Page 4 of Hearts of Locke Hill

She screwed up her brow. “What is the fun in that?”

“Thefunis playing the game. No more, no less.”

“You, sir, are a sad pirate.” Violet dropped to her knees and aimed. With a satisfyingclink, her next target rolled to the edge but did not cross out of the ring. Violet threw up her hands. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” She placed her hand over her heart. She peeked up at Cyril and widened her gaze pointedly.

“Oh, for the love,” he said, and placed his hand over his own heart. “Alas, poor Yorick.”

“Your compassion is noted, Horatio. Kindly take your turn. But not my marbles.”

He knelt, focused on the ring. “I shall take your marbles and anything else in my path,” he muttered. “You want piracy? I’ll show you piracy. Have at thee!” He let fly, aiming at a pink quartz marble he knew was her favorite.

She squealed. “No!”

“Yes!” His fist raised in the air, and he scooped up the bounty. “How’s that for plunder, ye wee poppet?”

Despite the dear loss, a thrill lit her from inside. He never joined in her theater. “Travesty!” she cried. “You cut me to the quick. By Davey Jones’s locker, I shall win fair maiden back.”

“Not before my second turn you won’t.”

He had a point. While Cyril set up his next play, Violet studied the ring, spying his favorite marble of fine porcelain. And grinned.

“Vengeance is mine,” she whispered.

Chapter 2

Cy Burke crossed Park Street to the wrought-iron fence of his family’s village estate, the frolicking sounds of the May Day celebration fading behind him, replaced with the squeak of the gate. He strode past Little Oakleigh, the brick gatehouse where his brother, Oscar, was currently residing with their guest, Spencer Hayes.

Having recently undergone extensive updates, including plumbing, gas, and a telephone line to the main house, the guesthouse seemed to sit a little taller, the ivy clambering over the walls reaching a little higher. It had been a large undertaking, but his father had been eager for the modern conveniences to be added to this part of his childhood home. A maid washing the inside front windows paused and bobbed a curtsy. He continued past.

Just down the tree-lined lane, Oakleigh House stood in its red brick and white column finery, a broad, three-story “cottage” that had been in his family for generations; all Burkes, all blessed with numerous progeny, each eldest son taking on the challenge of updating the ancestral home for the next generation to update again.

He passed the low stables and garage to his left, the family’s motorcar—a Bonham Swift—parked next to his own Sunbeam. Looking ahead, he paused, noting the scaffolding built around the house’s west chimneys. They were in the process of beingremortared, the bricklayers having been given the day off for the celebration. Weeks ago, the bricks had begun collapsing as the mortar there had decayed with heat, smoke, damp, and age. He took in the rest of the house, his gaze critical. How long would it be before the remaining chimneys would need work? He sighed heavily.

Cy approached the porticoed entry, noting the ivy on the columns could use a trim, and pushed open the door to his beloved home. Instantly, he was assaulted with the sounds of hollering and whooping. If the old brick walls were good for anything, it was keeping inside sounds in and outside sounds out.

His youngest brothers, Patrick, fifteen, and Henry, twelve, came pounding down the stairs, one chasing the other, Patrick’s face red with fury as he tried to catch his smaller but more agile little brother.

Henry had already shot past as Cy reached out, grabbing Patrick’s upper arm, pulling him to a stop, though Patrick fought it. “Henry?” Cy called firmly. Henry, at the far end of the corridor, halted, his feet tripping a bit at his sudden stop. His head and shoulders dropped as he turned and spied Cy holding Patrick in place. “Would one of you explain what is happening here?”

Patrick lunged as Henry threw his arms out, both of them shouting their excuses with such ferocity, Cy had to hold back a laugh even as he felt the muscles in Patrick’s arm bunch with surprising volume and strength. Had the lad been fencing? Boxing? Rowing, perhaps?

Cy pulled in a deep breath. “Stop!” He seldom raised his voice, and the stunned silence after his outburst was proof. Following his intuition, he nodded at Patrick. “Explain.” Cy promptly threw his open palm toward Henry, who’d opened his mouth to protest and was silenced by the action.

If possible, Patrick’s red face deepened in color. He ground his jaw as if unable to say what he desperately needed to say. After a couple of bull-like snorts, he pulled in a breath. “I caught him reading.” His voice had the unmistakable catch and grate of a boy on the verge of manhood.

“Reading? Is that a crime in this house?”

Patrick shook his head, throwing Cy a warning look. This was not to be a joke.

Cy lowered his voice. “What was he reading?”

Patrick mumbled something unintelligible.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mydiary. He was reading my diary.Satisfied?”

Cy drew back, throwing a quick glance at Henry, who remained at the end of the hall.