Chapter 1
March 4, 1821. Carsington Castle, Derbyshire.
Julian Delamere, seventh Earl of Carsely, drew rein on the rise where the bridle path emerged from the woods to the west of his home and looked down on the sprawling pile that was Carsington Castle.
The sight was as familiar as his own face. Built of local stone in a mix of colors from pale cream to toffee gold, despite its substantial walls, crenellated battlements, and twin towers, his home exuded a warmth that beckoned, particularly on such a cold gray day. Originally a fortified manor house, the castle had been added to over the centuries and remodeled and enlarged several times. As all projects had continued to use the local stone, the end result was both visually pleasing as well as reasonably practical. He and his four siblings had grown up there, and each of them knew every inch of the house, grounds, and surrounding woods.
Scanning from right to left, he took in the fields waiting to be sown and the herds of cows and sheep lazily grazing. Spring had yet to show its face in Derbyshire, but a group of red deer had emerged from the woods north of the castle to nibble on the emerging grass.
All was as it should be—as it needed to be. He’d spent the past year picking up the reins of the far-flung estates he’d inherited on the unexpected death of his father. He hadn’t thought it would take that long, but it had. He didn’t begrudge the time; he’d always accepted that, along with the title, would come that responsibility—and others.
The heavy hunter beneath him shifted and settled, perfectly content to wait while his rider wasted time. Julian patted the gray’s neck. Regis had been his father’s mount. It still puzzled Julian that, although Regis was the least flighty or temperamental horse he’d ever known, it was from Regis’s back that his father had been thrown.
He still couldn’t reconcile that.
At the time, he’d been in Ireland, with the Home Office, as right-hand man to the Under-Secretary for Ireland in Dublin Castle. The news of his father’s death had come as a bolt from the blue; as far as he’d known, his father had been in excellent health. Although he’d rushed to get back, he’d barely been in time for the funeral—far too late to investigate anything. Now, a year later, he still felt unsettled over what they assumed must have occurred, uneasy over simply not knowing—not being sure. His father had been an accomplished rider who had ridden to hounds all his life, yet he’d apparently been unseated by a jump over a perfectly ordinary three-barred gate, one Regis would have taken with ease. The horse had sustained no injury, but his father’s neck had been broken.
Fatal riding accidents weren’t unknown in those parts, yet…
After several moments of staring unseeing at the castle, Julian shook aside the unsettling uncertainty and refocused on his next inevitable step in assuming the mantle of the Earl of Carsely. The management of the estate was firmly in his hands, with the necessary adjustments in place to ensure that all continued running smoothly subsequent to the execution of his father’s will. All was done and complete, and there was no reason to further delay facing the next issue he needed to address.
He shook the reins. It was time to get on with his life and take charge of shaping his own future.
Julian reached the stable yard, dismounted, and led Regis toward the open stable door.
Hockey, the grizzled stable master, emerged from the depths of the large building and met Julian at the door. “Just as well you took the old man out.” His expression grim, Hockey reached for Regis’s reins.
Julian met Hockey’s gaze. “Why?”
“Because Regis is the size he is, you had to use your father’s saddle rather than your own, and when Mitchell went to put your saddle back in the tack room”—Hockey tipped his head toward the far end of the stable—“he noticed the inner seam was split and a wicked big thorn had been tucked inside.”
Julian stared at Hockey. He’d intended to ride his own mount, Argus, a flighty Arab, that morning, but neither he nor Hockey had liked the way Argus had been favoring his right front hoof. Consequently, he’d opted to take Regis; the big hunter hadn’t been ridden as much as he was accustomed to since Julian’s father’s death. “Any idea how the thorn got there?”
His lips compressed, Hockey shook his head. “But I do know that the way it was set, it would likely have worked its way out while you rode and, at some point, would have given Argus a nasty jab, perhaps more than one, and he wouldn’t have liked that one bit.” Hockey’s gaze grew concerned. “Who knows if you’d’ve been able to hold on? And with your father—”
Julian gripped Hockey’s arm. “That wasn’t your fault.” He couldn’t bring himself to state that it had been an accident; he still wasn’t convinced it had been.
Hockey humphed and looked away.
Julian understood Hockey’s sensitivity. A few days after his father’s death, his father’s groom, Campbell, had hung himself in the tack room. No one knew whether the suicide had been prompted by misplaced guilt—which, given how long Campbell had been his father’s groom and how devoted to the late earl Campbell had been, was a definite possibility—or if there’d been more to it and, for reasons unknown, Campbell had somehow contributed to whatever had caused the late earl to be thrown.
Although none of them could imagine the latter, the thought lingered in the backs of many minds.
Julian released Hockey. “Nevertheless, that’s…disturbing.”
“Aye, it’s that, all right.” Hockey looked deeper into the stable. “I’m thinking of locking the stable and carriage barn when we’re not around. At least for a time.”
Julian nodded. “That’s a sound idea.” At least until he could figure out what was going on.
He met Hockey’s eyes, nodded in dismissal, and strode toward the house.
His saddle was newish and in excellent condition; the seam couldn’t have split by itself. It was even less likely that a large thorn would have found its way into the gap—not without assistance. But assistance from whom? The stable had a large staff of grooms and stablemen. Other than Mitchell, who was relatively new, the rest had been employed at the castle for years if not decades, and most were from families who lived on the estate.
Julian crossed the drive and walked up the gravel path that led to one of the castle’s side terraces. He was climbing the terrace steps when the sound of footsteps on the flagstones above had him looking up. His brother Felix appeared at the top of the steep steps.
Felix saw him, smiled, and halted. “How was the ride?”
Julian stepped onto the terrace and grunted. “Relaxing. What wasn’t so relaxing was discovering that someone had stuck a thorn under the saddle I was going to use but, by sheer luck, didn’t.”
