Page 1 of Wolfhaven

Chapter 1

Gareth

YORKSHIRE, 1896

Gnarled ancient oak trees reached across the pitted road, blocking out much of the warm autumn afternoon sunlight, as Lord Gareth Lucan rode hell for leather toward his ancestral seat.

He refused to call it a home.

Ahead, the gates of Wolfhaven stood guarded by two towering statues of the fearsome beasts that had given the property its name. Wulfric and Eardwulf, two weathered black granite wolfhounds.

Legend had it that those two hounds guarded the property. They would step down from their pedestals and hunt down anyone who threatened the Lucan descendants. He imagined those stone effigies coming to life and snapping his head off. Tearing him limb from limb.

He was the greatest threat to this place that had ever existed. He was here to destroy it. Brick by brick.

Storm clouds gathered in the distance.

“Faster.” He kicked his galloping horse, which put on a burst of speed.

The sooner he arrived at his destination, the sooner he could leave. Already he had been delayed by a late train from London, followed by the difficulty of obtaining transportation to the nearest village, Alpeth. He was not well-liked in that backwater hamlet. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Renting this bay gelding to come the last ten miles had taken another hour and a king’s ransom.

They flew through the gates of Wolfhaven chased by a cold wind.

“Oy, you there,” an elderly man called out. “What business have you at the duke’s estate?”

Gareth reined in his lathered mount, searching for the source of that voice. In the distance, the once-grand mansion loomed menacingly. One charred wing lay to the north, its bones protruding in a stack of collapsed rubble. Ten years after the fire, it still remained as it had fallen that fateful night. Now overgrown with weeds. The only splash of color was a thicket of overgrown red roses. Loose petals lay upon the earth like drops of blood.

“Cogswell? Is that you?” he called out. His horse danced beneath him, testing his ability to keep his seat.

“Aye, an’ who might you be?” A stooped old man ventured out from the tangle of rosebushes. His hair was naught but a ring of gray threads clinging desperately to his otherwise bare skull, hugging his ears for dear life. He couldn’t stand more than five-and-a-half feet tall, and his shoulders were slanted in a permanent hunch. Vernon Cogswell, the estate’s longtime groundskeeper, loomed much larger in Gareth’s memory. Time had aged them both in the ten years since he had last set foot in this wretched place.

“Do you not recognize me?” Gareth demanded.

“Your Grace?” Cogswell said in surprise. He dropped into a shallow, arthritic bow. Gareth winced.

“Only when I can’t avoid my title.” He lifted his gaze to survey the wreckage of his inheritance.

“Finally returned to restore the place?” Cogswell asked with undue optimism.

“More to finish destroying it,” he muttered darkly, but he could hardly say that to the one loyal servant who had stayed on despite bearing witness to the depravity that occurred here. Pitching his voice to carry, he said, “I have come to assess what is left to sell.”

“You won’t find much.” The gardener closed the gates behind him with a groaning squeak. Gareth had the distinct sense of being locked in. “You’ve done enough pillaging over the years.”

“Estates are expensive to maintain. Even ruined ones.” Taxes, upkeep, staff. Not that he still had staff here other than Cogswell and his wife, but he still had to pay them. Even a diminished estate was a money pit. Any proper duke would have married a wealthy lady—these days, a prudent lord fallen on lean times would humble himself to wed one of the many American dollar princesses gallivanting about London—but one look at his face and it was plain to see that Gareth was no proper duke.

At first glance, he might appear as one. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair he really ought to cut more often, he easily caught attention. But he held it for the wrong reason. He might attract attention, but from women it was invariably a mix of pity and fear. His surly attitude only drove them further away.

Which was fine. Gareth was the last of his line, and he intended to see the Lucan family end with him. Wolfhaven had been established in William the Conqueror’s time. A feudal estate granted to a brutal yet renowned knight who bred wolfhounds for hunting large game. Over the centuries, the long line of Lucan heirs had allied with evermore powerful and wealthy families until they had achieved the pinnacle of aristocratic privilege—a dukedom. From there, it had been all downhill.

He would end its legacy once and for all.

There was one small complication. His mother yet lived, if in poor health. She had lingered on for years beyond what any doctor thought she might survive, and Gareth was committed to ensuring that her final years made up for the decades she had lost to his father’s cruelty. That had meant selling off any ducal properties that weren’t tied up in the entail to support his mother in lavish comfort.

Now all the minor properties had been disposed of, and the money was gone. He needed more. He had already sold off his father’s prized library, several valuable paintings, and all the antique instruments. The fine horses that had once populated Wolfhaven’s stables were long gone. These had been simple endeavors that did not require him to return to this property. He had achieved the first waves of destruction from London. But now he needed to personally assess what else could be sold.

“Are the stables still standing?” Gareth swung his leg over the horse’s back and dismounted, landing easily on his feet.

“Aye,” Cogswell confirmed. “Only have the cart horse anymore. Plenty of space for this fine beast.” He patted the bay’s sweaty neck and said wistfully, “Used to have a barn full of fine horseflesh.”