mare in oats, much less a spendthrift sot in London, where he belonged.
*
Uncle Alfred finally went to sleep. His valet had crept down the silent hall ages ago, but candlelight still shone under the baronet’s door. Lisanne waited another half hour after the light went out.
She knew one of the gardeners still patrolled the grounds, because she could see him and his lantern pass under her room every fifteen minutes or so. That was enough time for Lisanne to lift her window and scurry down the trellis, then scamper across the lawns to the boxwood maze. She could have made her escape in pitch darkness, so many times had she taken the same route, but tonight, when she didn’t need it, the moon lit up her path through the ornamental gardens. Still wearing Esmé’s light-colored muslin, with an old woolen shawl hurriedly tied around her shoulders against the chill night air, she’d stick out like a lighthouse at sea. She pulled the shawl over her blond hair and waited behind a topiary unicorn for the guard to pass by again before entering the maze. Then, racing through its twists and turns past the fountain at the center, she exited at the opposite side, where the maze’s high hedges would block her flight across the lawns and into Sevrin Woods.
Only Becka greeted Lisanne, joyous to see her mistress and the rolls she had stuffed in her pockets. Everything else was hushed except for the mist that dripped steadily off just-budded branches. ’Twas almost as if the trees themselves were weeping.
No one answered Lisanne’s call, or came tumbling out of the mist when she played a tune on her little flute. They knew. She could already feel their pain.
“No!” she shouted into the empty night, and “No!” again. Becka set up a howl that had the Neville Hall groundsman dropping his staff and his lantern and heading for the next county.
*
Sloane Shearingham was drunk. There was nothing unusual in that except for the location. Tonight he was castaway in three barely habitable rooms of St. Sevrin Priory in Devon instead of three barely habitable rooms of St. Sevrin House in London.
He and Kelly had arrived the afternoon before, enough time, thank goodness, for a hasty inspection of the centuries-old building to see if it was liable to fall down around their ears as they slept. While Kelly unpacked and tried to find chimneys that weren’t blocked by squirrel nests and mattresses that weren’t burrowed through by mice, Sloane had made a quick trip to the village to arrange for a delivery of fodder for the horses. If Kelly couldn’t find them reasonably comfortable billets in the house, at least they’d have fresh hay to sleep on in the nearly intact stables. It wouldn’t be the first time Sloane and his batman had bedded down with their mounts.
When Sloane returned, pockets slightly emptier since the liveryman wouldn’t extend credit to any St. Sevrin, he rubbed the tired horses down himself, and discovered where some chickens had taken up housekeeping in one of the stalls. He relieved the hens of a clutch of eggs, helped Kelly fire the antique stove in the kitchen, and sat down to a halfway decent omelette. Theirs was such a hand-to-mouth existence, he thought, that those chickens should be making out their wills.
At least they wouldn’t be cold. There was firewood lying all over the place from fallen trees, broken shutters, wrecked carriages. Better yet, the duke unearthed a case of old brandy in a far corner of the wine cellar that the servants or squatters or his sire had overlooked. ’Twas better to stay drunk, His Grace decided, for St. Sevrin Priory was indeed haunted, if only with the ghosts of the past. A mass of murdered monks would have been good company by comparison.
Asleep Sloane had nightmares of battle, of fallen comrades he couldn’t raise, of devastated Spanish villages after the French had been through. He saw the eyes of the children there, beseeching him, accusing him. By day, he had the
*
Uncle Alfred finally went to sleep. His valet had crept down the silent hall ages ago, but candlelight still shone under the baronet’s door. Lisanne waited another half hour after the light went out.
She knew one of the gardeners still patrolled the grounds, because she could see him and his lantern pass under her room every fifteen minutes or so. That was enough time for Lisanne to lift her window and scurry down the trellis, then scamper across the lawns to the boxwood maze. She could have made her escape in pitch darkness, so many times had she taken the same route, but tonight, when she didn’t need it, the moon lit up her path through the ornamental gardens. Still wearing Esmé’s light-colored muslin, with an old woolen shawl hurriedly tied around her shoulders against the chill night air, she’d stick out like a lighthouse at sea. She pulled the shawl over her blond hair and waited behind a topiary unicorn for the guard to pass by again before entering the maze. Then, racing through its twists and turns past the fountain at the center, she exited at the opposite side, where the maze’s high hedges would block her flight across the lawns and into Sevrin Woods.
Only Becka greeted Lisanne, joyous to see her mistress and the rolls she had stuffed in her pockets. Everything else was hushed except for the mist that dripped steadily off just-budded branches. ’Twas almost as if the trees themselves were weeping.
No one answered Lisanne’s call, or came tumbling out of the mist when she played a tune on her little flute. They knew. She could already feel their pain.
“No!” she shouted into the empty night, and “No!” again. Becka set up a howl that had the Neville Hall groundsman dropping his staff and his lantern and heading for the next county.
*
Sloane Shearingham was drunk. There was nothing unusual in that except for the location. Tonight he was castaway in three barely habitable rooms of St. Sevrin Priory in Devon instead of three barely habitable rooms of St. Sevrin House in London.
He and Kelly had arrived the afternoon before, enough time, thank goodness, for a hasty inspection of the centuries-old building to see if it was liable to fall down around their ears as they slept. While Kelly unpacked and tried to find chimneys that weren’t blocked by squirrel nests and mattresses that weren’t burrowed through by mice, Sloane had made a quick trip to the village to arrange for a delivery of fodder for the horses. If Kelly couldn’t find them reasonably comfortable billets in the house, at least they’d have fresh hay to sleep on in the nearly intact stables. It wouldn’t be the first time Sloane and his batman had bedded down with their mounts.
When Sloane returned, pockets slightly emptier since the liveryman wouldn’t extend credit to any St. Sevrin, he rubbed the tired horses down himself, and discovered where some chickens had taken up housekeeping in one of the stalls. He relieved the hens of a clutch of eggs, helped Kelly fire the antique stove in the kitchen, and sat down to a halfway decent omelette. Theirs was such a hand-to-mouth existence, he thought, that those chickens should be making out their wills.
At least they wouldn’t be cold. There was firewood lying all over the place from fallen trees, broken shutters, wrecked carriages. Better yet, the duke unearthed a case of old brandy in a far corner of the wine cellar that the servants or squatters or his sire had overlooked. ’Twas better to stay drunk, His Grace decided, for St. Sevrin Priory was indeed haunted, if only with the ghosts of the past. A mass of murdered monks would have been good company by comparison.
Asleep Sloane had nightmares of battle, of fallen comrades he couldn’t raise, of devastated Spanish villages after the French had been through. He saw the eyes of the children there, beseeching him, accusing him. By day, he had the
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