Page 29

An unusual humidity hung in a sickly haze over the valley.

Despite the beauty, the more I tried to fix the estate, the more events occurred to thwart me.

Mr. Whittle had spent a good portion of the day rounding up the horses that got loose from the barn.

Even stranger, after an inquiry on timing, Stewart’s Cider Press company sent a curt letter noting they had never received my order for a cider press.

I replied to them, asking for a press as soon as possible.

Mr. Spencer and Mr. Whittle both decried any role in the barn or press.

Irritations, each situation.

Then, past midnight one night, I perked at a shuffling sound.

.. like that of slippered feet sliding across the floor.

I had already spent the evening tossing and turning as I calculated the expenses accrued from the purchase of the new saplings and the wages of the men hired to build the service road.

Who knew when Mr. Talbot would return. I suspected he wanted to keep me on edge.

Just as I decided I was on the cusp of doom, awaiting one small misstep to tumble, a whisper raised the hair on my arms.

Outside my bedroom door, the steps slowed. Stopped.

I threw off my coverlet and tiptoed across the floorboards to reach for my pistol.

An ancient abbey, however, amplified sounds, including the click when I drew back the hammer.

Skin prickling, I waited one moment and then flung open the door to peer into a pitch-black hall.

Not even a glimmer of moonlight pierced the thick gloom.

The only sound I heard then was my own rapid breathing.

No spectral vision appeared as I crept along the corridor gripping my pistol.

I returned to my room to fumble for the tinderbox.

With practiced ease, I struck the steel against the flint, a shower of sparks leaping onto the tinder.

I blew gently, coaxing the glow into a flame.

Once it caught, I lit the candle, the room filling with a reassuring light.

No spirits lurked within the halls, nor intruders. When I spoke to Mr. Whittle about the affair in the morning, he merely shrugged.

“I heard nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Of course, my wife swears that I snore.”

Without answers or much sleep, I refused to give in to Lucy’s maudlin fears.

Still, fear crept in. I wasn’t a gambling man, but had I pushed fate too far to save the Hawthorn heritage and my tenants?

Lewis’s face and that of his widow haunted me.

What if I could no longer send her funds?

So many relied on me, and I felt as useless as my namesake.

Surely, I was just tired and imagining things.

By late morning, I resolved to banish any idea of ghosts with work.

Inside the stifling brewery, I mopped my brow as the youngest Dixon boy scampered up the walls with the help of a ladder and painted the overhead beams with white limestone, transforming the dingy space.

How he could sit there, swinging his legs on such a beam while whistling a ditty and not keel over, was beyond me.

So engrossed I was debating with Mr. Spencer the best position for the cider press, I didn’t see the new arrival until the other men stilled.

Miss Littleton waited at the entrance, her green gaze lifted to the ceiling where the Dixon boy tipped forward with his brush, daring as he dragged it across the ceiling.

“Good heavens, he’s going to fall,” she cried.

“No, he’d be suited for climbing the mast while a ship slices through rough water. It takes a lad or a man with balance,” I reassured her.

As if to prove the point, the Dixon boy stretched even farther on the beam, winking at Miss Littleton and causing a splatter of white paint to hit the floor. “See, Miss Littleton, it’s not that frightening being up so high. If only you could try it yourself.”

“Careful, man,” I called out. “Or you’ll be painting us too.”

She self-consciously touched her bonnet. “No, thank you. I like my feet firmly on the ground.”

“Or deep in the mud,” I teased her.

Her smile lit her face, bringing twin dimples on each side. “Ha, very true, sir. I’ll take the trenches over the sea any day.” Then her gaze sobered, as if a cloud passed over it.

I held out an arm for her to take, the action natural, and after a pause, she slipped her arm through mine as we hurried to the abbey where Mrs. Whittle awaited.

Yet my pulse sped at the thought of being alone with Miss Littleton.

The gentle pressure of her fingers on my arm lingered even when she removed her hand.

A spot of rain splashed against my cheek. Above, dark clouds roiled, stirred like a bubbling caldron. I didn’t like the look of the storm.

She didn’t seem to notice, her expression troubled. “You are a military man. Perhaps you can answer a question.”

Bracing myself, I led her into the abbey’s main entrance, away from the sound of the hammers.

“If the navy presses a young man, and he...” She paused.

I froze. Was there another suitor? Why had I so foolishly assumed she was unattached?

She halted, swallowing visibly. “And the navy arrested him for rebellion. Will he face a court martial, or... far worse?”

“It would depend on the circumstance,” I said carefully. “When was your friend taken?”

Her brow furrowed. “Men stole my brother, Daniel, during a trip to London with two friends, and now he resides within a hulk. Please, I share this news in confidence. Precious few know about his predicament.”

Sweet relief and sharp regret filled me at the admission.

She was not spoken for. But her grief over her brother concerned me.

Prime Minister William Pitt required each county to provide a quota of men willing or unwilling.

London alone was required to round up nearly six thousand men.

Her trust touched me since she had shared something so carefully hidden.

She sighed. “Daniel is too much like Father and me. Stubborn. Opinionated. And not at all impressed with the rules. I have shocked you, I see, especially considering a military man as yourself.”

A man not at all impressed with the rules. A grim prognosis for anyone trapped within the Royal Navy. I sensed there was much more to the story than I had been told, especially considering our conversation when I had asked if she believed a man could change.

I had wondered then at her hesitancy.

The sudden sheen in her eyes made me want to erase her sorrow. “You have not shocked me.”

“Then, I fear I must tell you more. You will learn of it regardless. A riot occurred.”

I studied her closely. “Your brother acted as leader?”

Her silence stretched, heavy with uncertainty. “I don’t know. I only know he’s in grave danger. Can we even rescue him? Or is all hope lost?”

She had trusted me with a painful secret. I did not take that action lightly. And she had come asking for my advice.

“I cannot tell a lie, Miss Littleton. The situation is grave. Would you like me to make a request on your behalf? Of course, I can’t promise anything will result from my efforts, but I will do my best to assist your brother. If possible.”

“Would you?” In her excitement, she placed her free hand on my arm only to snatch it back to her chest. “Lord Hawthorn, I—”

I found myself caught in those green eyes. Warmth thawed any lingering reserve I had held as a protective shield.

Thunder cracked right above the abbey, followed by a flash of lightning sizzling outside the window. She jumped at the sound, and the sketchbook once trapped beneath her arm tumbled to the floor. It fell open with a flutter of pages.