The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall E-Book

Lauren Smith

• Herausgeber: Lauren Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 354

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Beware this book is haunted…

Bastian Carlisle, the Earl of Weymouth, doesn’t believe in ghosts. Even though tragedy and mysterious hauntings have driven his family away from his ancestral home, Stormclyffe Hall, he is determined to restore the castle to its former glory. His plans are disrupted when a stubborn American shows up on his doorstep hoping to pry into his family’s tragic history. 

Jane Seyton, an American graduate student, is convinced there’s more to the tragedy of Stormclyffe Hall than history claims. Ever the scholar, she is determined to discover the truth, even if it means putting up with the arrogant, yet sexy, Bastian.

Although Bastian wants nothing to do with the pushy American, it soon becomes clear that something evil is in the house—and that something is targeting both Jane and Bastian. The two must join forces to purge the ghosts of Stormclyffe Hall once and for all—even as they try to fight a physical attraction between them that grows more and more impossible to deny.

Leseprobe

THE SHADOWS OF STORMCLYFFE HALL

Dark Seductions Book 1

THE HAUNTED EDITION

LAUREN SMITH

CONTENTS

So you’ve found me…

Research Notation

Diary Entry of Jane Seyton

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Excerpt from Ghosts and Hauntings Monthly Magazine

All Journeys Must End

About the Author

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Smith

New special edition text additions Copyright © 2024 by Lauren Smith

Cover art by Covers and Cupcakes

Edited by Tracy Montoya

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: (e-book edition)

ISBN: (hardback edition)

Yes … you’ve heard me whispering from that shelf, haven’t you? The one in the darkest corner of the used bookstore you frequent when you wish to escape the realities of the world.

I can tell, you see, just who you are and why you’ve answered my call.

You believe in things that cannot always be seen, but sometimes only felt. Like the exhaled breath upon your neck from an unseen stranger, the way sunlight never seems to warm your skin, and how those dark places, the ones that seem never to know the touch of light, call to you.

So you’ve lifted me up in your hands, you’ve caressed my pages and inhaled the musty odor of old secrets and dark, dead things.

But in doing so, you’ve set me free. I will cling to you now in the dark as you sleep, and spin moonlight whispers in your mind as you dream. And you will dream of me…

RESEARCH NOTATION

The following papers have been recovered from the private files of Dr. Jane Seyton. They have been carefully curated into a manuscript which depicts the events surrounding her research into and visit to Stormclyffe Hall in England. Many of the events recorded have but one witness and thus cannot be fully verified.

However, the cataloguer has done their best to check facts and verify as many details as possible surrounding the strange and unique events that took place.

Please note: Every individual who has come into contact with these papers and read them in their entirety has met a tragic end. Read on, unfortunate possessor of these documents, if you dare…

Author of Notation Unknown, Date Unknown

DIARY ENTRY OF JANE SEYTON

DATE UNKNOWN

I’ve been dreaming of it again. The manor house, Stormclyffe Hall.

I cannot get it out of my mind. Can one become obsessed with a place one has never been to? My notes have led me to it over and over. Nearly every place in England is haunted, at least according to the English.

Ask anyone when you visit a little wayside inn. They will spin a tale of some fantastical woman in white, or a distinguished gentleman who whispers at the foot of your bed, or a howling creature that will chase you down the road just after twilight whenever the moon is full.

I, like anyone else, have always loved a good ghost story, but I fear perhaps I may now be living in one.

Tim has left me. He never could understand that something was calling me to travel across the sea … to visit the place which has been showing itself to me for as long as I can remember. Always hovering at the edges of my dreams, just out of my sight, it seems … until now.

Several years ago, I was pouring over old books deep in stacks at the library and one seemed to slide itself right off the shelf and fell open to a particular page. And on that page was a picture; an old, grainy, black-and-white image of Stormclyffe Hall in Weymouth.

Now I know where I must go, where I am being summoned. To continue to deny its call is to add to my misery, my nightmares. But to answer the call… I dread to know what I will find.

There is a heaviness in my chest that will not ease, so I must go and face this place that lingers at the edge of my memory and whispers to me in the dark.

I am coming.

PROLOGUE

Weymouth, England, 1811

The crash of thunder woke Richard, Earl of Weymouth. The fire in the hearth was low, the embers no longer crackling, and a cold draft pressed in around him as a storm raged outside. Pulling a loose sheet around his hips, he reached across the bed for his wife, who was still weak from bearing him a healthy son a month ago. His hands stopped short as he encountered nothing but the twisted sheets where her body had lain.

An icy tendril of fear churned in his stomach. She never left their bed when it rained. Storms frightened her. Isabelle usually curled into his side, burying her face against his throat for comfort.

Heavy rain whipped against the windows, the fierce staccato a warning to stay inside. Wind whistled through the room, teasing tapestries out, then back against the walls as though bodies moved behind them. A rumble of thunder seemed to shake the stones of his ancestral home, Stormclyffe Hall.

“Isabelle?” he called out. “Love?”

Only the crash of thunder answered.

Lightning streaked past the window and illuminated his son’s cradle.

A sharp cry split the air.

Richard leaped out of bed, the icy floor stinging his bare feet as he rushed to the cradle. Murmuring soft, sweet words, he lifted his son, Edward, tucking him in the crook of one arm, relieved the babe was safe. He never thought he would be the paternal sort, but Isabelle and their babe brought out the tenderness in him.

The town viewed his marriage as a disgrace. Earls didn’t marry the daughters of innkeepers. But Richard hadn’t cared. He loved her and would do anything to have her in his life.

A frown tugged down the corners of his lips. “Where is your mother, Edward?”

Thunder once again rocked the hall. October storms thrashed the castle and nearby cliffs with a wicked vengeance. Trees were split in half by lightning; the edges of the cliff decayed inward, inching ever closer to the castle. Although the storm this night was no different, something felt wrong. A bite to the air, a sense of dread digging into his spine.

As the baby’s long eyelashes drowsily settled back down on his plump cheeks, Richard assured himself that the baby’s linens were dry and Edward was content. He brushed his lips over his son’s forehead and set him back in the cradle.

When he stepped back, glancing out the window that overlooked the sea, his blood froze. A feminine silhouette clambered through the rock outcroppings by the cliff’s edge.

Even from a distance, he knew with a horrifying certainty it was Isabelle.

It was madness to be outside, alone by the cliffs. She knew the dangers, knew the soft dirt around the cliffs crumbled into the sea. Only the year before, a boy from the village had fallen to his death when the ground by the edge gave way.

“Isabelle!” he gasped, the single intake of air burning his chest as though fire had erupted within.

Before he had time to move, the sky blackened, his vision robbed of light.

When lightning again bathed the rocks, Isabelle was gone.

His stomach clenched with a fear so profound, it flayed open his chest with poison-tipped claws.

Shouting for his cloak and boots, he raced from the room. The nurse emerged from down the hall, her white cap askew, and gray hair frizzing out from under the edges.

“Take charge of the baby!” he yelled as he ran past her.

She nodded and hurried to his room.

His valet, followed by several footmen, raced to his aid, carrying clothes. He snatched them and dressed as he ran, his men right behind him dashing through the deluge.

When they reached the cliffs, there was no sign of Isabelle.

“My lord!” a footman by the edge shouted.

Afraid to look, yet unable to tear his eyes away, Richard stared down to where the man’s finger pointed. The black shadow of Isabelle’s cloak caught on a razor-thin piece of rock, fluttering madly like a bat’s wing. Lightning slashed above them, its terrible light revealing a dark smear beneath the cloak’s erratic movements.

Blood. Isabelle’s blood. Had she jumped to her death?

“No!” A crash of thunder swallowed his roar of despair.

He dove for the edge, wanting to follow her into the frothing gray seas. A cloak smeared with blood. All that remained of his wife.

He’d fought too hard to win her love, her trust. They’d suffered through too much together, to be divided now. He couldn’t raise Edward alone.

“No…please, no.” The pleading came from the bottom of his soul, torn from his heart.

She was gone.

Strong arms hauled Richard back from the ledge, pinning him to the earth.

“It is too late, my lord. She’s gone.”

She was his Isabelle, his heart…

Why had she jumped? Had she been unhappy? It couldn’t be that. He would have known, and he would have done anything in his power to make her happy.

“We must find her,” he told the men standing around him.

An older man, Richard’s head gardener, shook his head. “We can’t search in this weather, and her body will be gone by the time the storm ends. But we’ll try to find what we can on the morrow, if you wish.”

“I do,” Richard growled. Despair was replaced with vengeance.

He faced Stormclyffe. Lightning laced the skies behind it in a white, delicate pattern. The centuries-old castle loomed out of the darkness, a defensive wolf with the battlements as its bared teeth.

It didn’t matter that his infant son waited in a lonely cradle, eager for the loving touch of his remaining parent.

Richard was lost.

He wanted nothing to do with the life he’d had, the riches, the earldom. He despised it all. Every blessed memory he ever had that reminded him of Isabelle made him furious. She was gone from his life forever. He could not bring himself to dwell on his son; it only cleaved his chest in two. His love, his heart, was being battered against the rocks below.

1

Weymouth, England, Present Day

Blood splashed against white porcelain, the ruby-red liquid spreading outward in a chaotic pattern.

Jane Seyton hissed, clutching her leg. The cut burned like the devil. She slapped a palm over the sliced flesh, but crimson liquid seeped through her fingers. She set down her razor and reached for the shower nozzle, aiming it at the red streaks, washing them down the drain. A thin trail of red still trickled down the tub’s edge, and she blasted with the nozzle again, desperately trying to erase the unsettling sight of her own blood.

She hobbled out of the shower, rummaging through her makeup bag until she found a Band-Aid.

Her room in the tiny inn was quiet, the silence thick and a little unsettling. She hummed to break up the suffocating lack of noise.

It had been a tiring journey from Cambridge to the small, desolate coast near Weymouth in southern England. The White Lady Inn had an almost macabre wooden sign, a silhouetted woman in white standing at the edge of a vast cliffside, her dress billowing out to sea in a cloud of smokelike swirls. It swung above the door and creaked with the slightest breeze. Despite the inn being situated between a lively pub and a quaint grocery store, there seemed to be a zone of quiet within the inn itself. Her room was a drab little place, with a narrow bed and whitewashed walls.

The same family had owned this inn for over two hundred years, passing it down from generation to generation. It was only natural that the place had seen better days and could use a little work. Yet, the awful silence made her skin tingle. She’d hardly slept last night, jumping at every small creak and groan. Taking herself to task, she’d consciously reminded herself that older places made such noises as the wood and stone settled into place.

Today she was driving up to the old castle-like manor house, Stormclyffe Hall, where she was going to meet the owner, the ninth Earl of Weymouth. After several emails back and forth, he’d reluctantly given her permission to tour the grounds along with other visitors but made no mention of getting access to the house’s historical papers. Her dissertation was on the tragic stories of some of Britain’s ancient castles and manor houses, with a particular emphasis on Stormclyffe and its effect on Weymouth. Her committee chair, Dr. Blackwell, had given her two weeks to find sources to supplement her theories on Stormclyffe Hall. Since the last four years of research footwork had been done on this one particular castle, she couldn’t switch the focus easily to another location. If she couldn’t get what she needed, she wouldn’t get Blackwell’s approval and she’d have to start her dissertation, for a PhD in history, over completely.

In order to complete her research, she had to find out what actually happened to the current earl’s ancestors, Richard and his wife, Isabelle, who’d both died under mysterious circumstances. Rumor had it Isabelle had committed suicide. People claimed to have seen her ghost walking the cliffs. Richard had been found one foggy morning shortly thereafter sprawled in his study, a broken brandy glass next to his body. He had apparently drunk himself to an early grave a shortly after his wife’s passing. The locals claimed the earl’s spirit was trapped within the walls of his castle, restlessly searching for his dead wife, his mournful cries piercing the air on windless nights.

What Jane hadn’t told the current earl or anyone else was the more personal reason for her focus on Stormclyffe Hall. Ever since she’d seen an old photo of it, she felt an almost mystical pull. Lately she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else.

The hall whispered to her on the darkest of nights, with soft murmurs and teasing visions just as she began to fall asleep. Before dawn, she’d awaken, hands trembling with the feel of heavy stones against her palms, her heart racing and lips drawn back in a scream as though she’d fallen from the cliffs herself. What she felt, however, in each and every dream she had lately were hands shoving at her lower back, pushing her over the edge against her will.

The obsession with Stormclyffe had cost her so much already. The months of work on her dissertation were now at risk of being set aside if she couldn’t find primary sources. It would be back to square one if she had to pick another castle and start all of her initial research over again, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Her fiancé Tim had broken off their engagement and ended their two-year relationship, telling her he found her obsession with the castle “creepy” and that he worried she was mentally unstable.

But Jane’s dreams made her wonder if the young countess hadn’t jumped but been pushed by…someone. And that was the root of her obsession. The nightmares were slowly driving her mad, and she knew she had to get to the bottom of what happened to Isabelle if she ever hoped to find peace. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand waking up every night gasping for breath and her bones aching as though they’d been smashed upon saltwater-covered rocks. The last few months she and Tim had been together, her dreams had grown increasingly vivid and terrifying, and they’d woken him up as well.

The beginning of the end.

She would never forget the look on his face, the tightness to his eyes and the way his lips pursed as he’d held out his hand and asked for his engagement ring back. His bags were packed and sitting by the door, and he’d left within minutes of destroying her life and all of her hopes for the future. Their future.

With a little sigh, she smoothed her left thumb over the base of her naked fourth finger. Even after four months, she still felt bare without it. A splinter of pain shot through her chest, and she clenched her fist, avoiding looking at her hand anymore. She rubbed a towel through her hair before blow-drying it. She could have used a flat iron to tame the mess of dark waves, but she’d fried that when she first arrived in England and plugged it into the wall socket with a converter that hadn’t worked properly. She’d never gotten around to buying another one.

Not that it mattered. Given that her academic pursuits tended to involve panels of older, balding male professors in tweed jackets, she rarely bothered with her looks. Her current mission, though, required a more professional touch to her hair and wardrobe. She figured if she looked fashionable and presentable, it might help further her research goals. Easier said than done. She was fully aware she wasn’t the sort of woman men fawned over, but her dissertation depended on access to the earl’s family archives, and she’d get dolled up if it would help make sure he didn’t change his mind about letting her pry into his papers.

The current earl had proved initially reluctant to allow her access to his family history, but when she’d persisted through a deluge of emails and letters, he’d reluctantly said she’d be welcome to tour the grounds along with other tourists once the remodeling was over. That had been four months ago. Stormclyffe didn’t have a website to clue her in on whether the grounds were open to tourists or not, but the remodeling had to be done by now. She couldn’t wait any longer. And she wasn’t going to take no for an answer on getting into those original sources from the current earl.

A smile tugged at her lips.

Sebastian Carlisle, the ninth Earl of Weymouth. A rich playboy with the world at his fingertips. Of course he was tall, with gorgeous, dark blond hair like melted gold and eyes the shade of cinnamon. By all reports, his life consisted of fast cars, leggy models with perfect hair, and wealth beyond imagining. The man was definitely not her type, but she needed to impress him if she was to stay at the castle and work.

Her internet searches also revealed a fair amount about him, aside from his romantic entanglements, and she’d been impressed. With a PhD in history from Cambridge and degrees in numerous foreign languages, he showed a surprising amount of scholarship. Despite his flashy lifestyle, he’d helped push for preservation of historical landmarks throughout Britain and was a member of the Royal Historical Society.

His town house in London was rumored to have one of the country’s best library collections, second only to other collections in aristocratic homes like Althorp, home to the ninth Earl Spencer. Even she had to admit that despite reputation as the most seductive man in all of England, and he might also be one of the smartest.

She slipped into her favorite pair of jeans and a comfortable pair of black boots before donning a thick, gray, cable-knit sweater. Back home in Charleston, the weather would be light and warm, but the English coast was always cold in late October. Sea spray drifted far into town, sinking into her bones through the walls of the White Lady Inn.

Though it was still early afternoon, the sky outside her room dimmed as the low-hanging clouds drifted off the sea, dragging their vast looming shapes through the town and blocking out the sun’s illumination. A chill seeped through the glass of the window, frosting the edges with dew that pebbled around the panes.

A sudden knot gathered at the base of her skull, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rising. The air inside was now as cold as outside. Her breath exhaled in a cottony puff, and her skin tingled with a strange sensation. Her muscles tensed in response as though her body expected something to happen. If she hadn’t known without a doubt that she was alone, she would have sworn someone was watching her.

She pushed the unsettling thought aside and retrieved her briefcase and purse. Tucked safely inside were her notebook and the latest letter she’d received last week from Sebastian Carlisle. She’d memorized every word.

Dear Ms. Seyton,

Thank you for your interest and inquiry into the Carlisle ancestral home, Stormclyffe Hall. As its caretaker and heir, I am very pleased that my ancestry has found merit in the esteemed Cambridge halls from where you write.

Your dissertation subject is a very interesting one, and I do see how it might benefit your study to have access to my family’s documents, and I would welcome your educated account of my home. However, I am currently overseeing the restoration of Stormclyffe, which includes the preservation of those documents that you seek, and having a scholar under the roof while that roof is being mended might prove distracting for both you and the restoration staff. You are more than welcome to visit once the restorations have been thoroughly completed. However, any access to personal and private papers and documents that are the property of my family are not open for public viewing. Weymouth has an excellent library with plenty of sources you might consider as an alternative avenue for research.

Please feel free to contact me, or the office of my steward Mr. John Knowles, in the future should you have any other questions.

Sincerely,

Weymouth

Jane’s heart skittered. Weymouth. He hadn’t even bothered to sign his usual title “Earl of Weymouth.” Just Weymouth. It rolled off the tongue so nicely.

It had taken a half-dozen letters to his office and more than thirty emails to finally get his attention. His reply letter had been very British, polite and yet firm. It was obvious he didn’t want her to come, at least not in her capacity as a researcher, but only as a tourist. Ha! He had no idea what he was in for. She was going to get into those documents.

The drive to Stormclyffe was beyond breathtaking. Weymouth was a charming harbor town, dotted with multicolored buildings that faced the edge of the water inlets like merry greeters. The forest of sailboat masts rose and fell as the sea rippled beneath the boats, lifting and dropping them in an endless waltz that enchanted her as she drove past. It was a place she could see herself living in for the rest of her life. She loved the idea of the cozy little place nestled next to the vast acreage of the Weymouth estate. She looked forward to leaving Stormclyffe on little breaks to pop down to the city and eat at the local pubs or visit the little shops and historical sites.

She drove past Weymouth Beach. The jubilee clock at the edge of the parking lot separated the beach from the shops and businesses. Its blue-and-red painted tower held the clock aloft for the residents to see the time at a distance. It painted a beautiful image, the clock at the edge of the shore, facing both sea and village. It stood as a silent sentinel over the flock of tourists that frolicked on the sand and in the shallows.

The twenty-minute drive to the estate took her on a narrow road that paralleled the edge of the coast. Although it was October, the grass was still green on the hillsides, and storm clouds were only a vague outline on the horizon. The landscape gave way to a slowly rising hill and a mass of distant trees, gnarled and knotted together tight as thorns. Just beyond was a glimpse of the castle. It was a massive edifice that stood stark against the sky and trees, towering over the fields, and she couldn’t help but stare.

The countless photographs she’d collected over the years hadn’t prepared her for the raw beauty and power of the structure. The worn battlements were still fully intact, facing the sea like warriors, ever defiant in the face of nature’s force on the coast. The steep cliffs merely half a mile from the castle loomed, dark and threatening.

No fence lined the cliff edges. No warning signs guided visitors away except one that read Private Property. Heavy Fines for Trespassing. She repressed an achy shiver as a cloud stole across the sun’s path, dimming all light.

The gray stones of Stormclyffe stood stalwart and proud, challenging her to drive closer. The road turned to gravel and thinned even more, leaving only enough space for her car.

Sheer desolation seemed to pour off the structure as she pulled into the castle’s front drive. If not for the five work vehicles that obviously belonged to various handymen, she would have thought the castle was devoid of all life.

Strands of hair stung her face as the wind whipped it about. There was an unsettling silence on the grounds, like something unnatural muffled the sound of the sea. No crashing waves, only the violence of the wind against the castle’s stones.

The house seemed to be wrapped in an invisible layer of thick wool, where sight and smell were dulled. The wind’s icy fingers crawled along her shoulder blades and dug into her hair, making her tense. The castle walls were pitted with small chinks in the stones like fathomless obsidian eyes that stared at her, sized her up, and found her wanting.

The hairs rose on the back of her neck. The eerie sensation of eyes fixed on her back sent a cold wave of apprehension over her skin. She whipped around to look at the deserted landscape, suddenly fighting off a rush of panic at being alone out here.

Her heartbeat froze for a brief moment. A woman in a long white nightgown, hair loose down to her waist, stood hesitantly on the cliff’s edge, half turned toward the sea. She stared at Jane. Her skin was grayish, and her eyes were shadowed with black circles as though she hadn’t slept in years. Something wasn’t right about the way she looked, or the fact that the nightgown looked far too old in style for any modern woman to be wearing. Not to mention a woman in a nightgown in broad daylight wasn’t right either…

Sadness filled Jane’s chest, choking her. It was as if she were infused with the same lonely desperation evident on the woman’s face. Surprisingly, Jane felt no fear, merely the overwhelming grief that had come the moment she locked eyes with the woman. As though pulled by an unseen force, she took a step in the woman’s direction. The skies above darkened to a black, thunderous storm on the verge of breaking. Before she could get any closer, black roots burst forth from the rocks below the woman’s slippered feet, winding up her calves and digging into her skin like thorns.

Jane had no time to react—her breath caught in her throat as the woman’s eyes widened. Jane struggled to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. Every muscle was tensed and yet frozen like stone. The woman opened her mouth, a silent scream ricocheting off the insides of Jane’s skull. Then the thorny roots pulled her off the edge of the cliffs and into the sea.

“No!” A gasp escaped Jane’s lips, barely above a whisper. Her skin broke out in goose bumps, and she shook her head, trying to clear it of what she’d just seen. Her hand shot to clutch her necklace, a pendant gifted to her by her grandmother.

Before she could even run to the edge, a voice cut through her shock. “She isn’t real. Just a phantom.” The quiet voice intruded on her terror.

She glanced over her shoulder. A handsome man in his mid-thirties dressed as a gardener approached, carrying a pair of huge shears. The sight was so unexpected after what she’d just witnessed that she wasn’t quite sure how to react. Brown eyes studied her with a mixture of pity and concern.

“What did you say?”

The man sighed, set his shears down, leaning them against his knee while he rubbed his palms on his brown work pants. “What you saw there, was the lady in white. She’s haunted these cliffs since her death.”

Her death? The woman she’d just seen was a…ghost?

“You believe in ghosts?” Jane turned her face once more to the cliffs.

The gardener turned his head toward the sea, his eyes focusing on something from the past. “I believe that evil leaves its mark on a place. Burns itself in the stones so deep that only something truly pure and good can get it out. These old stones have so much evil buried in them, I doubt the castle will ever rest. It isn’t safe here, not for you.” The gardener bent to pick up his shears again. “You should go, return to wherever you’ve come from, and forget this place.”

She swallowed, a metallic taste still thick in her throat, focusing back on the gardener. “How often have you seen her? The lady in white?” Even as she spoke, the image of the woman’s face flashed across her mind, and a chill swept through her entire body. She rubbed her hands over her arms.

He shrugged, eyes facing the cliffs as he answered, “She appears there on the cliffs whenever her kin return home.”

She looked toward the hall, trying to bury the memory of sorrow and fear on the ghost’s face. Anyone else might have been panicking after having just seen what she’d seen. But the nightly visions plaguing her had slowly forced her to accept that there were things beyond her explanation. Like ghosts.

“So the earl is here?” The earl was in residence. This was good news. She had been a little worried that he might be monitoring the estate from London.

“Yes. Arrived a seven months ago. Been trying to restore the place. Not much good will it do. The ghosts are stirring again. He’s upset the balance.”

“The balance?” A sense of warning niggled at the back of her head, but she forced herself to ignore it—and to ignore the sense that she was losing her mind.

The gardener appeared to really see her for the first time. “The balance. Between the evil and the good. Evil rules the castle. Stalks the halls and torments those who dare to live inside.”

Icy fingers raked down Jane’s back.

“Is Lord Weymouth in danger? Being in the house?” It only occurred to her after she asked that the gardener might be right, and she might be in danger, too.

The gardener looked out to sea, his eyes dark. “I don’t know. But if you plan to stay here, watch yourself, miss. Evil isn’t always what you’d expect. It can take many forms.” His voice dropped. “Many forms.”

He turned and walked away. The momentary comfort his presence provided her vanished as she gazed upon his retreating form.

She wanted to know what he meant, but she doubted she’d get much more from him. She turned her attention back to the castle. The high windows reflected the sunlight as it started to peek out from the clouds.

The image of the lady in white flashed through her mind again, blinding her to the present for a brief instant. Her heart clenched in sadness, and fear rippled through her in tiny little waves, enough to keep her on edge. Had she witnessed a true apparition, or had her own imagination run away with her? She’d half hoped her dreams of being pushed from the cliffs had been only nightmares, yet that woman looked so familiar.

She had always believed in supernatural things. She was no longer a practicing Catholic in the churchgoing sense, but her faith was strong enough that she respected the truth that there were things in this world she couldn’t understand. Like ghosts. And now she was going to enter a place bleeding with evil. She reached up to clutch the medallion of the archangel Michael that hung around her neck. The metal was warm from lying against her skin. It was a small comfort in the face of the looming castle and the fears of what might lurk in its shadows.

2

He was cursed. There was no other explanation for it. Bastian Weymouth glared at the expensive toilet in his bathroom. Arms crossed over his chest, he shot a glance at the portly plumber who quivered in the doorway.

“What has you so agitated? I see nothing wrong.” Bastian studied the room again, searching for signs of the disaster that the plumber insisted had taken place just a few minutes before he’d run to find Bastian.

The plumber gulped and took a deep breath. “The toilet was in place, and I was just tightening the pipes when the water exploded out of the bowl. It flooded the whole room!” The plumber waved his wrench about.

Bastian’s displeasure deepened. The room wasn’t wet. There wasn’t one drop of water outside the bowl to confirm the plumber’s story.

“I swear on my life, my lord! Water up to my ankles.” The plumber jabbed at his pants where it showed the fabric soaked clear through up to his calves.

Yet the entire room was completely dry, and the plumber had only fetched him a moment ago to explain the flooding. Flooding, which by all appearances, hadn’t ever occurred.

It was just one more irritation in a long line of complications that had occurred during the renovations, which began when he’d moved back to Weymouth and Stormclyffe seven months ago, after his family’s fifty-year absence. Roofs leaking in newly patched areas, windowpanes shattering just hours after being installed, birds finding their way inside and dying when they broke their necks against the walls trying to escape. There were even workers talking about seeing a woman in a white dress along the cliffs. He’d never seen anything like that here. It was utter nonsense, but the list went on from there, each thing more frustrating than the last. All of it worsened the superstitions of the locals, especially the ones he had hired to repair everything. If he could just get the repairs completed, all of the superstitious nonsense would have to stop. The mutterings of “cursed” as he walked past local shops in the town would have to stop, too. He was tired of the black label his family bore in Weymouth because of the tragedies in their ancestral past. Restoring Stormclyffe, fixing it was the key. Something deep inside him compelled him to save the Hall. It was an almost tangible need to see the broken glass panes of the windows mended, the rooms dusted, and the broken stones replaced. Maybe returning the Hall to its former glory would make it look less like a tourist attraction for ghost hunters, and would make the townspeople stop spreading tales about it. Then he might have a chance at a somewhat normal life, rather than be the target of village gossip.

His grandmother had been convinced that if he could fix Stormclyffe, there would be no more problems, no more tragedies, no more lost loved ones, like his father.

“It is fine, Mr. Tibbs. I’ll compensate you for your services. I trust you’ll stay here to see to the remaining water closets?”

“Thank you, my lord, but I have to say I don’t feel comfortable staying here after dusk.” The portly man shifted on his feet, eyes darting around the lavish bathroom. “I’ll return first thing in the morning.”

Bastian didn’t blame him. It was obvious Tibbs was a superstitious sort, and given the bloody history of Stormclyffe…well, that wasn’t a surprise. Bastian’s newly married grandparents had fled the castle in 1962 after an upstairs maid was found hanging from the rafters of the great hall. And they hadn’t been the first to leave over the Hall’s last two centuries.

The authorities hadn’t been able to figure out how the girl had gotten out to the center beam to hang herself; there was no way it could be reached without an impossibly tall ladder. Yet the maid had been discovered swinging all the same. Nessy Harper, the victim, had been a local girl, and his family’s reputation with the nearby town had been blackened. The coroner’s report had read suicide, but there had been talk about his grandfather driving Nessy to it in some sort of doomed love affair. Bastian knew it was nonsense, but it didn’t make the sting to his family’s honor and pride any less significant.

Bastian’s grandmother, who’d spent her last days in their London town house, had died murmuring about Nessy. He grimaced at the memory of her last moments when he’d been alone with her.

“Beware the shadows Bastian…they hold evil. Stay away from the castle. Poor sweet Nessy, milk-white eyes…she was so scared… Touch not the heart of evil… What once was broken must be mended.” The frail old woman exhaled her last breath, and six-year-old Bastian had screamed in terror at being left alone with a dead woman. Her words had never made sense, but he’d always wondered if she’d meant that the castle shouldn’t lay empty and crumbling. His grandparents had been the last heirs to live in the castle after all, and the guilt of leaving it behind might have weighed upon her in her final hours. Many people suffered from delusions and superstitions in their twilight years.

“Tibbs, I’ll pay triple your price if you get this toilet up and running before sunset.”

The plumber’s eyes bugged out in surprise. He nodded and rushed off to collect more tools.

Bastian left the water closet and headed back downstairs, ignoring the chaos of repair people and staff he’d hired to help with the upkeep of the castle.

“My lord,” his butler, Randolph, announced. “The stone mason has finished repairing his work on the bell tower, but he said to advise you that if you wish to have the bell working properly you’ll need to replace the clappers since all of the bells are missing them.”

“Fine. I’ll add it to the list of things I need to fix.”

When Bastian turned to leave, his butler coughed politely. “One more thing, my lord. You have a visitor. I put her in the red drawing room.”

Bastian cocked an eyebrow and scowled. “A visitor?” That was the last thing he needed.

Randolph swallowed, his eyes shifting away. “Er, yes. She said she is here to do research on the house, and you invited her in a letter. She’s American.”

American? For a second he couldn’t imagine who Randolph was talking about. When the butler handed him the letter in question, obviously taken from the visitor, he studied it.

“Er…Yes. I remember.” He scanned the note he’d hastily written several months ago. It all came back, the numerous e-mails and phone calls from the American woman named Jane Seyton. He’d asked her to wait until renovations were complete before she visited, yet here she was, showing up in the middle of numerous disasters. He’d made it abundantly clear she wasn’t allowed any access to his family’s archives. Apparently Americans didn’t understand blunt honesty. No surprise. He crumpled the letter in his fist, failing to quell the sudden frustration.

As if superstitious workmen weren’t enough to cause him trouble, having the American here would prove to be one more irritation. She would have to be supervised to make sure she didn’t pry into his family’s documents and that nothing was taken intentionally from the house.

Randolph cleared his throat. “Will she be staying here, my lord? I can have a room prepared immediately.”

Stay here? Surely he couldn’t let the woman stay in the castle. Bastian was about to declare as much when something out of the corner of his eye flickered. A shadow at the edge of his vision seemed to be creeping along the wall toward him. He turned and focused in the direction he’d glimpsed it, but all signs of the shadow were gone.

I’m seeing things, too, blast it! These workmen are driving me to madness as well. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“My lord?” Randolph prompted, which made Bastian realize he must have been silent for several moments. The shadows had him on edge. Perhaps it would be nice to have a bit of company, if only she wasn’t a bloody American. Given the rumors of ghosts and other such childish stories, most of the staff at Stormclyffe refused to stay overnight. Only Randolph and a few of the loyal staff from London remained after dark.

“I shall meet with her. She will not be staying here.”

Jane Seyton was sure to be like every other historian he’d met and probably as stubborn as one of the Queen’s corgis with a bone. Given half the chance, she’d run off to the nearest garden and bury his secrets where only she could find them. He didn’t like anyone having that power over him.