Chapter Three
Penham Park, Hampshire
Devil’s breeches, it was worse than he’d imagined.
The vast building of Penham Park stretched before him, a monolith of gray stone, dotted with windows that stared out across the landscape like dark, lidless eyes.
Two staircases climbed toward each other at an angle at the front, meeting on a large balcony that wrapped around the whole building, edged by a balustrade.
The gardens, that had once been so finely manicured as to have wiped out all evidence of the beauty of nature, were overgrown as if, now given freedom from the chokehold of the previous earl, Nature had taken vengeance.
Charles stepped out of the carriage and onto the gravel drive where weeds poked through the tiny stones. He thrust his hands into his pockets and cast his gaze over the building he’d be forced to call home.
Buildings from a man’s childhood ought to harbor the fondest of memories—secret hideaways, a treasured nursery, a favored bedchamber, and a multitude of dens in the surrounding estate. And they were always expected to be smaller than recalled, distorted by a child’s memory.
But the main building of Pelham Park elicited no such emotions. It was larger, more imposing than Charles recalled from the last time he’d seen it, before he’d effected his escape into manhood and out of England.
It was a mausoleum, a memorial to years of torment and bitter unhappiness.
Charles climbed the steps, John in his wake, then approached the main doors, the lawyer’s words playing in his mind.
There’s sometimes comfort to be found in knowing that one is doing one’s duty to one’s heritage.
What comfort could ever be found in this godforsaken place? The only inhabitants were most likely spiders and bats.
The only living inhabitants. Doubtless, the building housed the spirits of the dead, the souls of the condemned. Who else would find comfort here—a dark and forbidding place to suit his dark soul. Wasn’t that what Father accused him of being?
You’re a dark soul, boy—cursed spawn of your mother…
“Bloody hell, you weren’t wrong about the place,” John said. “Beg pardon, sir, I meant no offense.”
The doors creaked and cold fingers circled Charles’s heart as a deep groan echoed through the air.
He stepped back as the doors swung inward, forming a gaping, toothless mouth.
Then a figure appeared in the doorway—a human form, blurred by the darkness.
Charles took an involuntary step back, but the figure followed, moving into the light.
Then it solidified into the shape of a woman, of diminutive stature with iron-gray hair scraped into a neat bun.
Her dress was an unremarkable shade of dark blue, and she wore a set of keys on a chain about her waist.
Her face bore the wrinkles of age, but though her skin was pale, a flush of rose adorned her cheeks, and her eyes, a pale shade of blue, twinkled beneath her brows.
“Viscount Penham…” She hesitated. “F-forgive me, I suppose I should call you Lord Devereaux now. I did not hear the carriage. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Charles glanced at John and signed.
What does she mean, we?
“Who are you, ma’am?” John asked.
The woman glanced at Charles’s hands, then her face cracked into a smile.
“Bless me, Master Charles! Have I aged so much that you don’t recognize me?”
Charles stared at her then tilted his head to one side.
Mrs. Brougham? Surely this wizened creature couldn’t be the housekeeper?
Her eyes filled with understanding, mixed with a little judgment, and she nodded.
“I see your memory serves you well, Lord Devereaux, even if your gallantry doesn’t. The years have been kinder to you than me. But fifteen years is a long time to be absent from one’s home.”
Was it really fifteen years since he’d last set foot in the place, leaving for Oxford and vowing never to return until his father was cold in his grave?
It was a vow he’d kept. But, unlike most vows, it had been driven by hatred, not honor.
“We thought you might return when your father…” the housekeeper began, then she sighed and shook her head. “It matters not. What matters is that you’re home, to take up your rightful place as the earl.”
My rightful place…
He reached for his signet ring and ran his thumb over the stone, taking comfort from the feel of the sharp edges of the facets. The housekeeper lowered her gaze to his hands and smiled, her eyes filled with understanding.
“Please, come inside,” she said. “You must be tired from your journey, and your man…?” She raised her eyebrows and directed her gaze at John.
“Lord Devereaux’s valet, ma’am,” he said. “John Richards, at your service.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Richards,” she said, stepping aside. “Please, come inside, both of you, and I can arrange for some tea.”
Both of us?
Charles glanced at the valet who, by right, the housekeeper should have insisted use the back entrance. Or at least she would have, were his father still alive. Father was always a stickler for propriety—ordering and delivering punishments for the slightest transgression.
As if his body recalled his last transgression, the skin of Charles’s back itched.
He crossed the floor of the hallway, illuminated by a beam of light from an upper-floor window, in which dust motes swirled in protest at their disturbance.
His footsteps clicked on the marble floor as he approached the main staircase—an enormous flight of stairs that swept upward to a wall bearing a huge painting of the third earl, staring darkly at all comers, before dividing in two to ascend either side to the upper floor.
A cold hand clawed at his stomach as he approached the stairs and his gaze landed on the lowest step, then moved along the floor to the third stone from the bottom.
His chest constricted at the memory, the image that formed in his mind…
A pool of dark red, spreading across the floor, arms frozen like marble trapping his body, and…
…and two dark, lifeless eyes, staring into his soul, drawing him toward the mouth of hell…
“Lord Devereaux!” the housekeeper exclaimed as she swam into view before him. He blinked and her features came into focus, concern in her soft blue eyes.
Concern and pity. The last thing he wanted was pity, especially from a woman.
She reached for his arm, and he snatched it free. Her eyes narrowed, but the compassion in their expression did not waver. If anything, it deepened.
“How about that tea?” she said brightly. “Then you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to since I saw you last.”
Charles nodded.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Italy. I hear Rome is particularly beautiful. But, as they say, there’s nowhere on God’s earth like home, is there? And it gladdens my heart to see you finally come home.”
What foolish nonsense was she speaking?
“Are you well, sir?” John asked.
Charles gestured. I will be once I’m spared the girlish nonsense that women always feel the need to speak when a man returns to his childhood home.
Mrs. Brougham raised her eyebrows, then nodded. “I’ll see to that tea,” she said. “Then perhaps we ought to discuss hiring staff, if you intend to stay.”
A flicker of hope shone in her eyes.
“Have you a wife? A family?”
Charles shook his head.
“A pity,” she said. “You ought to take a wife. You don’t want Jacob inheriting, seeing as he cares not one jot about the place.
No sense of duty. But then, that’s to be expected, seeing as—” She broke off, and her smile returned.
“Never mind. Now you’ve returned you can find yourself a good English girl.
There’s plenty to be found who’d be delighted to be mistress of this place. ”
Charles glanced about the hall, taking in the stench of neglect. No girl in possession of her wits would want to be mistress of such a place.
“It would be good to have the house filled with children,” the housekeeper continued. “It’s high time love and laughter returned to the place.”
Since when had love or laughter ever taken residence here?
Charles signed to John. Now she’s talking rot. Dim-witted, like all women.
John’s cheeks colored. “My master agrees with you, Mrs. Brougham.”
She tilted her head and eyed Charles through her lashes. “Oh, he does, does he? Even though he thinks me dim-witted for considering that light and laughter could return to this house?”
Devil’s breeches! Surely she didn’t…
“Did you think I’d forget?” the housekeeper said, moving her hands to convey the exact same phrase.
“I should be flattered that you consider my nonsense to be girlish, given my advanced years. As to my lack of wits, well—the purpose of my sex, at least among my class, is not to shine a light on our own wits, but to convinced members of your class and sex of your superiority. Of course, my role is to ensure that you have a comfortable and well-functioning home. To this end, I trust you’ll grant me enough of your time to listen to my recommendations for hiring a full complement of staff. ”
She smiled then curtseyed to convey her subservience, but why did Charles feel as if he were an errant boy being chastised by his nursemaid?
Forgive me, he signed to the housekeeper, and she patted his arm.
“When you were a boy, I forgave you anything, including when you stole a basket of eggs from the kitchen and threw them out of the upper-floor window to see if they’d bounce.
Mr. Phelps wanted to thrash you, if you recall, but I convinced him that an inquiring mind was to be nurtured rather than beaten into submission. ”
She lifted her hand as if to caress his cheek, then withdrew.
“You always were a good-hearted boy, Master Charles,” she said. “Do you recall, afterward, how you stole a dozen roses from the garden and presented them to me to say thank you?”
Charles frowned, and she let out a soft laugh.
“Perhaps you don’t care to recall an act of kindness that, while praised in a boy, is thought to be a weakness in a man. But I’ve never forgotten how sweet-tempered a lad you were, until—”
She broke off, her color deepening, and glanced toward the foot of the stairs. Charles pushed her away and motioned with his hands.
We’ll take tea in the morning room.
“Of course,” she said. “You remember where the morning room is?”
Charles nodded.
She curtseyed again, then disappeared toward the kitchens, and he made his way through an oak-paneled door into a room decorated in dark purple. The color of wealth, Father had always said—to show all comers that the Devereaux family was to be revered.
Revered, indeed! The family name had been blighted by scandal since that night. From that moment, Charles had been nothing but a disappointment to his parent.
Fuck you, Father.
He lowered himself into a threadbare chair, and motioned John to sit. What do you think of our new home?
“Do you require honesty or diplomacy, sir?”
Charles let out a snort. I am not in the mood for either.
“Very good, sir,” the valet said. “I should see to your trunk. It appears that Mrs. Brougham can understand you enough to take your instructions. Shall I speak to her about your requirements for supper, or will you?”
You do it. And tell her not to bother with the tea.
John bowed, then exited the room.
Charles leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of damp, dust, and doom.
Was he really supposed to find some perfect English girl and bring her back to this godforsaken place? Nobody deserved to be a prisoner here like he now found himself to be.
Then he allowed himself a smirk.
Perhaps it would be a fitting punishment for whatever grasping debutante he was forced to shackle himself to merely to keep this bloody estate solvent. At least the place was large enough that he wouldn’t be forced to spend any more time with her than necessity demanded.
As soon as he’d settled his belongings here, he’d return to London, find the largest dowry he could, then return to a life of solitude.
Whether the bride followed him mattered not.
All he craved now was a peaceful existence, away from the rest of the world—free from debt and, most importantly, from other people.