Standing before the drawing-room window of the elegant house in Park Lane, Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Carlyle, stared out into the murky darkness of the night and felt as though the cursed fog had penetrated into the very room in which he stood. Its silence was oppressive; its heaviness permeating into even the most far-flung corners of the house, causing his head to ache, and his already sagging spirits to plummet like a stone.
God, how he hated this house. Hated the unhappy memories associated with it and the wretched way it made him feel. He grew increasingly restless when forced to reside in it for any length of time; assailed by a boredom that was totally out of keeping with his normally ebullient spirits—which was why he endeavoured to spend as much of his time away from it as possible.
But even that did him no good of late, for the moment he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar malaise begin to return, settling on him much the same way the cursed fog had settled on London. And the most frustrating part of all was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about ridding himself of it.
Turning away from the window, Sebastian walked towards the elegant sideboard situated between the pink and white marble fireplace and the ornate boule cabinet, and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He swirled the golden liquid in the bowl, impressed neither by the quality of the Venetian crystal nor by the excellent vintage of the wine. These things he took for granted, as he did everything else about the elegant town house in which he lived; a house which meant so little to him, yet which had meant everything to his late wife; the beautiful and desirable Violet, Countess of Carlyle.
At the thought of the woman to whom he had been married, Sebastian tilted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the fiery spirit burn a path down his throat. Violet. It was hard to believe that she had been dead over two years. At times, he felt like she was still here, her spirit lingering on in the dark corridors of the vast house like a physical presence.
And why would it not linger? Sebastian acknowledged wryly. There was far more of her here than there was of him. The Ming bowls and the other priceless knick-knacks she had been so fond of collecting—indeed, the house itself, with its Italian marble, and its magnificent crystal chandeliers—meant nothing to him. As Sebastian glanced around the opulent drawing room which had been embellished with nearly as much chinoiserie as the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, all he could see were the suffocating crowds Violet had filled it with in her endless quest to become London’s most popular and accomplished hostess.
And eventually, she had. But at what cost to him, and to their marriage?
Still, all that was of little consequence now. Sebastian had married the beautiful, but shallow, Lady Violet Pelham, and had elevated her upon his father’s death to the exalted rank of Countess, whereupon she had set out to more than make up for the lack of regard her husband seemed to have for the title. And, in doing so, she had lost him.
Perhaps that’s what this was all about, he reflected sadly. Perhaps regret was the cause of this…malaise which plagued him; dogging his steps, and causing the mouth which had once moved so easily to laughter to twist so cynically. God knew, he had been living a lie for more years than he cared to admit. A lie which had begun shortly after his marriage…and a marriage which had died shortly after it had begun…
‘My lord?’
Sebastian raised the glass to his lips, but he did not turn around. ‘What is it, Royce?’
‘Mr Bingham asks if you might be able to see him.’
Sebastian’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Damn. He wasn’t in a mood to see anyone right now, and certainly not the steward of Ashdean. The man knew him too well. He was one of the few people who could see beyond the barricades Sebastian erected, and who could touch on areas, on emotions, that were best left undiscovered.
Unfortunately, Sebastian also knew that there was little to be gained by putting the man off. The business of the estate went on, no matter what his own particular frame of mind. ‘Very well.’ He downed the rest of the brandy in one mouthful. ‘Show him up.’
The butler bowed, and in a few moments, returned with the late-night caller. ‘Mr Bingham, my lord.’
‘Come in, Paddy.’ Sebastian’s tone was brusque as he turned to address the steward by name—one of the few people who warranted such treatment. ‘Will you have a drink?’
Padrick Douglas Bingham, steward of Ashdean, shook his head as he advanced into the room. He was an ordinary-looking man; tall, with rugged features, a thatch of thick, sandy-coloured hair that styled after no fashion but its own, and green eyes that seemed to sparkle with perpetual mirth. Certainly there was nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of other men who worked for the Earl.
But there was a difference. Paddy Bingham was one of the few men with whom Carlyle felt truly at ease. He was one of the fewer still who had earned Sebastian’s trust.
‘Sorry to be stopping by so late, my lord,’ Bingham said now as he set a handful of letters on the desk.
Sebastian dismissed the apology with a casual wave of his hand. ‘The fault is not yours. No doubt you called earlier and did not find me at home.’
‘I would have been surprised if I had.’ A knowing smile briefly touched the older man’s face. ‘You’re a very popular gentleman about Town these days.’
Sebastian’s face relaxed, as it did when in the company of people he genuinely cared about. ‘So I have heard, though for the life of me I cannot think why. My own company is beginning to bore me dreadfully. Sure I cannot tempt you to join me?’ he offered, holding up the decanter of brandy again.
‘Thank you, my lord, but I stopped at the Crown and Anchor on my way in.’
‘The Crown and Anchor.’ Sebastian poured himself another brandy. ‘Is the fair Mariette still waiting tables there?’
‘Aye. With a face that could melt a sailor’s heart, and a tongue that could put him to the blush.’ Bingham winked knowingly. ‘She was asking about you.’
Sebastian smiled but made no reply. He was not surprised that Mariette remembered him. He had spent many a night in her bed since Violet’s death, losing himself in the softness of her body and in the forgiving warmth of her arms. But of late, even that had failed to eradicate the blackness which had taken possession of his soul.
He gestured for the steward to sit down. ‘So, what brings you out on such a foul night, Paddy? Matters of grave importance?’
‘Hardly grave, my lord, though not without some import. I believe I have found a suitable master for the Lady Clara.’
Sebastian stared at him blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A riding master. You asked me to hire one for your daughter.’
Abruptly aware that his latest undertaking had all but slipped his mind, Sebastian’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes, of course. What have you to tell me?’
‘That I received a number of letters in response to the advertisement, and after whittling out the unsuitable ones, I was left with two possibilities.’
‘Good God, only two? What was wrong with the rest of them?’
‘Any number of things. Dubious work background, not enough experience, suspect reasons for prior dismissals. It doesn’t pay to be too careful when it comes to the well-being of the Lady Clara, my lord.’
Sebastian glanced at his man sharply, not sure whether Bingham wasn’t bamming him. But one look at the steward’s face was enough to assure him that his doubts were both unworthy and unnecessary. Paddy Bingham genuinely cared for the child—which was more than many were willing to say for him, Sebastian reflected guiltily. ‘Go on, Paddy, you said you had it down to two gentlemen.’
‘Yes,