rel="nofollow" href="#u9ed332df-b94a-5388-864f-8837ac85e1b8">Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter One
Northumberland, England 1852
Adam Mannion pulled his mount to a halt as the two of them rounded a bend in the packed-dirt road and stood staring at the sprawling mansion.
This was Rathford Manor?
His horse, a newly bought gelding with more spirit than sense, skittered sideways as if he, too, felt the sudden chill that seemed to hit once the house came into view. “Whoa, boy,” Adam muttered, controlling the steed with a skillful jerk of the reins. The horse stilled and twitched his ears nervously as they both regarded the house.
Adam Mannion was nothing if not a practical man. In all of his thirty-two years, he had not seen anything to cause him to believe in anything outside the realm of the physical world other than a good, solid hunch one got at times when the turn of the cards was going one’s way. Nevertheless, in this case he had to sympathize with the horse’s skittishness. The place seemed…dead.
It appeared deserted. Not a single soul wandered in the gardens snipping herbs. No one trotted from the stables to greet him. The shrubbery that might have once lent grace to the noble facade was overgrown, ill tended and wild looking. Lichens grew on the stones, flourishing in the neglect that hung about the place like a pall. Many of the windows were shuttered, a strange sight when the weather was so mild. He supposed it indicated those rooms were shut up and unused.
“The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland,” Adam muttered, and huffed a short sound of amusement. Well, he was hardly Prince Charming set on cutting down the fence of thorns to rescue the princess, that was certain.
It was money that brought him to this godforsaken corner of England, up here where the wind came off the North Sea to blow across the lifeless moors. He would have preferred summering in Cornwall with his friends, or perhaps the south of France, or Italy as some of his more wealthy bows had. The difference was, he wasn’t wealthy. Which was why he was here. Money. Oh, yes. And a wife.
The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland, no less.
The horse nickered, a sure sign of derision, as if he could read minds, and Adam nodded sagely. “I agree. Silly stuff and nonsense, all of it.” He shook his head and kicked his heels into the gelding’s flanks. “We shall have to debunk the air of sorcery around here. It is pickling my brain.”
However, his thoughts remained dark as he headed through the high grass and weeds growing on the terraced lawns. It was like heading into a mist-shrouded graveyard at midnight. The hairs on his arms stood up as though lightning were preparing to snap at his feet.
Dismounting, he brushed some of the dust off his trousers and smoothed his cravat, then laughed at his uncharacteristic fussiness. He supposed he was a bit nervous.
Going up to the door, he raised the thick verdigris wreath protruding from the mouth of an iron grotesque, and let it fall. The sound echoed like the low rumble of thunder. Nothing happened for a long time. Knocking again, he waited. He frowned back at the unsightly sentry and thought about his predicament.
Had his information been wrong? Or had he fallen victim to his friends’ savage humor? The idea struck him like a blow. His “bosom bows” were rakehells and scoundrels, and it wouldn’t be below them to play a cruel trick on one of their own. Maybe this was a prank, and they were right now gathered at White’s by the wide front window, laughing themselves senseless as they thought of him traveling all the way up here for…for a fairy tale.
The Sleeping Beauty? He had been told fantastic tales of her beauty, of her charm and grace that had no equal, and—and this was the most important of all—of her fortune. A fortune he needed.
Money, beauty, a country miss whose reclusive preferences would pose no strings to his fast-paced lifestyle in the City. She was perfect.
How stupid of him. He was no green buck. Nothing was ever perfect. He should have known that by now.
Sighing, he silently admitted he had been duped. Thinking that if he left now he could make the inn in the nearby village of Strathmere by nightfall, he took a step down off the marble stoop.
He heard the door open behind him. Swinging around, he squinted. The figure inside was shrouded in deep shadows. He could only see it was a woman. A small, frail creature. Probably a servant girl. “What do you want?” she demanded.
Her impudence combined with his less-than-sublime mood at the moment served to annoy him. He said with an air of command, “I wish to see the mistress of the house. Lady Helena Rathford, if you please.”
There was a short silence. “Who are you—” She broke off. In a more docile tone, she amended, “I mean, who may I say is calling?”
Her voice was cultured, not like a servant’s at all. Then again, he was unfamiliar with this corner of England. Maybe the dialect was not as pronounced among the common folk as in other regions.
“Adam Mannion, Esquire.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited to be asked in.
There was no response from the girl. “Go,” Adam demanded, “and fetch her. Do not keep me waiting.” He waved his hand at her in a shooing motion. Was she daft?
Her demanding tone was anything but. “What is it you want with her?”
“That is not your concern, girl.”
“She doesn’t wish to be disturbed. Go away.”
To his utter astonishment, the door began to close. Two things spurred him into action. The first was his irritation at this annoying slip of a girl and the second was her unwitting admission that there was a Lady Helena Rathford in residence. He had doubted it when he had seen the poor condition of the house. He leaped back up the step and wedged his polished Hessian in the door frame just as she slammed the heavy oak portal closed.
“Lord, girl!” he cried, biting back some more vicious epithets he would have liked to employ as pain shot up his leg. “Are you trying to cripple me?”
“Move your leg.”
“You impertinent chit. Get your mistress. I have important business with her that she…” He stopped. His foot throbbed. The pain edged his temper up. Pushing with one of his broad shoulders, he knocked into the door. The girl stumbled back and the oak panel crashed against the inside wall.
The intrepid servant was astonished, he saw. Her eyes were a startling blue—pale with a hint of green that made them almost turquoise. Grinning his most charming grin, he explained, “I’ve decided I’d prefer to wait inside.”
She was taller that he had thought, probably because she had been hunched over before. Now she stood at her full height,