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For many men, the acquisition of wealth does not end their troubles, it only changes them.

SENECA

The next morning, I dressed with extra care in case I encountered anyone of interest during my errands in town.

Mrs. Herriot always reminded me of the power of a woman’s attire to cut a dash .

Today, I willingly took her advice. I needed all the ammunition I could gather.

A pale-blue muslin dress with a delicate lace fichu and a sapphire pelisse trimmed in velvet suited the cool spring weather.

My poke bonnet, topped with monstrous ostrich feathers, completed the ensemble.

A silly amount of effort for one man, my mind chided without pity as I set out for town.

Despite my best efforts, I briefly pivoted from the path leading to Bramnor to stare in the direction of Hawthorn Abbey and that singular man.

During my walk, I recalled Lord Hawthorn’s curt response to my pleas.

Not even walking past the charming fifteenth-century houses, nor the whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs and ivy creeping up the side, could improve my mood.

I pushed open the door to the apothecary and was greeted by the tinkling of a brass bell hanging overhead.

A young man measured out a vial of clear liquid while a plump woman in a gray pelisse and matching bonnet waited near the counter.

I recognized Jonathan Cording, the apothecary’s youngest son, who was about my age.

He smiled when he saw me, and the woman glanced over her shoulder, her gaze distracted.

Mrs. Whittle, the housekeeper of Hawthorn Abbey.

Beside her stood a thin man with a beaver hat and reddish hair curled and plastered against his shiny forehead in the latest style.

His emerald waistcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he fidgeted with a silver watch fob, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Whittle.

Jim Barron, innkeeper and owner of the Jolly Wench and the man Abigail entertained thoughts of marrying. I swallowed my amusement at his attempt to appear a Corinthian. The man leaned forward as if an intimate friend to the housekeeper.

“Oh, Mrs. Whittle!” Mr. Barron gushed, nearly knocking over a jar of herbal remedies as he gestured broadly. “Fancy meeting you here! I was just admiring the new confectionery. Have you tried the peppermint creams? They’re positively delightful!”

Mrs. Whittle’s eyes widened. “Peppermint creams? No, I—”

“You must try them, Mrs. Whittle!” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a grand secret. “I hear they’re good for digestion and sweeten one’s breath. Perhaps your husband would enjoy them?”

“Er... I suppose, but I’m here on other matters, Mr. Barron.” She frowned.

He gestured to the row of glass jars. “I’m also here for some tonic. A chill in the air has given me the sniffles. But what brings you to the apothecary? Not any trouble at the abbey, I hope?”

Mrs. Whittle’s plump face reddened as she cast a quick glance at the counter. “I... I’ve come on behalf of Lord Hawthorn. Nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Barron.”

“Oh, but I do concern myself! It’s in my nature, you know.

” He chuckled, fingering his lace cuffs.

“We all must look after one another in these parts. And after all, I hear the new lord is quite the war hero. Injured according to the rumors, yes? Surely a man like that doesn’t need laudanum?

” He gestured to a glass vial on the counter.

I despised laudanum. It dulled the senses and proved nearly impossible to quit. I had seen the results too many times among the villagers. My mother had refused it even when dying of scarlet fever, preferring her own blend of herbs to manage the pain.

Was the laudanum for the viscount?

Mrs. Whittle drew back. “Lord Hawthorn’s affairs are his own, Mr. Barron.”

“Ah, yes, yes. Of course,” he soothed. “But if there’s anything the good Lord Hawthorn needs to soothe his suffering—brandy perhaps, or some company during those long nights—I’d be more than happy to oblige. Nothing does the soul and body so much good as excellent company.”

Moving past the shelves lined with tinctures and powders, I waited my turn while pretending to study the vast array of medicinal supplies.

Of course, Mr. Barron would find a way to ingratiate himself with the new lord.

If only I could witness the viscount’s expression when he encountered Bramnor’s premier dandy.

“I also have the marshmallow root you ordered. You can’t be too careful these days. The Aster family remains under quarantine for fever,” Mr. Cording informed Mrs. Whittle.

Tension coiled in my belly at the proclamation. Fever again? Was it the dreaded scarlet fever that had stolen so much from me? It would take Father away on his many errands of mercy. I swallowed a sigh, resolved to spend more evenings alone at the dinner table.

Mr. Cording lowered his voice, unable to hide his stutter. “Is the new lord t-truly a hero from B-B-Bussaco? I’ve heard so many different tales, I cannot make out what is true and what is fable. I heard he was shot in the leg.”

Her hands fluttered to her fichu, but her expression brightened immediately. I held my breath as I slipped farther into the cool interior, my ears finely attuned to hear anything of interest.

“Yes, he’s a hero. Noted by Wellington himself, though he rarely speaks of what happened.”

Mr. Barron tsk-tsked. “It’s a shame how the viscount was injured.”

“It’s only temporary, the lord insists. Isn’t his return a blessing, gentlemen? Lord Hawthorn has many plans for the old abbey. Why, imagine the apples and cider business booming once again and the—”

“Cider. How exciting,” Mr. Barron interrupted, his eyes flashing. “Why, my customers would beg for more, if it is as good as the old days.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Whittle’s smile stretched wider. She leaned in close, her dingy bonnet shielding her face. “I’m not one to share the viscount’s plans, but I believe he’s hoping to brew once he receives a new cider press. If you know of anyone needing work, send them to my husband.”

“Such good news.” Mr. Barron nodded firmly. “Let us hope a turn of fortunes will chase the old spirits out of the abbey once and for all, and may the new lord sleep peacefully without nightmares or haunting spirits.”

“Mr. Barron!” Mrs. Whittle sounded horrified as she stretched to her full height. “How can you make such a salacious claim?”

By then, I had crept forward on my kid slippers without realizing how far I had traversed.

He chuckled. “Dear lady, your lovely daughter crossed my path early this morning during one of my country walks, and she happened to mention that the new lord cried out around midnight, as regular as clockwork. Something bloodcurdling. Of course, I detest gossip, but one does care about the state of the Hawthorn family, considering the old lord’s peculiar nature.

And, of course, I share this as a friend.

Perhaps you could have a word with her about trusting whom she speaks with, eh?

It’s she who is convinced that ghosts have returned to the abbey to haunt it. ”

Mrs. Whittle sputtered again, clearly speechless at the accusation of impropriety leveled at her daughter.

Mr. Cording planted both palms on the counter.

“We all know that madness and death cling to that abbey. Didn’t the Hawthorn brothers quarrel, with one later dying in an inn?

Convenient, if you ask me. I’ve always said secrets lie buried on those grounds.

And the old lord wasn’t right in his mind, no matter what the good vicar says.

He murdered his brother, aye? How many other bodies lie buried on his land since the law cannot touch a viscount? ”

“Mr. Cording, I’ll take some chamomile tea if you have a moment,” I spoke up to spare Mrs. Whittle from answering.

How unfortunate that the truth was so often mingled with lies within this superstitious village.

I doubted the old viscount had killed his brother.

He had more than enough sins to blacken his soul without that extra embellishment. I had no patience for slander.

Mrs. Whittle snatched her supplies from the counter. “I really must be off. Oh, Miss Littleton! I hope I’ll see you and the good vicar at the abbey soon for a visit.”

I smiled, although it felt a mask. I planned to see the parishioners, not the lord. Although... the idea of poking him further, especially after his command, might prove somewhat entertaining.

“Please, Mrs. Whittle,” Mr. Cording called out as she began to leave. “I must insist on payment. I’ll take no more credit until Hawthorn Abbey settles its debts.”

Now mottled red, Mrs. Whittle returned to the counter and paid for her items, then bustled out the door with only a harried nod in my direction.

“Miss Littleton, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Mr. Cording’s blond hair fell over his brow in tight curls, no less tame than my own, though he tried to smooth them as I approached the counter.

I opened my beaded reticule and pushed across several shillings while doing my best to ignore Mr. Barron’s intense stare.

“I’ve been rather busy of late.”

“Miss Littleton found something in Mr. Perry’s field,” Mr. Cording said as he pivoted to retrieve two glass jars from a pristine shelf. I watched him scoop the fine brown tea leaves and slide them into the smaller tin.

“Ah.” Mr. Barron sidled up closer to me until his sleeve brushed mine, much to my ire.

“Mr. Perry mentioned something about an old Roman site when he stopped by the inn. I should like to see what you’ve uncovered.

” His gaze flicked over me, and he added with a chuckle, “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a lady do a man’s work, digging up dirt. ”

His eagerness was palpable, and I couldn’t help but groan inwardly at the thought of Mr. Barron trying to impress Abigail with his newfound interest in antiquities. Worse still, he had encroached on my personal space in a manner that most gentlemen would avoid.

“We’ve found lovely patterns made of tile from an old settlement worthy of a museum.

” I forced a smile while I opened my reticule to deposit the tin of tea inside.

“You do visit museums, don’t you, Mr. Barron, Mr. Cording?

I would think any educated gentleman would have a healthy interest in history. ”

Mr. Cording and Mr. Barron both gaped, but I plunked the coins on the counter and turned on my heel and reached the door as quickly as I could before anything else popped out of my mouth that I would later regret.

Outside the apothecary, the morning sun shone bright in my eyes, momentarily blinding me despite my poke bonnet. A form brushed against me, stopping me in my tracks.

“Miss Littleton, I have offended you. I must beg your forgiveness.” A contrite Mr. Barron stood before me with hat doffed.

My heart softened a smidgen. “No matter, Mr. Barron. All is forgiven.”

“If you need any assistance, you’ll ask for my help? I do count the vicar as a friend. And hopefully Lord Hawthorn one day soon as well.”

I tensed at the thought of the prickly lord. “It may not hold interest to you unless you admire old pottery and fragments of an ancient floor.” Caution made me color the find in the blandest of hues.

His brow furrowed. “If I may be so bold, there have been unsavory types wandering these parts—men with no work heading to London. One can’t be too careful.

Mr. Perry might find himself in need of a guard or two to watch over things and assist with the excavation.

And of course, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand. ”

I paused at the image of Abigail and me mostly alone within the field, with nary a person close by to hear us scream.

A shudder rippled from one shoulder to the other, but I kept my voice firm.

“I may not be able to dig much longer. In fact, there seems to be some misunderstanding that a portion of Mr. Perry’s field might belong to the Hawthorn estate.

I don’t believe it to be true, of course.

Mr. Perry’s family has owned that farm for the past seventy-three years. ”

Mr. Barron’s expression changed, the left side of his mouth tilting in a rueful smile.

“How unfortunate. My recommendation is to involve the magistrate at once and assess the boundary lines. I believe the former Lord Hawthorn had a tendency of taking what didn’t belong to him.

I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I would defend Mr. Perry’s right to use his land as he sees fit. ”

“Thank you, Mr. Barron. Excellent advice.”

He preened before stopping on the road cutting through the heart of Bramnor. “You will extend my offer of assistance to Miss Perry as well?”

A grin broke free at his enthusiasm. His reason for asking about the dig must be motivated by my friend. I liked him a little better for wishing to impress her, even if I found his taste in fashion to be that of a coxcomb.

I nodded and bid him good day, then hurried on my way, pondering all the gossip I had heard—the laudanum and the ghosts and the interest in the dig. The more people who learned of the discoveries in the Perry field, the more muddied the situation became.

I blew out a long breath to steady my nerves as I considered my next visit. Mrs. Eacher’s cottage was on Lord Hawthorn’s land. At least today I was prepared with my new bonnet.

But surely I wouldn’t run into the peevish lord again. That would be far too much for the Fates to spin.