Page 2 of Wolfhaven

Gareth did not share the groundskeeper’s wistful regret.

“Is the mansion habitable?” he asked.

“Structurally sound, apart from the north wing, o’course. House needs repairs, but it’s livable for a few days. Hardly suitable for a duke, though.” Cogswell’s clouded gaze caught and held on Gareth’s face, where the puckered scar bisected his left eyebrow and cut down his cheek all the way to his jaw. It was no longer the angry pink of a fresh wound, yet it was no less hideous than it had been the day he received it. The scars continued beneath his shirt, molten whirls of burned flesh that had healed into a permanent reminder of searing pain and devastation. Guiltily, the gardener tore his gaze away.

“That’s all I need. I won’t be here for long.” In truth, Gareth didn’t want to be here at all. But he needed money, and he wasn’t willing to marry to get it. He would ransack his nightmare of a house for anything of value and be gone by tomorrow eve. His plan was to take a list of any immovable valuables to an auction house and let them sort out the logistics of picking Wolfhaven’s carcass clean.

Even Wulfric and Eardwulf could fetch a decent sum—if only to crush them down for gravel. These rich Americans would buy almost any antiquity for a good price.

“You mightn’t want to spend the night.” Cogswell cast an eye at the towering mansion, now backlit by the dipping sun. Dark clouds were gathering on the moors. An eerie halo seemed to surround the place. “She walks the mansion. Seen ’er myself.”

“Marina?” A cold chill skated down Gareth’s spine. If anyone had a reason to haunt the dead, it was his father’s ward.

Gareth’s dead bride. The reason why he was shunned in town.

Cogswell shuddered. “Aye, yer lordship. Poor thing. God help her restless soul.”

Gareth wasn’t a superstitious man, yet the thought of sleeping in a haunted mansion—this one, specifically—knotted his guts with dread. He wished his train hadn’t been delayed, and that it hadn’t taken so damned long to secure a horse in town. He had planned to come to Wolfhaven, take inventory, and get the hell out of there before sundown. Too much had transpired there for him to sleep comfortably beneath Wolfhaven’s sheltering roof.

With this storm blowing in, he might not have a choice but to stay longer than he wanted.

“What about the old hunting cottage?” he said. Cogswell shook his head.

“Occupied, sir.”

“What?” Gareth sputtered in astonishment. He hadn’t given permission to rent out the cottage. Or any other building on the property, for that matter.

“Yer aunt sent a letter specially requesting we give her old friend a place to stay. She hasn’t anywhere else to go. Just an old woman and her granddaughter. Moved in three days ago.”

Meddling old bat. Gareth avoided contact with his aunt as much as possible. How apropos of Aunt Phyllis to intrude upon his life by saddling him with an unwanted tenant. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

“Didn’t think you’d care,” Cogswell countered. Which was fair enough. They probably assumed he would never find out, considering he hadn’t set foot onto the property in a decade. “This fine lad deserves his oats and a good rub down. I reckon you can see to yourself for the night, Your Grace.”

Cogswell led the horse away in the direction of the stables.

Gareth flung his pack over his shoulder with a curse. His boots crushed red rose petals into the rocky ground with each step. He skirted the dry fountain standing in the circular drive and crunched past it, resolute on his path toward the carved oak front door.

No birdsong lightened the atmosphere. Only a single crow perched upon the porte-cochere, its ugly caw echoing from stone. Ivy crawled up the exterior.

Beneath the shadow of the overhang, he mounted the cracked steps and pushed his way through the heavy, ornate doors into the house with a pounding heart.

Inside, nothing stirred. The air smelled stale. A grand cut-glass chandelier hung suspended from the double-height entryway. Gareth lifted his eyes to it and muttered, “That ought to fetch a handsome sum.”

If it didn’t fall on him and crush him first.

He strode to the center of the foyer listening for any sign of life. Hearing only his own footfalls. Unless…

“Marina?”

A scattering of dust fell from the chandelier and rained down on his head. Gareth batted it away, striding quickly out of range.

He didn’t believe in ghosts. But God knew that if anyone had reason to haunt the living, it was Marina.

The anxious knot in his gut tightened. He hated this place. Quickly, he made his way up the stairway to the upper floor. He turned at the landing and went past the console table positioned below a large rectangle where a large painting had once hung. At the top, he glanced each way down the hallway, trying to decide. To the left was the ducal apartment, with separate bedrooms for the duke and duchess. Where he’d grown up as a child.

To the right were the guest rooms where Marina had slept—until he had moved her into the north wing in the mistaken belief that distance would keep her safe.

Gareth turned right. There was no way in hell he was going to stay in his father’s chambers at night, superstitious or not.