Which was why Gerard had put off this visit. When he came north, he preferred lingering in more civilized environs. In Edinburgh and at Rainford’s home, he’d had the opportunity to discuss business with worldly men like his engineering cousin, Max Ives, as well as inventors and investors. Although, after the encounter with traitorous Lady Alice, he had to be assured that she had fled on the first train out before he’d lingered with Rainford’s company.
“I’m usually not wrong about ladies who are ripe for a romp,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the indifferent spirit in his head. Lady Alice had given him the impression that she was interested. They’d dallied occasionally over the years without drama. He didn’t know what had come over her.
Women require protection, the spirit said wearily, as if that were obvious.
“Well, if she’s in dire financial straits, she certainly made a poor choice in me. I have no funds, and hers aren’t sufficient to dig me out. Besides, they’d have to hold me at gunpoint before I’d marry the deceptive wench, and then I’d abandon her at Wystan to fend for herself.”
And you’d bolt for the continent, the spirit agreed, almost with amusement, using a crude form of English that Gerard understood without translation.
“So maybe she had the wrong impression of me, too.” He knew his faults. He didn’t need dead Romans to remind him.
The intriguing part of that whole episode had been the well-spoken servant carrying a library tome who’d saved his hide. Her tongue had been waspish, and her suggestion that he smack the lady had appealed to his sense of the absurd and tapped down his fury. He’d wanted to thank her, but she’d vanished in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t seen her again. She was probably a lady’s companion and had left with the rest of the guests. Companions tended to be impoverished women of quality. He’d not inquired after her.
He was a practical man. He didn’t dally with needy maidens and spinsters who expected marriage. Should he ever hobble his freedom with the wedded state, it would be for wealth. It might come to that if he did not find an additional source of income—or a pot of gold—soon.
Entering the wood surrounding his home, Gerard let his mount rest and breathed deeply of damp autumn leaves and pine needles. The journey from Rainford’s castle in York to Wystan in Northumberland would have taken two or three days by horse, but the train up the coast cut the time in half. He kept a horse stabled at the nearest station so he could ride in whenever he wished without notifying anyone of his arrival.
You like annoying the women, his spirit voice concluded.
“I don’t want anyone going to extra trouble for me,” Gerard corrected. But yes, he liked frustrating the schemes of the castle’s meddling inhabitants as well.
The meddling inhabitants were one cause for his desperation.
The train, unfortunately, had been filthy with coal dust. Gerard wanted a hot bath before he must contend with his houseful of interfering old witches. The witches part wasn’t a euphemism. Wystan had been a Malcolm stronghold since before the arrival of the Normans, maybe longer. The women were quite convinced their first journals recorded the oral traditions of their druidic ancestors. Since his mother was a Malcolm, as well as many of his relations, he knew all about their very odd abilities—and his own.
His father hadn’t handed over the estate to Gerard out of generosity. The marquess had done it so he didn’t have to deal with the failing fortunes of a monstrously expensive castle inhabited by psychic women under some trust agreement written a century ago. The castle really should be closed up or demolished—except it housed an immense and ancient library.
The medallion’s spirit fell silent, presumably in admiration of the rambling structure they approached.
Once the all-male Ives family had taken control of the old keep, practical amenities had been added—and escape hatches. Riding into the yard, Gerard left his gelding with a stable boy and took the cobblestone path between the old stone walls to the derelict watchtower in the rear. The women had been forbidden this part of the castle, so it hadn’t been adorned with roses, padded with wall-coverings and tapestries, or filled with gilded furniture. It was stark cold stone and formidable.
Using his private entrance, he took the worn sandstone stairs down to the former kitchen. Since he never traveled with a valet, he had to pull the water from the pump himself. It sluiced directly into a bath large enough for a male frame. He lit the gas heating element and let the water warm as the tub filled. He didn’t know which of his inventive relations had created this luxury but he was grateful for it.
After scrubbing off coal dust and horse stench, he donned a robe, climbed the stairs to his tower rooms, and foraged in the countrified wardrobe he left there. He didn’t need to be fashionable in the wilds of Northumberland. Tweed, leather, and boots sufficed, unless he was bored enough to go to dinner. His trunks would catch up with him before that happened.
What he wanted to do was explore his fields for any sign of a Roman ruin where treasure might be buried. It was September. He had a few hours of daylight left. He just needed food.
By now the entire household had been alerted to his arrival, and the women would be bustling all over, stirring the servants into a tumult.
He rang the bell. A footman arrived instantly, no doubt told to wait for the earl’s command. Gerard had to admit to appreciating the efficiency of a household that catered to his every wish—as long as
