“Your housekeeper wasn’t home; she was visiting with her sister.”
Max nodded. “I gave her the night off.”
“I went back yesterday, and she had already put the house to rights. She gave me some clothes for you and a stack of correspondence that arrived a couple of days ago.” Assan stood and went over to the desk to retrieve a stack of mail. “You’re welcome. I’ve become your errand boy.”
Max grinned at his friend’s sour expression. He’d finished eating and exchanged the food tray for his mail. Funny that his housekeeper had thought to send it to him, you’d think that reading his correspondence could have waited until after he wasn’t mostly dead. The first letter on the top was from his mother. Ah, well, that explained it. Signora Rossi believed family was of the utmost importance. He flipped past the letter and through several more when one caught his eye. The return address was London, Knightsbridge & Sons. He sliced the seal open with his thumb and unfolded the parchment. It was dated three months ago.
Dear Mr. Drake,
We must impart the sad news that your cousin, the Earl of Rivenhall, passed away on the tenth of December. We have had some difficulty ascertaining your whereabouts, which is why this missive is delayed in reaching you with this terrible news. You are the next line to inherit. Please respond immediately with the date of your planned return to England. Your presence is required for the inheritance and entailment to be properly transferred.
Yours sincerely,
Alfred P. Knightsbridge
“You look as though you have seen a ghost.” Assan looked over with concern.
Max shook his head. “I have. My cousin Henry died last December. They had trouble reaching me.”
“I’m sorry to hear your news, my friend.”
Max stared down at the words on the page, shock melting into sorrow. Henry was dead? How could this be? The message was annoyingly brief, lacking in any details about what had happened to his cousin. The message began to sink in.You are the next line to inherit.He took a deep breath in then hissed at the sharp pain that tore through his side. How could he be the next earl? He could never fill Henry’s shoes. His thoughts raced back to the other night, the fight, the beating, lying in that street bleeding, gasping for breath. He closed his eyes. What had he become?
Six years ago, he had left behind his job at the Louvre to join his father dealing in stolen art and artifacts. Father had pressured him to come into the business, and Max, feeling betrayed and angry by the woman he’d loved, had thrown all his carefully laid plans aside. He ran a hand down over his face and looked again at the letter in his lap.
Henry’s heir. A chance to start over. A chance to be someone different, respectable. His desperate prayer to live another day had been answered. In return, he owed God a promise to be a better man.
Chapter One
December 10, 1825
Max pulled downthe brim of his wool hat, trying in vain to keep the stinging droplets of icy rain out of his eyes. Damn, had the weather always been so bloody miserable in early December? Or had he become spoiled by the warm Mediterranean climate? He was freezing his bollocks off in this wind. His horse nickered in agreement blowing out a stream of warm breath visible in the freezing air. “We are almost there, boy.” He patted the horse on its wet neck. “At least I think we are.” Max peered through the late afternoon gloom trying to get his bearings and remember the turn to reach Belhaven Hall.
Eight years had passed since he had last been at his cousin’s house. Memories of that last sun-drenched summer lay crisp and clear in his mind. Lazy mornings fishing in the river, racing at breakneck speed across the fields, laughter and teasing banter flung back and forth between him and his best friends. The three of them had been inseparable; Henry, Livvy, and him. And the day he had finally gotten the courage to kiss Livvy, well, his whole world had tilted in those stolen moments in the orchard. Max shook his head at the foolish boy he had been at eighteen. How he’d believed he could conquer the world and that love held constancy.
He hunched his shoulders trying to burrow deeper into his greatcoat and was grateful to his grandmother for insisting on outfitting him with winter wardrobe essentials before leaving Paris. He had spent less than a week in London before hiring a horse to make the trip to Herefordshire. At the meeting with the solicitor to go over the details of Henry’s will and sign all the papers to take possession of the entail officially, Max had received a slim envelope. When he cut open the seal, inside, there were three letters. One letter with his name, one addressed to Olivia, and one addressed to Julien. Who was Julien?
The solicitor had been a starchy fellow, older than God himself. The man’s white bushy eyebrows lowered when Max asked why the letters had not been given to Lady Rivenhall and the other person. “The letters belong to you, my lord. The contents of the envelope were left to the next Lord Rivenhall. It would not be my place to open a sealed folder.”
Max ran a finger over Olivia’s name scrawled across the letter. This message from her husband had languished in this envelope for a whole year. He had decided to leave the next day for Belhaven. She deserved to have her letter.
Henry dead. Somehow it seemed impossible that cheerful, clever Henry was no longer on this earth. As hurt as Max had been when he heard the news of Henry and Olivia’s marriage, he never wished for this, one friend dead and the other a widow far too young.
Tightening his hands on the reins, he guided his horse around a large puddle. Perhaps he should have stayed the night at the inn instead of heading out on horseback. But once he had made it to Marbury, he just wanted to finish this last leg to Belhaven Hall. It had been a long day of traveling. A fresh horse and the promise that his trunk would be delivered tomorrow was all that was needed to convince him to travel the last bit. What should have taken an hour at most had turned into double that as his horse slogged through the cold rain-soaked countryside.
Finally, the iron gates that stood sentry at the entrance to Belhaven Hall’s park appeared. Max paused and wiped the rain from his face. Despite the coating of ice on everything, the place was familiar as ever. Tall oak and aspen trees filled the grounds, their bare branches reaching out to arch over the drive. Nudging his horse to walk they made their way toward the large medieval manor looming in the distance. The manor sat on a hill; four stone turrets marked the old stronghold section which had been built in 1545. Two more turrets flanked a massive stone archway, marking the more modern manor entrance in front. Its great wooden doors soared at least fifteen feet. Built by Henry’s grandfather, the architect he hired had seamlessly integrated the stone façade to match the older section, thus preserving the effect of a medieval castle.
The thought that Olivia lived alone in this ancient house with all its ghosts made him inexplicably angry.How dare Henry die on her?Of course, the more pressing question was what was Max going to do about her? He frowned at the house as he pulled his horse to a stop in front. As the new earl, it would hardly be proper to have his predecessor’s widow living in the house. His heart raced in his chest. What would Livvy be like eight years later? At seventeen, she had been a delicate beauty with porcelain skin and thick golden hair, long legs that made her hard to beat in a foot race, and wide brown eyes that were often wary but would sparkle with good humor when he made her laugh. And he had made it his mission to make her laugh, his antics more and more ridiculous just to see her smile widen and hear the rich tone of her mirth.
He pulled his thoughts from the past. He was here to settle things with his cousin’s widow. Perhaps she would like to have a townhouse in London. There she could be part of society and find a new husband. He also needed to get the new estate manager he’d hired settled. Max knew next to nothing about running an estate this size. He never intended to have this role. He dismounted and approached the bell pull, and the rain was coming down in earnest now. He waited impatiently for the door to open. When no one answered, he pulled it again. Nothing.
Max reached for the door handle and, turning the large brass knob, he pushed the door open. The entrance hall was empty. He turned and shut the door behind him before pulling off his soaking wet hat. Where were the bloody servants? A young woman in a maid’s uniform came around the corner from the left-wing. She skidded to a stop when she spotted him and let out a high-pitched squeak. She clutched a vase that held a bouquet of holly berries and greenery to her chest. Then she executed the sign of the cross before turning on her heel and rushing away.
What the hell?
Max ran a hand through his hair to slick the wet locks away from his forehead. “Hello! Anybody here?” he called out.
In the next moment, an older man rushed into the hall, the maid at his elbow. “Now, Enid, I have told you that there is no such thing as ghosts a hundred times. See, a flesh-and-blood man.” The servant approached. “I apologize, sir. What a terrible night to be traveling. How may I help you?”