The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall (6 page)

Maybe the rumors were right. The entire family seemed truly cursed.

She set her pen down and closed the large tome. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was supernatural or merely bad lack—the facts didn’t lie. Since Richard’s bride jumped to her death in 1811, the family line and home had suffered through a nearly endless chronology of heartbreak.

The last entry in the record book stated a fact she hadn’t known.

Bastian’s father had died in a car accident at the age of forty-three. When she had investigated Bastian’s background, she hadn’t focused on his parents. She knew logically that since he was the current Earl of Weymouth, it meant his father must have passed away, but there were no records detailing how. Only Bastian and his mother survived. If Bastian stuck true to his words that he would never marry, that meant he wouldn’t continue his family’s line. The title would pass to distant cousins, but the direct line would perish.

She’d judged him too harshly, thinking him a fool for not wanting to marry. Now she wondered if he wouldn’t commit to building a future with anyone because so many tragic and untimely deaths weighed the family tree down. Even if he refused to believe in the curse, perhaps somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind lay a fear of bringing another child into this world under the Weymouth title. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How devastating to believe, even subconsciously, that any baby he might have could be condemned to death by his family’s curse. It would explain why he kept himself emotionally distant from others. His playboy reputation might make her blush, but the man himself was a still a mystery.

A muscle cramped in her neck. A series of small knots had formed after hours of her head bending over the desk. She pushed her research materials across the table and reached behind her to massage the area, soothing the tension away.

As far as her dissertation was concerned, she could use the chronology of deaths and disasters of the family to highlight its influence on myths and legends around this particular estate. She would work it into the stories connected to other estates around England. If she was able to talk Bastian into letting her photograph or perhaps scan the copies of the family tree with particular entries regarding some of the deaths of the family members, she would be able to cite them as primary sources.

The sun emerged from the clouds, causing long shadows to stretch along the carpeted floor. She watched their slow-moving progress for several minutes as the darkness consumed the patterned carpet. One shadow seemed to move more quickly than the others. It expanded rapidly, consuming the light on the table closest to the window. An identifiable shape began to form.

A dragon.

Her gaze shot up to the windows, and she expected to see a bird spreading its wings in a nearby tree, which would have explained the unusual shape. But there were no trees visible through the glass. The dragon shadow twisted its head, and its tail lashed out in a whip-like flash. Its wings spread wide, and for a brief second, she thought she could hear a distant roar and feel the library’s floor quake beneath her.

She cried out and leaped from her chair, backing up until she hit the bookcase behind her. Something crashed to the floor at her feet, but she dared not look. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she searched for the shadow, which seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

As her breathing slowed, and the faint ringing in her ears faded, she glanced down and noticed a small leather-bound book on the floor. It was partially open over one of her feet. Bending down, she gingerly picked it up and studied it more closely. The pages were full, but not with printed text. Instead, each page was filled with scrawling handwriting, the archaic cursive style beautiful and half-faded. Dates were inscribed in the top left corner.

It was a diary.

Transfixed, she sank back into her seat and began to read. As she read, she could see it all unfold as though she were a visitor there, watching unseen like a ghost.

April 21st, 1810

I was pouring over the Hall’s account books my steward had prepared for me. The task was wearisome but necessary. I longed to have a distraction, something that could take my mind off my concerns. Sir Lionel Huntington had written to say he would be visiting again this afternoon to discuss the future of his daughter, Cordelia. While I am ready to take a bride, I’m not sure she is the one for me. Sir Lionel was apparently determined to see his daughter become the Countess of Weymouth. The chit is pretty enough. Honey-blond hair and hazel eyes. But there is a coldness to Miss Huntington’s demeanor and presence that unnerves me. What’s more, her family bears a rather dark history, one that I fear I cannot completely overlook. They are descendents of a woman who was accused of witchcraft in Lancashire. She was proven innocent, but I cannot help but wonder still… Does darkness run through the veins of her female lineage? Sometimes I see Miss Huntington’s eyes gleam in a way that makes me wonder and worry.

A light rap on my study door disturbed my thoughts.

“Enter,” I called out.

My butler, Mr. Shrewsbury, poked his gray-haired head around the edge of the door.

“The new innkeeper, Mr. Braxton, is here to see you my lord. I have put him and his daughter in the red drawing room.”

“Thank you, Shrewsbury.” Relief poured through me.

Finally, an excuse to escape the accounts. I am interested in meeting Mr. Braxton. Since he is a new resident to the town, it is important that I meet with the man and establish good relations with him.

I pushed back my chair and stood, checking my appearance. My trousers were clean, my waistcoat unwrinkled, a veritable miracle given that I’d spent the last few hours slumped over my desk during my labors. With a hasty hand run through my hair, I was satisfied I looked suitable for company and headed toward the drawing room.

It is my favorite room, one full of light and color. It boasts of a fair amount of books and paintings of my family from years before. A pair of love seats face each other with a small table next to each where a tea tray could be placed for visitors. When I entered, I found Mr. Braxton perched on one of the two love seats. A maid set a tray of tea and biscuits on the table next to him.

“My lord!” Braxton got to his feet immediately, a genuine smile on his face. With ruddy cheeks and a muscled figure barely concealed by his tailored waistcoat, Braxton was a fit and amiable man.

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Braxton. I am delighted you were able to come and meet with me.” I immediately sought out the man’s daughter, expecting a plump, whey-faced creature. The woman stood in the far corner with her back to me as she admired my books.

My first thought was how lovely her figure was. When she turned to face me, my heart stopped. The world came to an abrupt halt. I couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful, something deep in my chest began to hurt. There was a fire in her eyes and warmth in her smile. The blush in her cheeks was becoming, and the dark curls that framed her face accented her creamy skin. I was lost to her in that moment. I wondered if I could ever want another woman except her.

“My lord.” Miss Braxton’s voice was husky and a little breathless, as though she was reacting to me much in the same way I reacted to her. I hoped so. I did not wish to be the only one so completely affected.

“Miss Braxton, it is a pleasure.” I strode up to her and bent over the hand she offered hesitantly. I pressed a kiss to her skin. The scent of rosewater filled my nose. The delicate perfume was a perfect accent to the woman who wore it.

“Thank you for extending an offer to visit.” Mr. Braxton appeared at his daughter’s side, reminding me that Miss Braxton and I were not alone, no matter how much I might wish we were.

“Of course. Please sit.” I gestured to the settees, and we all took our seats.

I spent the next hour conversing with Braxton about Weymouth and how best to settle in with the local folk. Unlike many of the other inns in the county, Braxton’s accommodations were of a higher quality, and many aristocrats would likely wish to stay at the new inn as they passed through on their way to the other parts of England. Despite the conversation distracting me, I managed to keep my eyes on Miss Braxton. I relished the way she kept glancing at my books with keen interest. I suspected she must be a lady who enjoyed reading and wasn’t merely a fair-faced creature with no real thoughts in her head. Women with no interests and no intellectual pursuits held no appeal for me.

As the conversation came to its natural end, I bid my guests good-bye with the invitation for them to return on the morrow for dinner. As I watched Miss Braxton and her father depart, a piece of my soul seemed to separate from my body and accompany her home. I had never felt such a kindred spirit in anyone, man or woman. Come the morrow, I knew I would be desperate for a glimpse of her. Dinner could not come soon enough.

Chapter Four

Jane pulled herself out of the story in the journal.
Richard’s journal.
This was an invaluable primary source. A direct account written in Richard’s own hand. Maybe the true story to the tragedy lurked somewhere in these pages. She looked over at the inconspicuous location where the journal had been hiding between two boring collections of philosophical essays by long-forgotten authors. It was possible the diary had been there for years, and no one had noticed it. The book’s spine was blank, and to a casual reader perusing books, it held no particular appeal or attraction. If Bastian ever found out his ancestor’s handwritten account of his life was here, he’d probably lock it up and never let her see it. He had told her she wouldn’t have access to the family’s private papers. A family journal would most likely be considered private.

A little voice whispered dark thoughts in her head.
Take the journal. Put it in your bag and keep it just until you finish your research.

With a guilty little flip of her heart, she hastily tucked the diary into her bag before she could she talk herself out of it. Her decision came not a moment too soon. The library door opened, and Bastian strode in. He’d changed into a pair of faded jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular physique. He still wore the expensive watch she’d noted earlier, and his gold hair was messily coiffed as though he’d stepped out of a windy Ralph Lauren ad. She half expected a leggy blonde to show up and casually run her hands through his hair. He was a walking
GQ
cover.

The earl who wore jeans. She laughed without meaning to, and his gaze fell on her when he spotted her at the table.

“Something amusing?” He raised one eyebrow in a challenge. Did they teach bad boys to do that in some sort of secret club? She had to wonder. Maybe they even had a secret handshake. She’d have to ask him, if she ever got the nerve to. Finally she resorted to biting her lip until she almost drew blood to keep from laughing. Deep down she knew that if she took him seriously, it would spell trouble. Better that she keep herself distant. Not that a man like him would ever be interested in a woman like her. Tim had been attractive in a nice sort of way, but he hadn’t been the kind of man that made a woman ache just when he looked at her. Men like that were rare and so dangerous to a woman’s heart.

“Sorry, long days researching tend to make me a bit loopy. I take it you’re ready to go into Weymouth?” She looked out the window, and to her astonishment, it was nearly sunset. Richard’s story had consumed her.

“We will take your car. Do you have the keys?” He walked up to her and held out his hand expectantly.

“My car? Okay.” She retrieved the car keys from her briefcase, careful to keep Richard’s journal safely out of sight as she handed them over.

He took them, studied the key fob, and glowered. “A Honda?” His mouth pinched into a flat line.

“What’s wrong with a Honda?” she demanded. The little car had been great so far.

“Nothing.” The way he said that one word betrayed how he really felt.

“Then why don’t we take your car?”

He scoffed. “No. Not tonight. I try to keep a low profile when I go into town.”

She gathered her things, returned the other books she’d been studying back to the shelves and jogged after him.

“A low profile?”

His face darkened as he looked down at her. “Yes. The locals aren’t fond of me because of the damned curse they think I’m dragging around, and the tourists love me. Either way, I get too much attention. I try to stay here and only go into town if necessary.”

Her heart splintered a little. He couldn’t go into Weymouth without being persecuted all because of his family’s string of bad luck? She couldn’t imagine what that was like, but it had to be horrible.

“Is it like that in London?”

He shook his head and held the library door open for her. “No. In London I’m just another nobleman, famous and all that, but no one there cares about…the past.”

She could almost hear the words left unspoken. He wanted to feel at home here in Weymouth, where his heart was and his family came from, not London. Yet a curse—or at least the rumors of one—was keeping him from being welcome even in his own home.

He led her through a maze of corridors in silence. She was fine with that, and he seemed to want to brood. When they reached the front door, Randolph was there to open it for them.

“I’ll have dinner waiting for you when you return, my lord.” The butler smiled warmly, and she smiled back. It was a comfort to see that someone genuinely cared about Bastian and his well-being. Why that mattered to her, she couldn’t quite say; she only knew that it did.

“Thank you, Randolph; I won’t be long.”

As they approached the car, she headed for the right side, patting her pockets, only to remember she didn’t have the keys. Bastian joined her by the door, keys in hand, and he waved for her to go around to the passenger side.

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

He placed one hand on the roof of the car next to her shoulder and leaned into her, trapping her against the driver-side door. He gave her a scorching look while the corner of his mouth kicked up into a cocky grin.

“I
always
drive when a lady is involved. The cliffs are dangerous at night and the roads, too. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you while you’re a guest here.” He moved his other hand to her hip and brushed his fingers along her waist in a slow, intoxicating caress. Tingles of awareness flooded her entire body as the world seemed to shrink into that one featherlight touch. It was so easy to just let go when he touched her and not fight the passion that swelled inside her. But she had to stay in control.

She couldn’t let him in. Not after Tim… Jane swallowed hard. The memories of other nights with another man she’d been so attracted to swamped her. Another man who hadn’t believed her connection to Stormclyffe, her dreams of the past. Another man who thought she was crazy. The pain in her chest was strong enough that she closed her eyes, praying for the self-control to compose herself. Now was not the time to fall apart because her broken heart still stung. Bastian made it so easy for her to remember what it was like to be attracted to a man, to long for that close intimacy and the thrill of desire and longing.

Be flippant, keep him at a distance
.

“I bet you do this all the time. Talk a woman out of driving with that smile.”

He dropped his hand and shrugged in a casual way that showed just how comfortable he was in his own body. She envied that.

“Is it working?” He waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh. He kept her on her toes. One minute brooding, the next teasing. She didn’t want to like him, but it was hard not to when he teased her.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “I just prefer to drive, that’s all.”

“What is it with you Americans and driving? I’ve never met one who didn’t think they should be behind the wheel,” he said.

She tried not to laugh. “You may drive, my lord, if it will ease your need to repress a
colonial
.” They were so close this time that when he smiled the effect of his nearness made her knees buckle.

“You’re appeasing me, but I’ll take my victory.” He stepped back from her, chuckling and muttered “colonial” as she walked to the passenger side of the car.

When they got in, the first thing Bastian did after buckling his seat belt was flip the radio on. He started driving down the narrow road and hit the scan button, pausing when an oldie came on. He settled back, his lips curved in a small smile. She had to bite her lips to keep from singing along. It was one of her guilty pleasures. There was something innately freeing about letting go and just singing. This song was particularly hard to resist. It was one of her dad’s favorites called “Don’t Pull Your Love Out” by Hamilton, Joe Frank, & Reynolds. Unable to resist, she hummed as softly as possible.

“Go on, sing. I can tell you want to.” He took his eyes off the road for a few seconds and glanced at her.

“Shut up.”

He chuckled and cranked the volume dial up, and soon the car was filled with the song. She started when he began to sing. The Earl of Weymouth had a beautiful baritone. His British accent faded as he belted out the lyrics.

“Join me.” He slipped in this command while the trumpets pelted out a quick melody in between versus.

“Fine.” She surrendered.

She wasn’t the most spectacular singer, but she wasn’t cringe-worthy either. They matched pitches and crooned together as though they had sung a thousand times together over a thousand years. The feeling of déjà vu crept through her on cat’s paws. She had never done this before, yet flashes of an unknown memory dug into her mind, sliding through years of memories she knew belonged to her. These slivers of conflicting images, hazy as morning mist, gave her a sudden headache. Putting her hands to her temples, she rubbed at the tender spots, hoping to ease the strange pain. It relented just a few seconds before Bastian looked her way. She answered his questioning gaze with a smile, hoping to hide her slight distress.

Ahead of them the sun had turned from peach to bloodred as it sank into the horizon. The nerves and jitters she’d had all day seemed to fade as he drove them toward town. When the song ended and another one began, he turned the volume back down to a soft background noise.

“I knew you would be fun,” he declared.

“I knew you would be arrogant,” she retorted, but there was no real bite in her tone. She enjoyed his teasing, now that she’d figured him out, or at least part of him. He kept his distance and tried to be off-putting to strangers to keep safe, just like her. But he slipped every now and then, letting her see a different man, someone carefree and happy. She hoped the man singing in the car was the real Bastian. The brooding, jaded man he presented himself as wasn’t quite the same, like a shadow of his true self, a shadow distorted and fractured by years of loneliness and tragedy.

His past was full of pain and disappointment. He’d lost his father at a pivotal age in his life, and the responsibilities of his title and estate were a heavy burden he’d borne alone. The appearance of his easy life, with model girlfriends, fast cars, and parties, was probably an illusion he created to keep the bleak past and uncertain future at bay. Sometimes pretending to be something else, or masking who you truly were, was the safest thing to do.

She understood that. As a kid, she had known she wanted to study history and had taken school seriously. She had never tried to be something she wasn’t, but sometimes she’d been tempted for just a moment here or there to change herself to escape the harsh judgments passed by her peers.

The rest of the drive into town was quiet but pleasant. Bastian seemed lost in his thoughts. He navigated the streets with ease, despite the flocks of tourists drifting in front of them like brightly colored birds.

“Where are you staying?”

“A little local inn two blocks from here.”

He followed directions she gave him and pulled up in the first available parking space half a block away. Although the streetlights had turned on, the corner where they parked was still dark. He locked the car and pocketed the keys. A heavy silence settled between them, and he stared into the darkness, his face suddenly turned ashen. A woman stood just at the edge where the lamplight kissed shadows. It was impossible to see the woman’s face, but the weight of her attention felt like twin holes boring into her skull. A primordial fear stabbed her chest and clouded her mind. She struggled to form words.

“Bastian, I know I’ve been enough trouble, but do you think you could walk me to the door?” She sounded pathetic, but she didn’t feel safe walking to the inn alone. Something about that woman…

He didn’t reply; instead he continued to watch the woman, his lips pursed into a frown. Did she unsettle him, too?

“You don’t have to come with me.” It cost everything she had to say that. The second she was able, she’d just run straight for the inn’s door.

“You aren’t staying here tonight. You’ll get your things and check out immediately. I’ll have Randolph prepare you dinner and a room.”

“What?” Stay? At Stormclyffe with him? Her jaw slackened and she knew she must have looked ridiculous.

He shot her a quick, distracted look before returning his focus to the woman at the end of the street. “You’ll stay with me. Don’t try to argue. I won’t hear otherwise.”

Argue? Why would she argue against that? She tried not to show her relief as she glanced about the strangely empty street. Raucous sounds from the pub nearby seemed muted now that night fallen. A light breeze flowed across her face, and she rubbed her arms to warm up. He noticed and shrugged off his coat, holding it out. Before she could protest, he strode up to her.

“Jane, put the bloody coat on,” he growled low, and she let him slide it up over her shoulders. The carefree man from their car ride was gone. The man looming over her was brooding and edgy. His gaze jumped from one building to the next as though expecting trouble.

“Let’s get inside.” He tucked her arm in his, the gesture less romantic and more of an attempt to get her to move. With a quick look over her shoulder, she exhaled. The woman half-wreathed in shadows had vanished.

When they got to the weathered wooden door of the inn, he slowly raised his head and stared at the creaking painted sign.

“The White Lady?” His voice was low and soft, as though troubled.