formed a fist against the wall.
“My grandfather,” he said, very low. “Myself.”
