Prologue #2
“Ghosts don’t eat brains.” Bridget grinned.
“They simply jump out and scare you.” She formed claws and pretended to pounce.
“Then you have an apoplexy, your heart explodes, and you die on the spot. But I dare say, ’tis probably one of those monsters made from corpses wandering around outside. I wager they eat brains.”
All four of the female servants squealed. Meanwhile, Silas stood still, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Nicolas needed to acquire a copy of the scandalous new novel The Modern Prometheus and prove to everyone that reanimating the dead was purely fiction. “Bridget,” he reprimanded. “Do not be so macabre.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Come on, Silas,” Nicolas said.
The trembling footman took two steps before halting to stare at the butler, who held a finger to his lips, shushing everyone.
“What is it?” Nicolas asked.
“Sir, someone is banging on the front door,” Perkins said, his voice shaky.
“Spirits!” Mrs. Simmons squealed. “Don’t let them in.”
The whimpering maids wrapped their arms around each other.
Nicolas tilted his head and listened. Since they were gathered on the second floor, the knocking was faint. But Perkins was correct; someone was pounding on the front door.
“’Tis not spirits,” Nicolas declared. If only it were, because a live-human caller in the middle of the night during an angry storm was potentially more dangerous than an ancestral ghost or a reanimated monster.
Preparing for the worst, Nicolas retrieved the pistol his brother had hidden in the side table years ago.
Sandwiched between Perkins and Silas, with Bridget on their heels, Nicolas descended the stairs and crossed the foyer. His compatriots cowered behind him as he exhaled, then opened the door.
A group of soaked men stood in front of him. The wind blew their great coats about, and lightning lit up the sky behind them.
Nicolas lifted the pistol, aiming it at the man closest to him. He’d never shot anyone before, but no one had ever shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. He had no qualms about killing the lot of them if it meant protecting his family.
“Good evening.” Palm up, the bloke who seemed to be in charge presented the men behind him. “We are the Wolf Pack, and we are here to see Lord Shiredale, so please holster your weapon.”
Was Nicolas supposed to know about the Wolf Pack?
He’d never heard of them. And he’d be damned if he was dropping his weapon.
He kept it aimed at the man’s forehead. “If you wish to speak with the earl, make an appointment and come around at a decent hour because you have terrified our staff, my mother, and my sister.”
“I’m not terrified.” Bridget stepped beside Nicolas. “But what do you want with our father?”
“He is expecting us,” the man said.
“In the middle of the night?” Nicolas asked.
“I have been expecting them,” his father’s weary voice declared behind him.
Nicolas had been so preoccupied with answering the door that he hadn’t noticed his parents descending the stairs.
Now, his father approached. His mother stood amongst the gawking staff, her hands clasped together in prayer.
Nicolas dropped his arm, letting the pistol hang by his side.
“What is this about, George?” his mother asked.
“Have you not told your family?” the man asked.
Nicolas slid his gaze from the stranger to his father. “Told us what?”
“Blue Cliff Manor now belongs to the Black Widow of Whitehall,” his father said.
“Who in the blazes is that?” Nicolas asked.
His father opened his mouth, then clamped his lips tightly. If they hadn’t been surrounded by strangers, Nicolas would have shaken the answer from the old man.
“She is the proprietress of The Lyon’s Den,” the leader of The Wolf Pack said.
Nicolas did not favor gambling. However, once upon a time, he had visited the notorious gambling hell with his two best mates, who loved nothing more than a risky wager.
“Lord Shiredale owes the widow a considerable sum of money,” the man explained. “He was given until midnight last to pay his debts. He used Blue Cliff Manor as collateral.”
Nicolas glared at his father. “Explain.”
“I’ve lost it.” His father’s whimper was beyond pathetic. “I’ve lost everything.”
“Oh, George. Gambling? Again?” his mother asked.
Once they were alone, Nicolas would throttle his useless father. “We’ve already sold the London house and now you’ve gambled away our family seat?”
His mother dropped to her knees. “Where are we to go? What are we to do?”
“How could you, Father?” Scowling, Bridget backed away from the door to squat beside their mother. “Shh,” she whispered over and over as she rubbed her back.
“Is this even legal?” Nicolas asked.
The man reached into his greatcoat to withdraw a paper that he handed to Nicolas. “The widow has the best solicitor in all of London.”
“’Tis legal,” his father said. “And I gave her my word.”
As if his father’s word was worth a ha’penny these days.
Nicolas skimmed the document. Sure enough, his father had signed the bloody thing. When he looked up from his perusal, the pathetic, no-good rat was shuffling down the hallway, leaving Nicolas to clean up his mess.
“Nicolas, do something,” his mother said.
There had to be a way to fix this because every problem had a solution. “How do I make an appointment with this Black Widow of Whitehall?” Nicolas asked.
A bolt of lightning hit a tree in front of the house.
Sparks flew, and thunder boomed. A woman wearing a black veil seemed to appear out of nowhere.
The Wolf Pack parted and allowed her to glide forward.
If Nicolas was a superstitious man, he might think he was witnessing an otherworldly presence.
But more than likely, this unsettling woman and her crew had been peeking through the windows, terrifying his staff for weeks.
“Are you Nicolas Wentworth, the future Earl of Shiredale?” the woman asked.
Anger obliterated Nicolas’s trepidation. “Yes? Who wants to know?”
“I am Bessie Dove-Lyon, The Black Widow of Whitehall. I am the one who now owns your home.”
His mother wailed like a banshee.
How in the devil was Nicolas to keep his fragile mother from falling into a state of complete despair? And what would happen to poor Bridget? When word of this got out, she would never make a suitable match. Not that her aggressive personality had helped her in the marriage mart.
Nicolas exhaled, long and low. “Will you give me a chance to pay my father’s debts?”
Lightning zinged behind the widow, bathing the woman in an eerie glow. Nicolas could not be certain, but she may have flashed her teeth beneath that lacy veil.
“Meet me at The Lyon’s Den in one week, and we will discuss the matter.” The mysterious woman’s voice lilted upward, as if she was pleased with herself. “Until then, your family may stay.” She proffered a hand gloved in black.
Left with no other choice, and certain that he was making a deal with the devil, Nicolas clasped her hand and firmly shook.