identical armchairs. Faulkner’s guest, an older man with a black coat and a full-bottomed wig, looked just the same as when he had visited their father years ago, but Reynard couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. Bellamy? Barstow? Beelzebub?
Bartholomew. That was it.
Faulkner was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together in an attitude of brooding worry. He flinched as Reynard strode across the Turkish carpet. Faulkner was either very tense or he had an equally vile hangover.
There were no servants in the room. Without a word, Reynard poured himself coffee and took a large bite out of a buttered biscuit. He wolfed down the food, standing with his back to the other men until he had something in his stomach. Rude, yes, but his temper would be far less risky if he was fed. He swallowed the last bite and picked up another biscuit, looking out at the prospect of the park and garden. The windows in the room were twice as tall as a man, draped with loops of sky-blue velvet. Beautiful, but they let in the cold as if there were nothing between the room and the snow outside. Dusting off his fingers, Reynard refilled his cup and moved toward the warmth of the fire.
All the while he had been eating, he had been eavesdropping on his brother’s conversation. His hearing had always been exceptional. Often he heard things he should not.
“So what is this nonsense?” He stopped, facing his brother. “You say your name came up in a lottery? What lottery? And what is this Order you speak of?” The name rang a bell, but he could not think why.
Faulkner lifted his head. “It’s not nonsense. I wish it were.”
“Then why did you never mention this Castle, if it’s so bloody important?”
Slowly, his brother sat back in the chair. “The odds of this happening were remote. The fewer people who know about the Castle, the better.”
“If something can turn your face as white as the snow outside, I have a right to know about it.” His point made, Reynard walked back to the table and neatly returned his cup to the tray. His life might be in all manner of disarray, but the army had instilled some need for order into his soul.
Bartholomew spoke for the first time since Reynard had entered the morning room. “Perhaps if the details are explained now, we can disregard what should or should not have been said in the past.”
The dry, dusty voice jolted him. The cruelty in it brought back memories of hiding under the stairs as a child. Another time he heard things that had confused him. Inwardly shaken, Reynard returned to his position, glaring down at his brother and folding his arms.
“Very well,” said Faulkner.
The older man shifted in the chair, leaning forward to look into Reynard’s face. “In the event that you do not remember me, my name is Bartholomew. I—as well as your father—have belonged to something called the Order for centuries. We look after—we guard—a particular castle.”
Faulkner buried his face in his hands. At the sight of his brother’s distress, a queasy sensation began invading Reynard’s gut. It was no longer the aftereffects of a night of drink. He recognized the cold seas of fear. “This is no ceremonial duty, I take it.”
“No,” said Faulkner, his voice quiet. “It is as dangerous as anything you faced in India. And it is absolutely, utterly real.”
Reynard’s mind groped for some point of reference. Despite Faulkner’s reaction, nothing about this conversation seemed believable. “Where is this castle?”
Bartholomew rose, restlessly pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. “That is the hardest question to answer.”
“How so?” Reynard protested, but Faulkner cut him off with a wave of the hand.
“Think back to the tales of the Dark Ages,” Faulkner said softly. “The stories of fey and demons, monsters and ghouls. Did you never wonder where such creatures went, why they walk the earth no more?”
“Not really,” Reynard said with a bark of laughter. “Those are nursery stories.”
“On the contrary,” said Bartholomew, his eyes meeting Reynard’s. “The sorcerers of old imprisoned all the evils in an infinite dungeon between the worlds.”
Realization nudged Reynard, not a bolt of brilliant insight, but the subtle bump of a stranger in a crowded room. He stared for a long moment, remembering scraps of conversation from childhood. Adults hushing as the children grew close, but not quickly enough that some shreds of their fantastic, gruesome news did not fall upon young ears. A book with a golden sun. Talk of warlocks. Talk of the Order.
So this is what all those mutterings were about. He tried to deny the thought, but it clung like cobwebs. Old, bad dreams revived in the dark places of his memory. In spite of the coolness of the room, he felt sweat trickle down his ribs.
“And the service you speak of?”
The old man shrugged. “A castle needs guards. The families of the Order send their sons.”
“You need one of us,” Reynard said, indicating himself and Faulkner, “to go on guard duty to keep evil locked away in a castle between the worlds?”
“Yes,” said Bartholomew.
Reynard’s sense of logic rebelled.
“And which worlds would those be?” Reynard’s tone slipped into sarcasm. There will be holes in this story I can—I must—use to disprove it all. Demons? Fey? More likely a brotherhood of thieves and murderers. Perhaps an imaginary game played to chase away the boredom of balls and hunting parties.
“All the worlds. I don’t even know what they all are. No one who goes into the Castle ever returns to tell us.”
“They said that about certain establishments in Calcutta, yet here I stand.”
“You fancy your chances, do you?” Bartholomew said with a derisive smile, resuming his seat.
Reynard turned away, facing the coal fire. Villains are flesh and blood. Fearsome, perhaps, but nothing new to me. “Tell me why I don’t throw you down the steps.”
“Our father’s lineage,” Faulkner said in a flat voice. “Our family name demands it.”
“Then let me deal with this little man and his castles.”
“Your bravery is commendable, Reynard, but it is not required,” Faulkner put in, rising from the chair. “I am the firstborn. The duty is mine. I will answer the call upon our family’s honor.”
So like Faulkner. “And what of Elizabeth and your children? If men truly go into this Castle and never return, have you no thought for them?”
“Of course. What would they think of me if I turned away and let you take my burden?” Faulkner stopped speaking, and Reynard could hear the heavy, determined intake of his brother’s breath. “You will look after them. You’re a man of honor. I know this house, this title, is everything you have wanted, deep in your heart. Now is your chance.”
He didn’t mention his wife, yet Elizabeth was present in both their minds as surely as if she stood in the room.
Elizabeth.
Damnation. Reynard doubted Bartholomew’s tale—what sane man wouldn’t question it?—but Faulkner clearly believed every word. Perhaps their father had told him more. Faulkner was the eldest son.
That heaped doubts on doubts. If there was the slightest chance any of it was real, Reynard couldn’t let his brother go. Faulkner had a loving family who needed him.
And Reynard knew far better how to handle a den of thieves.
He spun, his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw in a resounding crack. Pain exploded in his hand as Faulkner dropped to the floor. Nursing his knuckles, cursing, he watched the still form of his brother. Faulkner sprawled, the lace of his cuffs stark against the ruby- red pattern of the carpet.
Reynard’s lip curled into a snarl. “I am looking after your family, you idiot. What do you take me for?”
Faulkner remained unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a mockery of sleep.
“Nobly done. I hope you didn’t break his jaw in the process,” Bartholomew observed dryly. “But your heroism is useless. It has to be the firstborn.”
Reynard considered, tilting his head. Faulkner’s face looked normal enough, though it would probably bruise. No matter. Reynard would leave, and his brother would keep his honor.
“Too bad. You get me or nothing.”
