on. “When will we see the castle?”
“Soon now.” Morgan flicked his reins and the curricle started down the hill. “It stands behind that bit of woods there.” He pointed with his whip.
The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest that now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.
Jeremy bounced in his seat. “And there are real towers and real battlements?”
“Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall.”
“But there is no drawbridge and it looks more like a big house now.” The boy’s voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy.” Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact—or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect that he intended to wipe away.
And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.
Suddenly the trees parted and Morgan’s heart swelled as his boyhood home stood before his eyes—somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.
Across the level ground of the bailey that had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.
He heard beside him a small sigh of satisfaction. “There really are towers.”
“Did you doubt my word?” Morgan lifted one eyebrow as he guided his blacks around the curving drive.
“Oh, no!” A touch of dismay sounded in the boy’s voice. “I wouldn’t question your honor, Uncle Morgan.” He glanced speculatively up at his uncle. “You aren’t going to call me out, are you?”
“No. Not today.”
A sigh. “I thought not.”
Morgan couldn’t decide whether he heard relief or disappointment. “Are you so eager to engage in an affair of honor?”
“Well,” Jeremy pondered, “not with you. But I think it would be famous to have a duel.”
“Believe me, it is not.” Morgan pulled his horses in before the double doors of the house. “I hope you never have occasion to find that out for yourself.”
As he waited for a groom to come take his horses, a surge of excitement coursed through Morgan. The success of another of his goals would be achieved within minutes. He did not expect to find Hayne at Merdinn. The bastard would be in London, trying desperately to find a way to recoup. But his wife… Ah. Hayne’s mysterious, never-seen wife, the usurper of his mother’s place, the cause of his sister’s disgrace. She would be there.
Within minutes he would put her out of his house.
Let her go to her rotten husband. Let her go with him to whatever hole claimed him. Let her beg on the streets, for all he cared. No longer would she be a barrier to decent women, to the women he loved. Enough time had elapsed. She should already be preparing for departure.
Several minutes passed without the appearance of a groom. Hmm. Had Hayne already dismissed his staff? Was the place deserted? No. The windows were open on the second floor. “Well, then, Jeremy. It seems that we will have to take the horses to the stable ourselves.”
“I can take them, Uncle Morgan, while you go inside.” Jeremy looked hopefully at his uncle.
Morgan tousled his nephew’s hair as he once again gave his mettlesome horses the office to start. “All in good time, ambitious one.”
Another heavy sigh. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan directed his team through the stable door and climbed down. Jeremy scrambled down after him and dashed past him to the back door of the building. Morgan sauntered after him, his critical eye appraising the lone riding mount and the sturdy cob that appeared to be the only occupants of the stalls. Hardly an impressive selection.
Perhaps Hayne had contrived to depose of his stable before Morgan could take possession of it. He scowled. Much good it would do him. Morgan now owned the paper on every debt that Hayne had incurred in a long and profligate career. Even the sale of his horses would not save him. Morgan rubbed at his chest absently. Nothing would save the cad now.
He followed Jeremy out into the sunshine behind the dark stable. At the rear of the stable and the kitchen wing of the house, a large kitchen garden tumbled down the motte. Morgan frowned thoughtfully. It looked to be a great deal larger than he remembered. And now that he thought about it, there were more flower beds in the lawn of the bailey. He wouldn’t have thought that Hayne would have spent money on gardens. Perhaps it was the wife.
Two women, their hair covered with kerchiefs, worked far down the slope. They apparently did not hear him, or perhaps considered the arrival of guests none of their concern. One of them stepped with the slow movements of age, and gray hair peeped from under her scarf. The other looked young and possibly shapely under her heavy skirts. A midnight-black braid of hair as thick as her wrist dropped from beneath her head covering to her hips. It shone lustrously in the sun.
At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin man in his wake. “Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone.”
“James!” Morgan hurried forward, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you.”
“Lord Morgan? Is it really you?” The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. “It’s a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?”
“I’m home to stay, James. Merdinn is no longer in the hands of the Haynes.”
“Him!” James spat on the ground. “I’ll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he’d have turned me off long ago. Said I can’t do the work no more.” He patted his silvery locks. “Just because there’s a little snow on the roof… But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself.” He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. “Ain’t all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up to the house. I’ll take care of ’em.”
Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants that dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.
Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. “Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?”
“To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library and let us see if anyone is about.” He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bellpull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.
While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the