Chapter Two
The cemetery gates were propped open, so he rode through. He slid off his horse and then draped the reins over the head of a Madonna. Spongy grass sucked at his boots. The entrance to the crypt yawned into the night air, and William forced himself inside.
As he crossed the threshold, the hush wrapped around him like a vice. The air was stale and the storm muzzled—even Mother Nature did not dare intrude here. He hated dark places. Closed, tight, suffocating places. They had always reminded him of graves, and this time, they were. Turning the corner, he entered the main chamber.
One body-sized pedestal stood in the center to display the deceased. Empty. Wiped clean. He found the marker for his father, intact. And beside it, cracked open, gaping, the place where his mother should be resting in peace. He knelt and reached gingerly for the granite pieces, feeling like he was disturbing the dead. Not him, though. Someone else had done this. Someone real.
Not a ghost.
“At least this place would have been locked, correct?” he asked Beck when he and the vicar arrived.
Beck nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Broken. Though not everyone is stopped by locks.”
Despite his unease, William gave a wry twist of his lips. “But the casket. And the body. Those would be stopped by a lock.”
A shrug was his answer.
William turned to examine the remaining engraving. His father had been a pious man, if not a strong-willed or cunning one. Through a lifetime listening to his mother’s wailing, he had never raised a hand to her. He had whipped William on occasion, but William had deserved it. Besides, his father had practically begged forgiveness each time after. It was a cycle William had ended by leaving permanently—and his family’s death had only reinforced his decision to live elsewhere. Anywhere else.
He would have been horrified to know his countess’s rest had been disturbed. He would have been horrified to hear how she died.
“It is that place,” came the throaty whisper of the vicar. “It called to the evil in their hearts.”
“The abbey,” Beck explained, as if it were reasonable.
William turned away to hide his expression. He wasn’t even sure what it would say. Annoyance, that the damned village insisted on this tale. Fear, too. Not of ghosts, but that old fear that the stories had led his mother to her grave. She’d always heard voices. What had they told her to do?
After a moment, Beck’s sure hand landed on his shoulder. “Someone will be here on the morrow to clean this up and fix the locks.”
Yes, of course. Wipe it away, like the pedestal in the center of the room. Clean and dusty until the next person in the family died.
Him.
He was the last of the line. As far as he knew, there wasn’t even a distant cousin to inherit his place. Sometimes he couldn’t figure out why he worked so damn hard. Just let the land, and the debts, be sucked back into the crown. The king could have the damned land.
But would he care for the people here, too? William couldn’t be sure. Not that he had been an excellent caretaker, but at least his tenants ate and worked and survived here. Even that could be taken away if the less scrupulous businessmen were given free rein. He’d heard about evictions happening farther north. No. He would stay. He would manage.
“It’s for the best,” the vicar muttered. “She didn’t belong here.”
William stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “And I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”
“This is holy ground and your mother—”
“Be very careful what you say next,” William said quietly. He didn’t believe the vicar would disturb sacred ground this way. His rigid moral compass would hold him in check even if respect for his master did not. Still, he wouldn’t allow her to be slandered.
Even if it might be true.
“She…” Vicar Charles’s throat worked but produced only unintelligible sounds. His eyes flitted to Beck and then back.
“My mother suffered an unfortunate accident with her sleeping draft.”
“An accident?” the vicar mumbled. “I do not think—”
“Precisely. Do not think. Just listen. I declared her death an accident ten years ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with this, you will regret it.”
The vicar understood the threat perfectly. His beady eyes glittered. “I’m a man of God.”
“I don’t particularly like him, either. You do not want to cross me, Vicar.” He turned to Beck. “Take him.”
Muttering fiercely, the vicar left. No doubt Beck would get an earful on the return ride to the parish. When the rustle from the brougham faded away, William knelt beside his father’s casket and prayed.
* * *
William had no desire to return to the house and deal with the mysterious bloodstain. The word duty rolled sour in his gut. He’d spent his entire life under the weight of his destitute title, and this felt like the pebble to break his back. He was half-tempted to ride back to London. He needn’t even get on the damn ship. Let the chips—and muddy, barely profitable lands—fall where they may.
Beck found him on a bench inside the crypt.
William stood. “We ride to the abbey.”
Without a word, Beck led him out. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, worn out and ignorant of its sins. Beck unhitched the mare from the brougham and mounted bareback. William followed on his bay. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go there.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
They rode to the patch of trees past the abbey, where a pool of water rippled innocently. William circled the ditch, finding nothing but damp earth. He did not know what he was looking for, only that he could not rest until he found it.
He wandered nearer the abbey. From here he could see the entire cemetery, and to the side, the top spires of the manor. In the old days, children had sometimes played in the old crumbling structure. He had, too, games of gallant knights and evil sorcerers, if he’d managed to sneak outside after his lessons. Bravery. Honor. The domain of children, not men.
The building had been condemned ten years ago, deemed unsafe and barred to entry. The rotting wood slats were easily kicked in. Inside, moonlight barely penetrated the darkness. Following the broken wall, he trailed his fingers along the soft moss. A light glinted from the gatehouse, like a wink of moonlight off glass.
Quickening his pace, he stepped inside the hollow tower. Bottles were piled in a corner, ale tankards and stronger liquor. He knelt and nudged a damp coat that stank of piss. A drunkard had been here. There was only one in the village, at least one dedicated enough to his craft to imbibe all these bottles. A man known for his rampages and, occasionally, violence.
William met Beck at the horses. “Jasper was here.”
Beck’s eyes widened as he passed him his reins. “Are you sure?”
“Let’s ask him and find out.”
They rode in silence, with only the storm to distract them. A curious rage stirred within him, that his mother had been disturbed, his home violated. The anger poured through his veins, burning and flaming until all he could see was red.
He hadn’t known this violence lived within him. He had been an obedient child. Had to be, for sometimes that was the only peace to be found. Rarely disrespectful, never rebellious.
Now anger threatened to consume him, and he was glad of it. Staid, responsible William could only mourn and