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Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.

LORD BYRON

Morning pierced the slit between the faded velvet curtains, a blade of light cutting through the gloom after the storm. I blinked, still bleary from dreams of rearing horses and the screams of men in battle. A groan escaped me. My first day at Hawthorn Abbey.

For a moment, I lay still, the lumpy bed foreign after nights spent within dubious inns. My uncle’s room, once elegant, was now dust-covered and threadbare. The Jacobean chair by the fireplace seemed to hold the weight of his lonely nights.

I flung aside the covers, keeping my gaze averted from the glass decanters pushed against the desk—a reminder of the Hawthorn vices that had plagued the family for generations. Did no one clean my uncle’s room?

Correction, my room.

The thought of ownership brought no comfort as I took in the decay—cobwebs draped across the vaulted ceiling and heavy beams, wood panels buckling beneath their walnut stain.

Pain flared in my calf as I swung out of bed.

I paused, rubbing the ache, and a knock sounded at the door, followed by Whittle’s overly cheerful voice.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but would you like breakfast in your room or the solar?”

My stomach rumbled in answer.

“Solar,” I grunted. The flesh surrounding the scar tissue of the bullet wound throbbed as my feet met the cold floor.

“Very good, sir. Shall I attend to you in any other way?”

“No, thank you, Whittle.” I rose, leaning against the bedpost. Blasted injury.

I had pushed myself during the journey to arrive as soon as possible and now suffered the consequences.

I gritted my teeth. Work remained. And work had always proved an efficient distraction from the turbulent thoughts within my head. Or any discomfort in my body.

Dressing proved agonizing, but I managed well enough on my own, at least until I reached for my boots, thankfully cleaned of the splattered mud the night before. Jamming my swollen leg into the confines of the leather boot brought out a low moan.

By the time I descended the stairs and entered the solar, a simple breakfast waited—sausages, eggs, and tea—while the fire crackled in the hearth.

Mr. Whittle’s daughter, Lucy, entered the solar with a fresh pot of tea, her wide smile in place.

Her golden hair was carefully curled today, but the image of the red-haired sprite from the day before lingered in my mind.

Lucy curtsied, teapot in hand. I raised my hand, declining more tea.

“My thanks to the cook, but I am quite finished,” I said, hoping to ease the look of dismay from her face.

“’Tis no trouble at all,” she gushed as she clutched the pot.

I rose from my chair in haste to escape and hissed as a stab of pain spiked once again through my leg.

“My lord, your leg. Would you like one of my herbal remedies? Old lady Gains swears by my remedies, she does! Says there’s nothing better than my devil’s dung.” She blushed as soon as the words escaped her. “Pardon my language and all.”

I had no desire to try her sulfurous devil’s dung. “I’ll manage. Thank you.”

“Sir, if I may...”

I halted.

She gripped the teapot. “Begging your pardon, but did you hear the strange sounds in the hall last night?”

“No.” Other than my nightmares, which I had no intention of ever admitting. “What sounds, exactly?”

Her cheeks lost some of their rosy hue. “I swore I heard someone creeping past the servant quarters. Feet shuffling and the squeak of a floorboard. I shook so much, I got up and locked the door to my room.”

“Perhaps it was your parents.”

She shook her head with surprising vigor. “Nay, they both deny it. No one sleeps harder than my father. I believe we’ve got a ghost or two haunting the halls. The sounds started several weeks before you arrived. I fear they’re a bad sign of what’s to come.”

“Miss Whittle,” I gentled my voice, wishing to set at ease the daughter of the woman who had offered a quaking boy similar comfort. “I shall investigate the abbey today, and if I find anything ominous, rest assured, I will not let it stay.”

Her wobbling smile brought one of my own. Before the conversation could turn to spirits, I hobbled back to my chamber as quickly as I could, where the desk awaited—still cluttered with decanters half filled with the brandy my uncle had favored.

I rummaged through disorganized papers and odds and ends in hopes of finding something to satisfy Mr. Talbot’s demand to rectify the estate’s finances.

At last, I stumbled upon some records and several small leather-bound books.

After flipping open the cover of the first, I suspected I viewed my uncle’s handwriting.

1798

My brother begged me to leave for London and abandon this godforsaken land.

Our mutual friend, Cunnington, assures me that the list of Covent Garden ladies contains plenty of pocket Venuses to try.

The gents are itching to see the lasses and judge for themselves which one is the prettiest. After Randall has sampled what he may, he claims he shall find the nearest club and enjoy a good bet, though I daresay we seem to have the most terminable luck of late.

I suspect I won’t be welcome at the faro table much longer.

I slammed the diary shut. Here lay my family’s disgrace—gaming hells and Covent Garden trysts.

My father and uncle, so alike in temperament and vice, had lived unchecked.

While my father had married, my uncle remained alone, too stubborn to settle down.

No one and nothing had curbed their selfish inclinations.

Nothing of value remained to be read within this diary.

Had my pious mother not taken me far from the abbey, I might have followed the same path with such men as my guides. I remembered her agony in trying to cling to respectability, even in genteel poverty. Ignoring the diary, I reached for a linen-covered book.

A cruel voice—or a memory of it—whispered in my mind, raising the hackles along my neck.

Are you sure Rafe is even my son?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and opened the book.

The estate records, though less sensational, still brought a staggering blow to my chest. The entries, like the crumpled papers stuffed into drawers, detailed a series of income reports and mounting debts, all jumbled together.

It was only in the final years that I noticed any attempts at remedy, marked by my uncle’s scribbled notes proposing the purchase of a cider press and a plan to reinvigorate the valley’s cider trade. But those efforts had come too late.

An hour had passed while I performed a series of rough calculations.

With an audit in only four months, how could I demonstrate any progress?

If I could not make a go of it, the Crown would absorb the estate and give it to another lord.

I would be like any soldier cast off from duty with not a coin in my pocket.

At last, I shoved the records away, mulling over what my barrister and Mr. Whittle had shared. As I descended the once-grand staircase lined with paintings, the gilt frames swathed in dust, I calculated the value of each item. Why not sell the art?

At the foot of the stairs, I pushed open the large entrance doors and stepped into the outdoors.

The air was thick with the scent of overgrown vegetation.

Stone pathways led to alcoves where monks might have sought solitude for prayer and reflection.

Such irony, considering the sins of the Hawthorn men.

My uncle had left most of the buildings untouched, with no changes since the Elizabethan exterior was added to the abbey. A slow walk, hampered by my leg, brought me to a brewery with a freshly thatched roof—the only recent repair. Inside, however, all progress had halted with the old man’s death.

Beyond the brewery, a few moldering workshops stood forgotten. Finally, I returned to the once-majestic stables and barns near the courtyard. The damp smell of earth and the rustle of leaves filled the air as Mr. Whittle stepped out with another man, both striding toward me with urgency.

Bits of hay covered Mr. Whittle’s pants and boots. Apparently, the staff shared duties at the abbey, ranging from cook to maid, to butler and stable hand.

“My lord, may I introduce your steward, Mr. Spencer. He has a concern, if you’ll give him but a moment.”

Mr. Spencer was a small man with a long nose and hunched posture. He eyed me with as much curiosity as I eyed him.

The steward finally bowed. “Forgive me for intruding at such an hour, but I’ve encroachers on our property, and the matter cannot wait.”

“Tell them to leave,” I replied curtly.

“They won’t, my lord. Stubborn chits claim they have the right to your field.”

Within moments, I had mounted Chaucer and was delighted to have my faithful companion with me again. The other men found two workhorses in the stables, where they had been left with some old harnesses and equipment. After quickly saddling them, they joined me.

I followed Mr. Spencer’s lead as he guided us away from the courtyard heading west, past the neat rows of trees. The apple orchard promised a fall harvest, and the two hundred sheep would provide wool come May.

Mr. Whittle noticed my interest in the orchard. He drew up his horse beside mine, his cheeks nearly as rosy as his daughter’s. “Those trees will produce fruit soon enough come fall and bring a fair price. All that you view to the northeast belongs to you.”

My moment of triumph was soon ruined when Mr. Spencer swore loudly and nudged his horse away from mine. “Blasted neighbors. See how boldly they’ve stepped onto our land again?”

I shielded a hand over my eyes, straining to see. Two slender forms appeared in the field next to the apple trees. One figure stood, while the other kneeled on the ground.

“Who borders our land?”

The steward scowled. “Mr. Perry. He’s a stubborn sort.

Wouldn’t sell to the former lord, but somehow he refuses to budge even when crops disappoint.

” Then he added, “Some of the newer farmers in the vicinity have been pushing their luck, moving their fences bit by bit. They assume our neglected fields are fair game.”

It was my turn to frown. “Neglected or not, this is Hawthorn land.”

“I’ve confronted a few of them, my lord, made it clear where our boundaries lie. But these are stubborn folk, and words may not be enough. I shouted at one. The vicar’s daughter. She waved her pencils and papers at me, claiming she had important things to do.”

I blew out an exasperated breath, following his finger to where he pointed. “We can’t let others encroach.”

A feeling of certainty crept through me the longer I stared at the two figures. That woodland sprite with her nose pointed to the sky, answering me with such disdain, had found her way onto my property.

“Have no fear, Mr. Spencer. I will sort the issue within the hour. Surely, two women can’t keep you from your duties.”

How she had chided me the evening before. Clearly, she had no regard for my family, not that I did either. Why then, should her opinion nettle me?

Their behavior was strange for two women, particularly a vicar’s daughter. My pulse thrummed at the idea of encountering her again. A foolish response, really.

All the same, I leaned into Chaucer and let him fly.