Page 98 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Afresh blanket of snow covered the vast estate.

The wind howled, serenading the trees, while the moon stood high in the sky, surveying its kingdom.

Latchwood Manor sat eerily quiet, shrouded by overgrown hedges and barren trees.

Empty windows, their glass long gone, surrounded the abandoned home.

The fading shutters hung loosely on rusty hinges adding to the overall decay.

A dark shadow loomed over the once grand home, dark and foreboding.

The manor was in complete ruin.

Imogen approached the threshold, her breath catching at the desolation before her. In the hours since she’d arrived, she had learned everything about Cornelius Harcourt and the curse that claimed his bloodline.

It was a strange thing to feel tethered to someone she’d never met, as if his soul whispered across space and time to hers.

In life, no man had ever piqued her curiosity, no suitor had her heart beating like a drum. But Cornelius Harcourt made her feel alive for the first time in a hundred years. How strange it was to Imogen.

He was kind and selfless, always putting others first. Setting aside his own hopes and dreams in favor of duty and family. He had stepped into a role he’d never wanted, tending to the estate and caring for his dead brothers’ children.

It was honorable.

He was extraordinary.

With a silent wave of Clarence’s hand, they were inside the empty manor.

The once grand foyer was open before her, a hollow shell of marble and memories.

Shattered beams lined the wall, the moon shining through the partially caved-in roof.

Someone had attempted to cover it with a tarpaulin, but failed, as it hung carelessly from the open gap in the roof.

White sheets hung loosely over the furnishings and portraits, trying to preserve them, but mother nature was relentless. Rain had soaked them all, plastering the cloth to chairs and canvases. Some had been blown away entirely, exposing paintings warped by weather, canvases ruined by rot.

The wind had pressed its cold fingers to every crack and seam of the ancient home.

“This is a tragedy,” Imogen whispered, her voice echoing through the large empty manor.

She moved without thinking, her footsteps silent on the weathered stone, her breath lodged in her throat. The core of the house still remembered its glory days. Beneath the rot and the ruin was a home that was once filled with laughter, love, and life

Every member of the Harcourt family was born there. Cornelius, his father and brothers, his nieces.

She had memorized the family’s entire history, and still she did not know how she was to save him.

She didn’t know the first thing about saving someone. She hadn’t even been able to save herself or her papa from the fire. How was she to show Cornelius that his life was worth living? No matter what he faced in this life and in the spirit realm it wasn’t worth ending his life over.

There was a story buried in the history of Latchwood Manor. It stretched back far beyond her own existence. Whispering at her neck, cold tendrils of the past tickled her flesh.

Imogen was certain of one thing, the Latchwood curse was real. She was certain of it, yet Clarence had not broached that particular subject. Why?

“The Harcourt family has been in possession of Latchwood Manor for nearly two hundred years,” Clarence said, venturing down a long hallway.

She followed dutifully, the eerie feeling of being watched nearly overwhelmed her.

There was a long row of distinguish looking gentlemen, all perfectly depicted in portrait. Although they looked nothing alike, she could see the familial resemblance.

He paused at a likeness of Marcus Harcourt, Cornelius’s favorite brother. They were a year apart in birth, their bond forged on the nursery floor. Marcus and Cornelius nearly looked identical in her opinion. But there was something haunting in Marcus’s eyes that had not yet reached Cornelius’s.

“Marcus Harcourt, the ninth Earl of Latchwood, died at thirty-five years.” Clarence paused, peering from her to the portrait. “A horse riding accident.”

He pivoted, leisurely strolling to the next painting of Bernard, the second eldest brother. He greatly favored their mother, with dark skin and penetrating eyes.

“Bernard Harcourt, the eighth Earl of Latchwood, died at thirty-five, pneumonia,” Clarence said easily before striding to the next one. “Howard Harcourt, the seventh Earl of Latchwood, also dead at thirty-five.” His stern gaze penetrated her before he moved on to the next one. “His heart gave out.”

The eldest of the Harcourt brothers had green eyes and pale skin like their father, with thick dark hair hanging nearly to his shoulders.

When they reached the father, Henry Harcourt, Imogen tilted her head, surveying the man. There was no kindness in his blue gaze, his thinning brown hair a harsh contrast to the lush manes of his sons.

“Henry, the sixth earl, like his sons, he also died at thirty-five.” Clarence waved a hand before he moved to the next earl. “And so did his father, the fifth earl, the fourth earl, and finally the third Earl of Latchwood. All dead at the age of thirty-five years.”

Imogen stopped, her mouth agape. She was right. There really was a Latchwood curse. From her travels through Cornelius’s life, she was aware that the family believed in the curse. But there in the long-forgotten hallway of Latchwood earls was proof that it was real.

“It began with Philip, the third earl?” she asked, noticing, strangely that the second Earl of Latchwood, Richard, unlike his son and grandsons, had lived until he was eighty.

“No, with his father, Richard,” Clarence said, stopping in front of Richard Harcourt’s portrait.

The portrait of an older man gazed down at her. He was a prominent-looking older gentleman, with an unhappy disposition and keen gray eyes.

“Richard Harcourt.” Clarence paused in front of the portrait, his hands folded in front of him. “A disagreeable man who caused the downfall of his own family.” He nodded to the earl, whose lips were pinched at the corners like he’d eaten something disagreeable.

“How?” she asked, as they stood in the dust blanketed hallway.

“Love.” He said it quietly like it was the greatest tragedy.

For no reason known to her, regret and longing clouded her vision. Love. She’d never had the opportunity to find love while amongst the living. She had never experienced a lover’s touch, a gentle kiss, or the longing to be near someone like your last breath depended on it.

“Love caused the Latchwood curse?” Imogen waited patiently for an answer.

To her, love was the answer, not the cause of something that would end an entire family. If she’d had a chance to live past twenty-six, perhaps she would’ve found love.

“Yes. He loved riches and his status in society more than anything or anyone.” He shook his head.

“He wanted to marry a prominent member of society, Elizabeth Talbert. Her father was a wealthy duke with connections to the crown. Richard blackmailed the father to gain his daughter’s hand, but Elizabeth, knowing her own mind, eloped with her true love, a man of little fortune but with a handsome property. ”

She was fortunate that she’d had a father who respected her wishes and never forced anything on her during their short time together. Women had so few choices in the world. Imogen couldn’t imagine how much courage it took for Elizabeth to run away with her true love.

“Elizabeth cursed the Harcourts,” she said, feeling a presence press against her shoulder, as if the curse was in the house with them.

“Yes,” Clarence confirmed, before walking back down the hall. “After he was ruined by Elizabeth’s actions, Richard ruined her husband, bankrupting him and claiming his estate. Her husband took his own life at thirty-five, leaving Elizabeth devastated with two small girls.”

They reached the entryway to the main vestibule. The moon was bright in the sky, the wind whispering long-forgotten memories.

“When Richard finally married and had an heir, Elizabeth vowed that his line would know the pain he’d caused her until no heir remained.”

“What happens if I prevent Cornelius from taking his own life? Will he still be claimed by the curse?” she asked, hoping that life wouldn’t be that cruel.

The silence penetrated the night. Imogen wasn’t just saving Cornelius from himself; she was saving him from the curse itself.

“Perhaps.” He walked toward the open door, barely hanging on its hinges. “Prove to Cornelius Harcourt that his life is worth living and then worry about the curse.”

“What can break it?” she asked, feeling as if he wasn’t telling her everything.

If she was to save Cornelius from himself and the curse, Imogen had to know everything.

Peering up at the open roof, she waited for an answer, but none came. Clarence was gone and it was time for Imogen to meet Cornelius Harcourt, the tenth Earl of Latchwood.

Cornelius stepped into his solicitor’s study with solemnity.

The familiar scent of tobacco and old parchment clung to the paneled walls, reminding him of the past. The room hadn’t changed in the decades he’d known the old solicitor.

Worn leather chairs, bookshelves overflowing with large volumes of books, an old grandfather clock by the window overlooking Hyde Park.

None of it had changed since he was a boy.

Giles looked up from his cluttered desk. “My lord.” He waved a hand at the old chairs in front him. “You’re early.”

Cornelius stepped deeper into the study. “Yes, I saw no need to postpone. The date is fast approaching.”

It was comforting to know the girls would be provided for, no matter his destiny. He could depend on Giles to see that the girls would lack nothing Giles was a man of even temper and deep loyalty. He’d served the family since Cornelius’s father was young, always giving sound counsel.