Chapter One

 

 

“No, no, no! Not the books, please, not the books!”

The bailiff glanced up at her, bewildered. He obviously hadn’t expected her to speak, only to stand mildly by and watch. A slow smile spread over his face, revealing a gap in his front tooth. Snatching up the nearest book, an ornate leatherbound cover with gilt detailing at the corners, he opened it to reveal smooth, creamy white paper.

Edith knew what was coming before it happened.

Still grinning, the bailiff placed a dirty hand over the clean pages, curled his fingers, and pulled.

The dry sound of tearing paper filled the air. Tossing aside the handful of crumpled pages, he tore again and again, on and on until the air was full of dust and the book was nothing more than a leather cover, an emptied skin, a…

“Oi. Oi, lass, wake up. We’re here.”

Edith jolted awake. She’d fallen asleep with her cheek pressed against the cold carriage glass. When she straightened up, her skin peeled away from the glass, cold and numb.

The coachman stood beyond that glass, arms folded. She had tried and failed to converse with him earlier, but the man did not seem to be in the mood for chat. At any rate, his thick Yorkshire brogue proved difficult to understand. She had better learn quickly, of course, because they were, after all, in Yorkshire.

“I’m not asleep,” she managed thickly, blinking hard and trying to force herself into wakefulness.

The coachman eyed her impassively. “Anyhow, we’re here,” he muttered. “I’ll get your cases down.”

Not waiting for a response, he trudged away, leaving the carriage door swinging and a cold draft blowing inside.

Edith didn’t mind the cold wind; she actually needed it because the inside of the carriage stunk. It reeked of spilled liquor and unwashed bodies. She’d been struggling with it since they left, but a vile-smelling carriage was certainly better than walking and arriving in an even more disheveled state. A thick, greenish mist curled along with the breeze. It wasn’t at all like a London mist, which would be foul-smelling. No, there was something cleaner about this mist.

Deeper, too. She couldn’t recall ever seeing mist so thick in London, and how the coachman had navigated the narrow roads was anybody’s guess.

Clearing her throat and purposefully putting the memories of Papa’s ruined books out of her mind, Edith scrambled down from the carriage. Her dress, which had been badly darned along the hem, caught on the heel of her boot, which needed resoling, causing her to hop along in an undignified manner. It was her own fault. Ladies didn’t need to sew, only to provide a little feminine embroidery as a sampler. Darning, patching, and sewing on buttons was much harder than she had anticipated, now that she had no lady’s maid to care for such matters on her behalf.

Six months, she thought grimly, stretching out cramped limbs. Papa has been dead for six months, and I still cannot darn to save my life.

This was not a useful thought. Over the past months, Edith had grown most adept at putting aside useless thoughts. So, she turned away from the smelly carriage and faced her new home.

Perhaps new home was not quite the correct expression; a new place of employment was more suitable.

“Barendale Manor,” she murmured aloud. Glancing over at the coachman, who was struggling with the knots lashing her case to the roof, she caught his eye. “What do you know of this place?”

“No more than you, I reckon,” he responded tightly. “I don’t often travel out this far. Folks avoid it, too.”

“Avoid it? Why?”

He bared yellowish teeth. “Why do you think? The Beast.”

Edith blinked. “The what?”

He shook his head, pressing his lips together. “It’s bad luck to talk of it. Can’t imagine you’ll be here long.”

“And why would I not be here for long?”

He didn’t offer a response to this question. At last, the knot came loose, and the fellow unceremoniously tossed down her case. It bounced across the well-raked gravel, leaving an untidy gouge in its wake. Somebody would have to rake that gravel once more.

Edith gave a cry of dismay, pouncing on her case.

“Have a care, can’t you? Be careful!”

“It slipped out of my hands,” the man shot back. “It weighs a ton. I wouldn’t have thought frocks and bonnets could weigh so much.”

She sniffed. “There are books in here, not frocks and bonnets.”

The man rolled his eyes and jumped down with more grace than he’d afforded her poor case. Wordlessly, he thrust out a wide palm, facing up.

Ah, the money.

Edith gave a sickly smile, which the man did not return. Adjusting her round spectacles, she searched in her reticule. It was a largeish reticule, big enough to contain a few necessities. A volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, for instance, Papa’s poetry of choice, and one of the few books she had managed to save from the creditors and bailiffs who tore about his beloved library. Inside the poetry book were Cate’s letters.

She had read them over and over on the endless journey from London to Yorkshire. Cate, blunt as always, had told Edith exactly what she might expect from her life here, and how things were.

It still seemed better than what she had left behind.

Edith poured out the last of her coins, carefully counting them out. Just enough. With a forced smile, she poured the money into the coachman’s palm.

“I believe I deserve some extra coins, navigating all those bad roads as I did. And in this mist, too.”

“I am sorry, I only have enough to cover the fee.”

The coachman scowled harder, thick fingers closing over the coins. He grunted and turned on his heel, clambering back up to the driver’s seat. Without a word of goodbye, he snapped the reins and manoeuvred the carriage around the courtyard. The wheels left deep ruts in the gravel, but ahead of him, the mist pulled back enough to reveal the gateway that they had entered. Two chipped stone pillars soared up to the sky, thick with moss and ringed with ivy. Beyond those pillars, there was nothing, just more mist, greenish and impenetrable.

Shuddering, Edith put her back to the gateway and faced up at the house.

“Barendale Manor,” she repeated, under her breath. “It would suit being called an abbey more, I think.”

Lines from Cate’s letter swam through her head.

My brother can be…unpredictable. Harsh. He has few friends now, because most of them have been driven away.

I am really at a loss as to what I should do next. I should like to have you here.

Perhaps we can support each other.

It was a perfect arrangement. Cate required a friend, and Edith required employment.

She was gathering up her courage to climb the steep, imposing stone stairs and knock on the equally imposing oak front door when the door flew open.

“Edith!” squealed a familiar voice.

Cate came flying out of the door in a flurry of lace and pastel-colored silk.

“You’re here! You have come!” she cried, lurching down the steps and launching herself into her friend. Her arms closed tight around Edith’s shoulders, pulling her close in a desperate sort of hug, as if she were afraid that Edith might wriggle away.

“Of course I came,” Edith laughed, dropping her case and putting her arms around her friend. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I knew you were coming through the town to get here and hiring a local carriage. I suppose I was afraid that they would dissuade you from coming. With gossip, you know.”

Abruptly, Cate pulled back, watching her friend through narrowed eyes.

The scandal sheets had always had plenty to say about Cate. All favorable, of course. With her strawberry-cream complexion and thick, golden hair, all coupled with neat features and wide, inquisitive blue eyes, Cate had once been considered the catch of the Season.

That was before, of course. Some time ago, both of them would have been considered good matches.

“You look too pale,” Cate said. “And you are wearing a dull brown gown. Brown-haired ladies should not wear brown.”

“I cannot help it. I do not have such a variety of gowns these days,” Edith confessed.

Cate chuckled, but there was a distracted look in her eyes.

“Edith, before we go in and you get settled, I want to be sure that you are prepared for…For Marcus. You never knew my brother in London, did you?”

“No, not much. But you warned me in your letters. You said that he can be harsh and that he pushes others away. That is not surprising, considering…” she paused, swallowing. “Considering everything.”

Cate’s face tightened. “I adore my brother, Edith, but he is almost unbelievably difficult these days. He says awful things, calculated to hurt. I know how miserable he is, and how he struggles, but he cannot…I cannot…” she broke off, shaking her head. “I cannot reach him.”

“I am sorry, Cate. It must be difficult.”

Cate’s eyes glittered with tears, and she abruptly turned away, smoothing her bodice.

“Yes, it is.”

“I…I hope I can help.”

Cate turned back, her bright smile back on her face. “I’m sure you can. At the very least, you can catalogue our disgraceful mess of a library, as we arranged. But I hoped you might be able to support me with Marcus, too, if you can. Just try not to be easily affected by him.”

“I shall be fine,” Edith responded firmly. “I’ve managed a great deal of hardships and indignities over the past six months. I can certainly manage a few sharp words from your brother.”

Cate’s gaze flickered, as if she did not quite believe her.

You’ll see, Edith thought. I shall prove myself.

I shall have to because there is nowhere to go from here.

“Well, let’s get you inside and out of his dreadful damp,” Cate continued, reaching down to pick up Edith’s case. “Oh, heavens! What do you have in here, rocks?”

“Books,” Edith laughed, taking the case from her friend. “Lead the way, then.”

Cate smiled again, a wide, genuine smile, and Edith wondered when her friend had last smiled like that. Cate led the way up into the house, chattering all the way, and Edith followed, then paused, a flicker of movement catching her eye.

Glancing up, she scanned the dark windows littering the front of the manor. Most were curtained, some hidden by curls of mist, and the rest were opaque, nothing more than black glass.

But there had been movement there, hadn’t there? At one of those windows. Edith was sure of it.

She swallowed, shaking her head.

Probably a servant, peeking down into the courtyard. Or the wind.

“Edith?” Cate called, having climbed the steps to the doorway. “Aren’t you coming?”

Edith gave herself a little shake. One particular window had caught her attention, one directly above, with red velvet curtains half-pulled across the pane. She dragged her gaze from the window and smiled at Cate.

“I can’t wait to show you your room,” Cate added, beaming. “Oh, it will be so nice to have you here. I only hope you choose to stay.”

“Of course I shall,” Edith responded firmly.

I will stay. No matter what. I must.

Holding her case and bolstering her courage, she followed her friend into the dark depths of the Manor.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

The woman was not as young and fragile-looking as he’d expected. That was something, at least. Twitching aside the dusty velvet curtains, Marcus peered down into the courtyard once more.

She’d almost spotted him earlier, when she was scanning the front of the manor. Even the thick mist could surely not have hidden the dismaying state of the place. Crumbling brickwork, mossy pillars, a roof that threatened to leak, to say nothing of peeling wallpaper and damp patches inside the house. Those repairs were beyond Marcus’ household budget at that moment, but the servants did what they could, keeping the gravel raked and the house as clean as could be expected.

The woman’s face hadn’t changed when she saw the house. There was merely interest there, and a good deal of trepidation. That was to be expected, of course. London was a long way from Yorkshire, and it was a difficult journey for a woman to make alone. He wouldn’t want Cate to make such a journey.

The thick pane of glass muffled most of the conversation from below. He could see Cate skipping around, barely able to contain her excitement.

She’s been without decent company for entirely too long.

That thought sent a pang of guilt through Marcus’ chest, too tight to ignore. He pushed it aside because now wasn’t the time for any of that.

No, he had to decide whether this girl should stay or not. At this moment, he was leaning towards no. There was a sharpness in her stare which he didn’t like. This was a girl who would notice things, no doubt.

A tap on the door jerked him out of his reverie. He glanced over in time to see Mrs. Reynolds shouldering open the door, hands full with a tray of tea.

“I didn’t ring for tea, Martha.”

“No, but I thought you needed some,” the housekeeper responded busily. “You go too long without eating or drinking, your Grace.”

Marcus sighed. When he looked back out of the window, both Cate and her friend had gone, leaving only an empty square of gravel. He let the curtain fall and turned away.

Mrs. Reynolds set the tea tray down on his desk, clearing away some papers and books. Books, of course, were everywhere in the house, creeping out of the library and into the surrounding rooms. Something needed to be done, and soon.

Hence, Miss Edith Hayton.

“Lady Catherine is very excited about the arrival of her friend,” Mrs. Reynolds remarked, pouring out a cup of tea and setting a thick wedge of cake onto a plate. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, your Grace, when I say that I am glad she’s able to have a friend to stay. It’s hard for a girl of her age to be without company.”

“Are you criticising me, Mrs. Reynolds?”

“I am not,” she answered comfortably. “I have known you too long for that. But if you understood it as a criticism, then perhaps that says a little something, don’t you think?”

“Some dukes would dismiss a housekeeper for speaking so out of turn,” Marcus observed wryly.

Mrs. Reynolds only chuckled. “And me having raised you from a baby? Some dukes would dismiss a servant like that, but not you, your Grace. No, you’re a man of integrity and fine feeling. And don’t try to demur. You’re a fine man, and everybody knows it.”

“Not everybody. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Reynolds. That’ll be all.”

The housekeeper nodded, taking a step back. Though small in stature, the silver-haired woman was not one to be underestimated. Marcus knew better, of course.

“Dinner is set at six,” she stated. “Lady Catherine assures me that Miss Hayton won’t mind that we keep earlier hours here in the country.”

“I imagine that Miss Hayton will simply be grateful to eat food she has not had to pay for herself. I imagine that she used up her final pennies to get here.”

Mrs. Reynolds’ eyebrows flickered. “Now, don’t be cruel, your Grace. I’ve heard of some of Miss Hayton’s woes. She has had a difficult life, the poor creature.”

“We have all led difficult lives,” Marcus responded tightly. “We all have woes and miseries. I don’t intend to give her any leeway for hers.”

“Of course not. But you’ll join the ladies for dinner tonight, your Grace, will you not?”

Marcus scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I might eat in my study, or in my rooms. That will give Cate a chance to catch up with her old friend.”

Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips in disapproval. “I’m sure that Lady Catherine will have enough time to do so before dinner. I shall set the table for three.”

On this parting note, Mrs. Reynolds made a neat curtsey and exited the room, leaving Marcus alone with his cooling tea.

Almost without thinking, Marcus turned back to the window. The courtyard was empty, as it seemed. No doubt Miss Edith Hayton would want to avoid going outside too much. She would find the weather in Yorkshire vastly different from the weather in London. Colder, damper, and more extreme. There would be more changes to manage, and warmer clothing would be needed. Perhaps Miss Hayton would prefer to stay inside, as Cate did. Such seclusion could not be good for their nerves, but Cate often complained that the harsh northern winds reddened her skin.

No, I don’t think Miss Hayton is that sort of woman.

He conjured up an image of her in his head, getting gracelessly out of the carriage. She was an attractive woman, not in Cate’s fashionable, willowy sort of way, but somehow sturdier. Miss Hayton wore an ugly brown dress, several seasons out of fashion, and kept her nut-brown hair pinned back in a simple knot at the back of her head. No doubt she’s chosen that style so that she could put it up herself, on account of being without a lady’s maid.

And then there were her spectacles, round, wire-rimmed things that had slipped down to the tip of her nose three or four times while she was speaking to Cate. Spectacles were not considered ladylike or fashionable, and he imagined that when she had been in Society, going to balls and gatherings, she had been obliged to leave the spectacles at home.

Indeed, Miss Hayton had fallen far in life. Of course, that was merely the norm for women, especially single ones whose fathers racked up more debt than they could ever hope to repay. But while most of those women either scrabbled to marry a suitable man or threw themselves on the mercy of family or friends, Miss Hayton had tried to better herself on her own. It was admirable, if not advisable.

A position as a governess might provide a little more security, at least until her charges grew up or ceased to need a governess. Cataloguing a library, however…well. That was not a long-term job. And when the job ended, Miss Hayton would need to move on.

But in the meantime, she was a guest, and Cate had made it abundantly clear how her guest should be treated.

With a sigh, Marcus picked up his teacup and took a long sip. It would be an interesting evening tonight, and he hadn’t had one of those in a while.

 

***

 

The clock tolled six just as Marcus strode past it. He didn’t bother going to the drawing room to see if the ladies were waiting. Instead, he went straight to the dining room. Muted conversation drifted out from inside. The butler waited outside, along with a handful of footmen who would be serving their meal. Marcus inclined his head and entered the room.

The dining room table was as large as a room all by itself. Thirty people or more could fit around it with ease, with enough food for a town or two stacked between them.

Tonight, it was only set for three. Vast expanses of table, dark and empty, sat covered beneath white tablecloths. The candlesticks were reserved for the far end of the table, where Cate and Miss Hayton already sat.

Both women rose to their feet as Marcus approached.

“I’m so glad you came, Marcus,” Cate said eagerly, slipping her hand into his. “I was afraid you would eat in your study again. But now you can meet my friend, Edith. I don’t believe you two ever met each other in London, but here she is now. Edith, this is His Grace, Marcus Barrington, Duke of Barendale.”

Bows were exchanged. Miss Hayton stared boldly at him, not with the nervous, demure gaze that he’d expected, but something much more forthright. He met her gaze squarely.

What does she know? What has she heard?

The locals called him The Beast, the same name they’d given to his father. Rumors abounded, of course. Some true, some exaggerated, some entirely made up. Ridiculous. Who only knew what she’d been told? What did she see when she looked at him? Her face gave away nothing.

How green her eyes are.

That thought made him flinch. Where had it come from? Miss Hayton certainly did have green eyes. They were properly green, green as grass, a rare enough color, but what did that mean?

I wish she were a little plainer, Marcus found himself thinking. He chose not to pursue that thought and lowered himself into his seat at the head of the table. The ladies sat down too, and the footmen entered, bearing silver-covered dishes.

There were a few moments of awkward silence while the first course was served. It was soup, which was nothing particularly exciting.

“This is a very large table,” Miss Hayton said at last, breaking the silence first.

Marcus said nothing, leaving Cate to respond.

“Yes, we used to entertain a great many people here, once upon a time. We live a quieter life now,” she added, swallowing.

A quieter life now. What a fine way of describing such a tense, empty existence. For Marcus, it was all work, keeping himself busy to avoid thinking too hard about anything in particular.

He was not entirely sure how Cate filled her days. Books, perhaps, singing, playing her pianoforte, wandering the halls, thinking.

That wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Well, I for one don’t mind a quieter life,” Miss Hayton continued, taking a delicate sip of her soup. “This is delicious.”

“We have a fine cook. Don’t we, Marcus?” Cate added, glancing at her brother with a smile. He did not venture a response. “Edith, I thought you might take a day or two off before you begin cataloguing the library.”

“That’s kind of you, but I think I should rather get to work right away.”

“Well, certainly, the choice is yours, but I thought…”

“It will not be an easy job, Miss Hayton,” Marcus interrupted, cutting across Cate’s sentence. He made himself glance over and meet Miss Hayton’s eyes. “The library has been neglected for decades, likely more. My father collected books, as I imagine you already know, but he certainly did not implement any cataloguing system or organisation at all. The library is a disgrace.”

Miss Hayton held his gaze, drawing her lower lip between her teeth, and the candlelight reflected in her spectacles. As he watched, they slid down her nose once more, and she automatically adjusted them, pushing them back up.

The arms are loose, he thought. A tightened screw here and there would make them sit more securely on her face.

“I am grateful for this employment,” Miss Hayton responded calmly. “I love books. I love libraries, and I enjoy a challenge.”

“Save your gratitude until you see the place.”

“Oh, I have never been stingy with my gratitude,” Miss Hayton laughed, reaching for her wine. “I don’t intend to start now.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was customary to readjust one’s opinions and manners to fit in with a new place and position.”

Miss Hayton blinked, but to her credit, did not break.

“Oh? What an interesting outlook. I can’t say that I agree with it.”

To Marcus’ surprise, his lips twitched, wanting to smile. He powered through the urge, however, and merely lifted his own glass of wine.

“We are already disagreeing, Miss Hayton. Not an auspicious start.”

Cate glanced anxiously between them, nerves rolling off her like water.

Had his sister always been so nervous, so on edge? He couldn’t remember. Surely, he should be able to remember. She was his sister, after all.

My only sibling left.

That thought made Marcus’ chest constrict so tightly that he could hardly breathe. It took a moment to work through the feeling, to remind himself that he could breathe, even if he felt as if he could not. In through the nose, out through the mouth, again and again until the anxiety receded. He could feel Cate’s eyes on him. Did she know what he was thinking? No, she couldn’t. Cate was clever enough, but the past few years seemed to have dulled her sensibilities.

That is my fault, too.

Silence rushed in after this comment. Marcus glanced around the table, wondering whether he would let the quiet continue because that would be easier, after all.

Instead, he found his gaze straying to Miss Hayton once more.

“Tell me, Miss Hayton,” he heard himself say. “Are you really fluent in Latin and Greek, or is that something my dear sister made up to convince me that you were the perfect choice for this position?”

Cate drew in a shocked breath. “Marcus!”

He ignored her, shifting to face Miss Hayton. Lifting his eyebrows, he waited for a response.

There was certainly a grim sort of malice to it all. Marcus could see himself doing it all, saying sharp, cruel things to make people blink and step back. It always sent a shiver of self-hatred down his spine, but it was good to feel something, even if it was the wrong thing to feel.

Miss Hayton only blinked back at him.

“I learned Latin when I was ten years old,” she responded coolly. “I have read Greek since I was twelve. My father was an academic man. Sometimes, it seemed that he was blind to everything but his studies. While that attitude had its drawbacks, it did mean that I was able to get an excellent education, Your Grace.”

“Really? And you’ve read Homer?”

She gave a short laugh. “What classical study would not include Homer?”

He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Then what do you think of Homer’s thought that the first and best victory is to conquer ourselves?”

Miss Hayton pursed her lips. “It’s a fine sentiment, but not, I think, spoken by Homer. No, I believe that is Plato. So, either you have your poets and philosophers tangled up, or you are testing me.”

Marcus said nothing. Indeed, it had been a test and judging by the baleful glare his sister shot him, she guessed that it was a test, too.

He gave a begrudging smile. “Your education was extensive indeed, then.”

“Mm-hm. If you’d like to discuss Plato, however, I’ve read his works, of course. And Aristotle, and Pythagoras, and…”

“Yes, yes, very well done, Miss Hayton,” he interrupted. “Since dinner is all but over, we should discuss a few crucial matters before we all retire for the night. You’ll begin tomorrow at eight.”

“Oh, Marcus, I was trying to convince Edith to take a few days to rest before she got started,” Cate muttered, pouting. He ignored her, leaning forward and meeting Edith’s eye.

“Mrs. Reynolds will show you to the library,” he continued, meeting Miss Hayton’s eye to ensure that she understood. “I have no idea how long this cataloguing will take, and I shall let you be the best judge of that, but I shall expect a detailed assessment within one month. Those books are valuable, of sentimental worth if not literal worth. Treat them carefully.”

“I would never treat a book any other way,” she responded.

Cate shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. Seeming to gather her courage, she leaned forward, resting her arm gently on Marcus’ forearm. The action appeared to cost her a good deal of effort, and Marcus frowned.

At one time, Cate and I were the best of friends. We talked and laughed together, embraced, walked with arms around each other, as siblings should. I used to carry her on my back when she was tired.

When did we become so distant from each other? Like strangers?

However it had happened, whenever it had happened, and Marcus knew that it was his fault. There was no doubt about that.

“Edith is a guest,” Cate murmured. “Not an employee.”

Marcus’ gaze flickered over to Miss Hayton, but her eyes shifted away.

She was an employee. He was under no illusions as to why she was here. Indeed, Miss Hayton was a friend of Cate’s, and they had never stopped exchanging letters, but there was no getting away from the fact that Miss Hayton was in a dire situation. Doubtless, she had no money and had run out of friends.

Well, almost out of friends. She had Cate, at least.

“Please feel at relative ease in the house,” he continued, meeting Miss Hayton’s eye once more. “You’ll take your meals with us, Cate would plague me if that were not allowed, and the servants will attend you if need be. Make yourself at home, but be aware that I value my solitude. I have work to do during the day, and I value peace. There’s no need to creep around like a little mouse, assuming you stay away from places like my study and my chambers.”

“Your Grace, why on earth would I be near your chambers?”

He jolted, eyes shooting to her face. “I beg your pardon?”

Miss Hayton widened her eyes. “Why, I would surely never be near such a place, would I? You need not worry.”

He grunted. “It does not matter. You take my meaning, then? I value privacy, and I appreciate my solitude. I’m sure a clever young woman like yourself can understand that, and act accordingly.”

Miss Hayton nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. I am grateful for this position, your Grace. Make no mistake about that. I shall do my best to make your life easier by cataloguing your books, and naturally, there’ll be no need to disturb you regarding the matter. You have my word on that.”

Well, that was unexpected. Cate continued to glare at him, and he suspected she would scold him later for being so harsh and blunt.

Perhaps I could have been kinder. Miss Hayton had certainly suffered. And she has only just got here.

But then, isn’t it best to set the rules down at once, so she can understand? To avoid misunderstandings later?

Besides, Miss Hayton did not seem offended, angry or even upset. She accepted his words with ease, as if negotiating a business deal. Perhaps that was how she saw this whole situation: a business transaction, one that all of them would benefit from. Cate would have company, Marcus’ library would finally be catalogued and arranged, the last of his father’s influence tidied away. And Miss Hayton would have a roof over her head, food to eat, safety, security, company, and a wage at the end of it.

“I’m glad,” Marcus responded bluntly. “And on that note, I shall leave you, ladies, to your conversation.”

“You aren’t coming to the drawing room with us?” Cate asked, visibly crestfallen.

He gave a tight smile, rising to his feet. “No, my dear. I think it’s unwise to stand on ceremony in this situation. Goodnight, Cate. Goodnight, Miss Hayton.”

Miss Hayton rose when he did and extended a hand. It took him a moment to understand that she wanted to shake his hand. While he was wavering, staring down at her upturned palm, she spoke.

“In the spirit of not standing on ceremony, perhaps you should call me Edith.”

He dragged up his gaze from her hand to meet her eyes.

“Perhaps not,” he responded tightly, and turned on his heel, leaving her with her hand outstretched.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

Edith jerked awake, blinking in the dimness. Not true darkness; the pale blue-grey light before dawn had crept into her room when night was nearly spent, but the sun had yet to rise.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling far above her. Shapes swirled, probably the bulbous curves of fruit, vegetables, and flowers. However, she couldn’t see any of it without her spectacles.

All that work, and all that dusting, and I can’t even see it, she thought wryly, biting back a smile. People don’t tend to look up in any case.

From what she had seen, Barendale Manor was the sort of showy, elaborate place that one might read about in a novel. Doubtless, it would have looked impressive if it had not fallen into disrepair. Corners of the ceiling were dusty and cobwebby. Chandeliers hung at an angle, decorated with spiders and their webs. Brass fixtures were as dull and unpolished as wood, grime accumulated beneath furniture legs, and so on.

She wondered why it had been left in such disrepair. The duke had not struck her as a disorganized sort of man. There were stories about him back in London, of course. Stories of his father’s madness and his brother’s strange and untimely death. They called him the Beast in London, as the coachman had informed her, and Cate was not received into many families on account of her brother.

He did not look much like Cate, with her blonde good looks. No, the duke was a tall, sturdy sort of man, with shoulders and a muscled chest that looked impressive even beneath his demure layers of clothing. His figure seemed more suited to a farm labourer than a duke, and certainly his wide hands were not like anything she’d seen on a gentleman before. She hadn’t expected a dandy, of course, and the Duke of Barendale certainly was not such a thing. His clothes were serviceable, his cravat simply tied, and his black hair was combed back in a practical style.

She had not expected him to be handsome. And he was handsome, with a strong jaw, powerful profile, and a pair of sharp, glittering eyes. His eyes were the same as Cate’s, clear and blue, drooping just a little at the outward corners, making the owner of the said eyes appear almost sleepy.

There was nothing sleepy about the duke, that was clear. The man never seemed to blink, and every time that gaze of his raked over her, Edith could not help but feel that he was pulling out all of her secrets, one by one.

But that did not matter. He’d made it clear that she was to leave him alone, which no doubt meant that he would leave her alone, and that was perfect.

Well, I had better get up and do battle with the dust and chaos in that library. There are probably not enough servants to manage a house like this, Edith thought, swinging back the covers and getting out of bed. She was supposed to wait for Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, to bring her to breakfast and then take her to the library, but why wait when she could just go there herself? Cate had shown her the door to the library last night, and Edith was sure that she could find her way there again.

She dressed quickly, washing in cool water left out for her in the jug beside the washbasin. Her mind spun, taut with excitement.

How long has it been since I got my hands on some real books?

Too long, no doubt. Well, it didn’t matter now, because she was here, and for the next month at least, she would be able to eat well, and sleep soundly at night without wondering if she would have a bed for the next night. And she’d have company, of course. There’d be Cate. While Cate hadn’t fallen so far and so fast through Society like Edith had, she certainly knew how hard it could be to have people look at one in that way. Pitying and contemptuous, all at once.

Disdainful.

Oh, Edith knew how to interpret those looks. Before Papa’s ruin was complete, and before she had to leave Society, she had attended one or two small, informal gatherings. People had looked at her out of the corner of their eyes, whispering behind their hands. Some of those whispers had, inevitably, made their way to her ears.

“Didn’t you hear? Her father left her penniless, beyond penniless, actually. Everything has gone to pay his debts. She hasn’t a bean.”

“Why is she here?”

“Heaven knows. Hoping to make a desperate, last-minute match, I daresay. As if anybody would have her now.”

Edith had wanted nothing more than to round on the gossips and bellow at them.

“This could be your fate,” she wanted to scream. “Do you think you can stop your father, husband, brother, or any man who controls your life from spending every penny of his fortune? You cannot force him to care for you, to provide for you. He can do as he likes with his money, even if it was once yours. He can do as he likes with you, and you won’t find out until it’s too late.”

She hadn’t said that, of course. It would have seen her ejected unceremoniously from whatever event she was reluctantly attending. Shortly after, the invitations had stopped coming, and frankly, it was a relief. It wasn’t as though she had anything to wear, anyway.

Pausing to button up the back of her plain gown, Edith cast a quick, disinterested glance at herself in the mirror. There she was, in all her plain and ordinary glory. Dull brown hair, an uninspiring gray dress, a simple hairstyle, and to finish it… spectacles.

No wonder I couldn’t make a match to save my life.

That was probably for the best, though. Gentlemen had a horror of bluestockings, and of course, Edith squarely was such a woman.

Poking out her tongue at her reflection, Edith slipped out of her room and into the gloomy corridor beyond. She passed a servant, a housemaid carrying a duster, and the woman eyed her inquisitively. No doubt the servants were unsure as to whether she was another servant or a guest. Edith smiled at the woman, who smiled uncertainly back.

“Could you tell Mrs. Reynolds that I have found my own way to the library? I shouldn’t like her to have a wasted trip to my room only to find that I am not there.”

The maid nodded curiously, and they parted ways. Edith went on, trotting through corridors and hallways of varying length and down several velvet-carpeted staircases. At last, she found herself in the wide, drafty hallway which ended in a tall, rounded doorway.

The library.

Letting out a long sigh, she reached out and twisted the doorknob, pushing open the door.

As expected, a plume of dust swirled out, making her cough. She stepped inside hastily and closed the door behind her.

She had expected gloom, but already light was streaming through wide, high windows. Not sunlight yet, of course, but enough of that greyish predawn light to let her get a look around. Blinking, her eyes adjusted, stinging in the swirling dust.

“Oh,” Edith breathed aloud. “It’s beautiful.”

The library was perhaps the biggest space she had ever seen, including Lady Champers’ ballroom. There were two stories, and on the ground floor, shelves covered the walls, reaching up to the ceiling. A brass ring circled the shelves, with several rolling ladders attached to it. On the upper floor, there were similar ladders. Chairs were scattered here and there, each covered in a thick layer of dust. Two fireplaces offered to heat the room, although she would have guessed that they had not been used in a long time.

How many books were here? She could not have guessed. Thousands and thousands. In places, the volumes were piled up on the bare floor, creating little hillocks of paper. Some had been carelessly piled with some of their pages creased or covers torn. However, there were empty shelves here and there, and one bookshelf had toppled over entirely. Stepping closer to the shelves, she saw that there was no rhyme or reason to the way the books had been organized. Poetry and historical books were jumbled together, a book on phrenology placed directly next to Lord Byron.

It seemed that just about any book in the world could be found here, if one only knew where to look. Swallowing down her awe at the sheer volume of the place, Edith forced herself to look around properly, taking in the finer details.

When the sun is out, light will come straight through that window and onto the shelves, she thought, frowning. A number of shelves would have to be moved. She guessed that they had been thrown up quickly to house the growing number of books in the library, but placed without any thought to their location.

Well, never mind. That is what I am here for. I shall draw up a plan, and have dedicated sections. History, philosophy, the sciences, fiction, poetry, and so on.

But there was no getting around the fact that every single book would have to be taken off the shelves, catalogued, and replaced.

Papa’s library never got this bad, she thought, a lump forming in her throat. He would never have allowed it. His books were precious to him.

There was no time to think of Papa, though, or of herself. The present was what mattered now. There was work to be done. As the duke had hinted, this was indeed an enormous task.

But I can do it, she reminded herself, with a surge of delight. I know that I can.

All those books! Frowning, Edith took a step forward, crouching down to pick up a large, leather-bound tome from the ground. The leather was cracking along the spine, and the front cover was faded from the sun.

What a pity. Such a beautiful book, but now it may need to be rebound.

Well, that was her job to arrange, was it not?

She allowed herself to drift down the endless shelves, a maze of books threatening to swallow her up alive. What a delightful thought, to wander forever in the endless sea of paper, pages and words. There was every style of book one could imagine, tucked away haphazardly on the shelves. Greek and Latin texts, ancient medieval manuscripts which ought to be stored and handled with much more care, philosophical works, history, the classics, modern novels, endless volumes of poetry, and even a few huge atlases and books of maps. Everything.

You could spend a lifetime in a place like this.

Standing up on her tiptoes, she pulled out a particular book from a shelf high above her head. It was a volume of Virgil that had been left askew. She opened the cover almost without thinking and saw a handwritten inscription in the front flyleaf.

To My Beloved Son, On Your 21st Birthday.

“Are you going to catalogue the books, Edith, or read them?”

She flinched, involuntarily closing the book with a slam and spinning around.

The Duke of Barendale stood there, eyeing her impassively.

“Your Grace,” she stammered. “You are up remarkably early.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Breakfast will be served soon.”

Jerking his chin, he gestured towards the window, and Edith saw that indeed the light had changed, a pale golden sunlight filtering through.

“Oh,” she managed weakly. “I fear ? have lost count of the time. I could not sleep from the excitement, and since I remembered the way to the library, I thought I would come down here and take a look at everything. I hope you don’t mind. I thought it would spare Mrs. Reynolds a task.”

He grunted. “I have no objection. What drew you to that particular volume of Virgil?”

She glanced down at the book in her hand with a sigh. “It’s a beautiful book. Look at the binding, at the stitching. So fine! A pity that it’s been neglected so terribly.”

“And you can really read it?”

“Of course. I read Latin, I told you. And yet you do not believe me.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I do not meet many women who read Latin. Men learn it at school, reluctantly, then avoid reading it again. Cate had the opportunity to study Latin, if she’d wished, but chose against it.”

“Yes, Cate has no head for languages. Mathematics is where she shines.”

Was it her imagination, or did the corner of the duke’s mouth twitch, as though he wanted to smile? Instead of speaking, he held out a hand. She gave him the book, and he drew it protectively back to his chest. For a split second, their fingers brushed together, sending a spark of something she could not quite identify shooting up her spine. The sensation retreated almost immediately, leaving her with a strange, shivery sensation.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, your Grace,” she murmured. “I saw the inscription, though. The book was a gift from your father, then?”

“It was a gift from Father, indeed, but not to me,” the duke murmured, a faint line appearing between his brows.

“To Cate? I thought it said to my son.”

“To my brother. To James.”

A sort of heavy weight followed the mention of James Barrington, the deceased Barrington sibling. Edith felt once more as though she’d pried, but more deeply this time. Abruptly, the duke stepped forward and around her, blocking out the sunlight from the window for just a moment, his wide-shouldered shadow falling around her.

“If we are not standing on ceremony,” he responded crisply, “then you had better call me Marcus. You call my sister Cate, and urge me to call you Edith. We shall all be informal together, then. There is no London Society here to show contempt.”

“It’s a weight off one’s shoulders, I think. Having Society at bay.”

“I’m inclined to agree. Tell me, then, what of Virgil’s famous quotes are your favourites?”

A smile tugged at the corners of Edith’s mouth.

“Fléctere si néqueo súperos Acheronta movebo,” she quoted, pleased that her tongue did not trip over the complex Latin words. How long had it been since she was able to use her Latin aloud, or her Greek?

The Duke glanced at her and gave a short laugh.

“If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise the underworld,” he translated, shaking his head with a smile. “A good quote.”

“I thought so. Tell me a little about this library, then. It was cared for, at one point. There are remnants of organisation here, of a cataloguing system. What happened?”

Marcus’ face darkened. “Several things happened. Perhaps you have heard the rumours. Or whispers of rumours, at least. The idea that something terrible happened here, something to scare off the locals. I did have a library assistant, but the man was an incompetent fool.”

“He must be. Some books were placed directly in sunlight, and I have seen water damage in places, too.”

“That does not surprise me. The man has been dead, though, for these past six months. Apoplexy, nothing to do with this place, but I believe that it was said in town that he had been cursed.”

“Oh, ridiculous,” she huffed. “Cursed?”

Marcus took a few steps alongside a shelf, trailing long fingers along the spines.

“My father died a madman,” he said at last, almost conversationally. “People of course assume that I am mad like him.”

“You don’t seem mad.”

“I am not. But that does not stop the rumours. And of course, once a story like that has taken root, it is the easiest thing in the world for other stories to spring up around it. It has been said that I drove my brother to death through cruelty, and that my sister will shortly follow. I am dangerous, half-wild, mostly mad, entirely unpredictable, and a man to avoid. They call me Beast, and tell each other quite firmly that I am a monster. What do you think of that, Edith Hayton?”

He turned to face her, cool blue eyes seeking out hers. He was waiting for her response, almost daring her.

She lifted her chin, refusing to glance away.

“I think that I am not in the habit of giving credence to village rumours, and I don’t intend to start now. I am an academic, your Grace. Marcus. They called me a bluestocking in London, and I would rather take it as a compliment. I prefer to form judgements based on hard evidence and on my own observations, not on gossip.”

He missed a beat, blinking. “Do you mean to say that you don’t listen to any gossip, then?”

“I didn’t say that. There is a grain of truth in everything, is there not? But I shan’t be letting such gossip form my opinions of you. Besides, if you leave me to work undisturbed, I shall be perfectly happy. We shall suit each other exceedingly well. I am not interested in you, your Grace, or in your personal life. I only care about these.”

She lifted her hands, gesturing to encompass the whole of the library, especially the books. Something glinted in his eyes when his gaze drifted over those shelves.

He loves the books, too.

Well, the man had to have one redeeming quality, did he not?

A long silence stretched out between them. Edith let her hands drop to her side, and she stared at him, waiting for a response.

“Just as I had hoped,” Marcus said at last. “As you say, we shall suit each other. Well, you may continue, then. If you require anything, you should inform Mrs. Reynolds. She will supply you with whatever you need, and will speak to me on your behalf if need be. As I said, I expect detailed notes, recommendations, and damage assessments. For example, your plan to revive the water-damaged books, or how we might save the world-weary Virgil volumes. Work methodically, and spare no detail.”

He turned to leave, not bothering to wait and see whether Edith agreed with him. She supposed that her agreement was taken as read, since the moment she accepted this post and came here.

I am an employee, after all. Not a guest, no matter how much Cate might wish I were one.

He strode to the door, long fingers stretching out to clasp the doorknob. Hesitating, he wavered, fingers inches from the dulled brass. As if on impulse, he turned to face her, seeking out her eye.

“My grandfather began this collection,” he said at last. “My father was the one who brought it to its lofty heights, collecting at least half of the volumes. When he was lucid, of course. After that, he found that he could not read. The words jumped about, he said, crawled off the page and skittered after him on inky paws. I should say that nearly a quarter of these books are of my own contribution, although I do not read much these days. I continued to collect books until about two years ago, when…” he broke off abruptly, shaking his head tightly as if he had walked unexpectedly into a cobweb. Clearing his throat, he gave a short smile. “That is irrelevant, I suppose. What I am trying to say is that this library is the only thing in this cursed house I still care about. This library and these books are the only things worth preserving. So, I should like them to be preserved. Not just catalogued and organised but preserved. And that, my dear girl, is why you are here.”

Edith swallowed. “You say that the books are the only things in this house worth saving. Do you mean…”

“I do not include my sister in that sweeping statement, nor the household.”

“And do you include yourself?”

He blinked, as if taken aback by the question. For a moment, she thought he was really going to respond. Then he turned on his heel and yanked open the door.

“Get to work, Edith,” he called, voice already echoing in the hallway outside. “You have a great deal to do.”