The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,23

difficulties in leaving Foxwood Park to Mr Westaway, given the greater value of the Boxhill Estate. Enclosed is your new will, reflecting these changes, and an addendum, signed by both the Foxwood Court and Boxhill agents, attesting to the value and condition of Foxwood Park and the Boxhill estates, respectively. All that is required now to ensure your will is binding is your signature and that of two witnesses.

All that remained was to sign, was it? Thomas patted his jacket pocket, searching for his fountain pen. He scanned the altered will.

I, Thomas Cross, Lord of Foxwood, being sound in mind and body…

Thomas looked at those words for a long time.

Admitting defeat rankled. He’d never backed down from a fight in his life. He had not always won, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that the world recognised him as a force to reckon with.

Death—death was inevitable. Not something he could avoid. Banshees were an unknown. If he could ensure Pip’s safety…

It all came back to Pip. Thomas’s frown increased. Other men might greet the inheritance of a fortune with delight. Would Pip see his death as anything but a betrayal?

The sitting-room door swung open. Pip stepped inside. “Here I am. What are we working on?”

Thomas moved to cover the letter with his hands. “What are you doing here?”

Pip halted. “I am your secretary. Lord Connaught remarked you’d had what appeared to be a business letter in the mail.” His gaze fell on the letter and he stepped forward.

Thomas tucked the letter in his jacket pocket. “When I want your help, I will send for it.”

Pip tilted his head to one side, pursing his lips. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. Everything is fine.”

Pip hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Are you—no, of course you’re sure. I shall leave you to your correspondence.” He bowed and walked from the room.

Thomas pressed his hand against his temple. He’d hurt Pip—and no wonder. Of all the shabby ways to repay his generous spirit! And yet, he could not allow him to see the will…

Thomas quit the armchair, leaning against the window. The bright morning beyond gave him no joy, the lustrous green of the lawn, a reminder that life flowed everywhere, but in his veins. As if on cue, pain throbbed deep in his gut. Thomas felt sweat bead on his upper lip. He could not keep this hidden much longer…

A knock at the door. The valet entered. “I’ve found the tobacco pouch and cord that you requested, sir.”

Thomas turned away from the window. “Let’s see them.”

The pouch was small, made from sturdy, unadorned leather. The cord was rough hand spun twine. “This is more than adequate.” Thomas pulled a sovereign from his wallet and gave it to the man.

He turned the pouch over in his hand. No better time to transfer the heart to its new home. Why did he hesitate?

Pip’s pained expression, hurt and confusion warring in his eyes, sprung to mind. Confound it—he must talk to Pip. Thomas shoved the pouch in his pocket and went in search of his secretary.

Connaught sat in the drawing room, with a pile of newspapers spread out in front of him. He looked up as Thomas entered. “I did not expect the pleasure of your company, Lord Cross. I understood that you were unwell.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. He’d acquired the pouch just in time. “Where’s Mr Leighton?”

“He and Mr Westaway borrowed a carriage and have gone to investigate the ruins of a local abbey. They’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Ah.” Thomas weighed this information. Pip could not get into too much trouble, not when Julian accompanied him. Perhaps it was just as well to have him removed from Connaught Castle. Still, the fact that they had not consulted him before they set out irked him. “I trust that the loan of your carriage is no inconvenience.”

Connaught waved away his words. “A trifling matter, I assure you. I am keen to have this banshee business sorted as quickly as possible. Until she is gone, I’ve got no chance of selling the place. The moment potential buyers hear of her, they lose all interest.” His habitual frown settled across Connaught’s face.

Thomas stepped closer. He raised an eyebrow at the names of the papers. The New York Tribute. The Evening World. The Sun. “Homesick, Lord Connaught?”

He glanced up, mouth twisting. “I don’t know if I’m homesick, but I tell you, I was feeling sore until these papers arrived. Now… Well, it’s strange to be reading the news instead of writing it.”