Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,12

wanted her to hate him with all her heart. He would have spared her the public humiliation of being left at the altar, but that, too, had been imperative. After his ruination of her Jennet had never married, that much he had allowed himself to glean from various sources familiar with the Reeds.

He had not simply ruined her; he had condemned her to a life of solitude and misery. Any man tempted by Jennet would be swiftly told of Greystone’s abandonment. No matter how much a man was to blame for a broken engagement, society held the rejected lady responsible. Aside from estranging himself from his parents, condemning a bright, beautiful young woman to the narrow, joyless existence of a spinster had been what Greystone considered his most singularly despicable act.

Yet here she was, Miss Jennet Reed, stepped out of his past into his present, seemingly without a single alteration. Smiling and easy with her friends, as if she had never suffered a moment in her life. Obviously prepared to dance and enjoy herself, was Jennet. She behaved as if she had not a care in the world. Greystone looked down and saw he had gripped the balcony railing so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Was he angry with her for carrying on without him so brilliantly? It seemed so.

“Excuse me, my lord,” a nervous voice said from behind him. “You’re wanted downstairs.”

Greystone turned to see one of Pickering’s aides hovering just inside the chamber, a small bundle in his hands. He walked inside and took the mask, glowering as he held it up for inspection. It would conceal his face, just as his friend had promised. It would also make him look the fool, but perhaps that was exactly what he was.

Jennet Reed had survived him, and now he had other matters to attend to.

“Tell Pickering I’ll join him in a moment,” Greystone said to the servant as he gathered up his hair to tie it in a queue.

Once the man had left he stepped into the dressing room, moving aside the wash stand before kneeling. From the satchel he had hidden under the floor boards he took the only item of true significance he had brought with him to Renwick. It looked so ordinary; no one would give it a second glance. Pickering would call it the embodiment of hope, but it should have been dripping with the blood of all the men who had died so that Greystone might possess it.

What would happen if he took it into the bed chamber and tossed it into the fireplace? To do so would seal his own fate just as surely—but for a moment he longed for that finality. To be done with it all. To surrender himself to the darkness completely.

Remember your choice.

Greystone slipped his last hope into his boot, right next to the blade he used to cut throats.

Chapter 6

The moment the carriage drew within sight of Dredthorne Hall’s aged walls and lamplit windows Jennet felt the oddest sense of being watched by the mansion. Naturally she had seen the old house before tonight, but only in glimpses from her rig while out driving. As with all places of dark reputation Dredthorne seemed menacing, especially in how it loomed ever larger, blotting out the stars and moon. By the time their driver reined in the horses to stop before the wide steps of the front entry Jennet felt reduced to the size of a mouse gazing up at a mammoth.

I see you, Dredthorne Hall seemed to whisper. Come inside…if you dare.

“You are being ridiculous,” Jennet muttered under her breath.

Catherine turned to frown at her. “What was that?”

“The house,” she said, feeling silly now. “It appears quite, ah, ominous.”

“Of course, it does.” Her friend adjusted her mask. “Mr. Pickering likely rented the place precisely to set the correct tone for the ball. Atmosphere is everything these days, my dear. You should see what the Regent has done to the Pavilion at Brighton.”

Arthur Pickering likely thought it amusing to hold the masquerade in a house believed to be haunted by the souls of those who had died within its walls, Jennet thought. Although all of the deaths had been accidental, the gossips in the village had whispered of murders made to appear thus. She could see he had arranged carved turnip lanterns on every step, like so many little decapitated heads. Looking into their fiery eyes made her stomach clench as tightly as her gloved hands. Perhaps others would think