The surprised was uncalled for, considering he’d written the note to bring William home. And Beck should not be on the upper levels. He had no business there. Anger broke free of the concern that gripped him, a welcome distraction.
William climbed the stairs. “What the devil are you about?”
Beck moved to intercept. “My lord, perhaps you should wait—”
“I think not.”
William brushed past him, feeling chills down his spine as old memories merged with the present. He was halfway down the hallway when a woman’s soft sobs floated to him from his mother’s bedroom. There. There was the proof that everything was as it should be. Not that he wanted his mother to cry, but after years of consoling her, there was a constancy to her tears.
Except his mother had died ten years ago.
Firelight flickered through the slim opening of the door. He pushed inside.
Deep red spray marred a snowy white counterpane. A maid knelt on the floor, sobbing quietly. He went to her.
“Are you hurt? What happened?”
Her eyes widened as he approached. She backed up. Helplessly he turned back.
Beck stood in the doorway. He shook his head. “It’s not hers. Not anyone’s.”
The unspoken words rang in the silence. The ghosts. Ridiculous. He’d thought Beck a more rational man than that. Although the vision before him was chilling. And familiar.
The view before him swayed, as if he were underwater, looking up. It was exactly like one of his mother’s visions of her death. He clung to that thought: this was a dream, not reality. Maybe her condition was contagious and now William had it, and that was why he saw such a false thing as blood where it shouldn’t be. With no body nearby.
A prank. It must be.
The sickly sweet smell of his mother’s lavender perfume still permeated the air, not tainted with the tang of copper. A wave of nausea swept over him. On leaden feat, he pressed forward to the side of the bed. He touched the fabric. Dry but not hardened, not black. How long ago had the blood been spilled? And from what source? A poor animal, most likely.
“Who is allowed in here?” The words came out hollow, like his insides.
“Any of us, milord.” The maid’s voice quavered. “The house maids or a manservant. We don’t keep it locked.”
“Well, keep it locked,” he said too sharply.
With a nod and indistinct mumble, she fled the room.
He sighed. So much for diplomacy.
Beck stood in the door frame, solemn, watchful.
“Is this why you sent for me?” William asked.
Beck shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted. “No, my lord. I did not. Though it’s good you’ve come. There’s trouble.”
William frowned. If Beck didn’t write the note, then who did? He couldn’t worry about that now—more important, what the hell else had gone wrong?
“Trouble?” he prompted. “At the abbey?”
Beck raised an eyebrow. “No, but nearby.”
William blinked. “There’s nothing nearby.” Except the manor. And…
“The crypt,” Beck confirmed grimly.
A curious calm descended over William. “What’s happened?”
“It’s your mother. The seal was broken, so the gardener went inside. Her coffin was missing.”
“Missing?”
Beck swallowed audibly. “Indeed.”
A chill ran over his skin. The blood he could dismiss as a prank. His mother’s body missing? No, the entire coffin. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see for himself.
“We’ll go there. Now. Tonight.”
William pushed past Beck into the hall. He thudded down the stairs, almost barreling into the butler. Gerald always had a scold or a criticism at the ready. William arrived so late. William tracked rainwater into the house. That was years ago, a lifetime and a childhood ago, but the past had caught up to him now, bleeding into the present. He’d thought he’d escaped.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Gerald said, his eyes pitying.
Hell. He must look worse off than he thought. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure of that, unless he was the one misunderstanding. Everything was mixed up. Everyone was sorry. And all he wanted to do was leave.
Leave Essex, leave England. Leave behind the past of failure and tragedy. His father had died when he turned fourteen. His mother, a year later, a year poorer. William had inherited the title, all right, just not the legal stature to control the purse. The appointed solicitors had drained the already small accounts dry with poor investments. William suspected they were guilty of more than incompetence. Theft. But he’d never be able to prove it. All he could do was try to fix their error, far too late.
Gerald put a hand on William’s shoulder. Gerald, who had chased him away from the cupboards with a cane. Gerald, who had finked on him at every opportunity, earning William a whipping from his father. Once his nemesis and erstwhile caretaker, now he looked at William with solemn understanding.
For a brief moment, the veil of servant-to-master fell from between them. Their shared grief connected them, exposed them. The butler was just an old man, and William just a boy.
The awkward touch of comfort burned into his skin. His eyes burned, too, and he pushed away from the butler and his unearned caring. Footsteps sounded from deep inside the house, and William flashed back in time, expecting to see the tall, lean form of his father.
A large, robed figure emerged from the study. It was Vicar Charles. Not his father.
Of course not. The long ride must be affecting him. Or maybe the long absence. He was torn between the idea that he should have come home more often—or not at all.
The vicar frowned, his jowls quivering. “Suicide is a grievous sin and as such—”
“No.” William clenched his fists and moderated his voice, speaking evenly. “No, goddamn you. She didn’t kill herself. And that has nothing to do with what’s happening now.”
At the time, the vicar had been sure his mother had killed herself. William had silently wondered, doubted, as well. Too much laudanum could be an accident. Or a grievous sin. But even as an underage, newly appointed earl, he’d had clout, and he’d demanded his mother be buried in the family crypt regardless. He wouldn’t let the vicar denigrate his mother. She had died grief-stricken and practically bankrupt. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that. But in death, she sure as hell would not be shamed, not then or now.
The vicar muttered his sermon to the ground. “A willful act against God…”
William unclenched his jaw and turned to Beck. “Take me to them.”
Beck left to ready the horses while the vicar continued muttering supposed holy words, those damnable holy words. Everyone falling down around him, dying, bleeding, but the vicar remained standing. Thriving, judging by his bulk and the embroidered trim on his robe. Favored by God, then? It was almost enough to make William believe. Just not enough to make him care.
William leashed his old sorrow, his ever present guilt, and strode out to meet Beck at the stables. He took a fresh horse and rode into the sheets of rain toward the cemetery, leaving Beck behind to cart the vicar.
The water in his face and the jolt of the horse’s stride tried to ground William, to make this real. None of it could touch him now, nothing could. He had only his memories