at all save a name. He knew little of Mr. Roderick Mason.
He did try to say he wanted nothing to do with this Ullinn House.
They still declared he should go. So he went. Normally thankful for his employer’s unusual frame of mind, he did not appreciate it in this instance.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Lester. He tilted his head. “Forgive me, but as you own it, perhaps you could simply break the lock?”
Nigel shifted a laugh into a cough.
Charles took a breath. It was warm in Mr. Lester’s establishment and he would have the chance of a cooked meal. But now that he had made the journey, it seemed ridiculous to put off its purpose. He was there for a reason. It had little to do with relaxation.
All he needed to do was enter and assess the property. He had assumed—perhaps wrongly—that it would be possible to stay in the house.
“Does Ullinn House not have a caretaker?” Charles struggled not to rub his nose on his shirtsleeve. The cold made his nose run. Water rolled from his hat to his forehead, cheeks, and nose. December was bitter.
“It does not.”
“That seems ill-advised.”
“Mr. Mason, your late father, was present in the house all the year round. I do not believe he kept a caretaker at all.”
“A former housekeeper or cook?” Nigel said.
Mr. Lester glanced at his hands. “You may find that no one wishes to revisit Ullinn House, now.”
“I assure you, Mr. Lester, that I am not my father,” said Charles.
“You misunderstand me.”
“If he was a cruel man, I do not wish for anyone to discomfort themselves.” Charles crossed his arms. He understood the possibility of a pernicious employer. Or one who might use their servants for sport. Lord Valencourt’s late brother provided him with a harsh primer on the matter. He’d had little choice: no one respectable wanted someone with his background or lack of qualifications for the position of valet.
If it was the street or work for a man who treated him as an animal, Charles decided he would brave the man.
“Your father, God rest him, was not a bad man,” said Mr. Lester.
“Then what is the trouble? Surely someone can allow me into the house.”
Selling it would be a difficult prospect, most likely. It was far from London, where everyone seemed to need or want to be, and still a journey from either Glasgow or Edinburgh.
“Ullinn House, Mr. Mason, is haunted.”
An unfortunate announcement. Charles was one of the few men he knew who gave any credence to such follies.
Chapter Two
“Haunted?” Charles shook his head and dislodged more water from his hat. “Forgive me, Mr. Lester. May we sit down?”
He doubted anything about this disclosure would be quick. It had been avoided until that moment. Mr. Lester could have said it earlier, but Charles guessed that something apart from the oddity of a local belief had held him back.
“Oh, yes, of course. How rude of me.” Mr. Lester looked around the front parlor that also served as an office. There was no one but Charles and Nigel inside. Outside, rain pelted to the ground, soaking the detritus and soil.
No other patrons were likely to arrive, thought Charles, as Mr. Lester showed him and Nigel to chairs by the fire and waited for him to sit before taking his own seat.
There was a small seascape on the wall opposite the door, and when Charles passed it, he saw a signature of Agnes in the lower left corner. It was no professional painting. Had he still been a betting man, he would have placed money on Agnes being Lester’s wife.
“If the place is haunted, is that why Mr. Long was not here to greet us?” Nigel asked. He smirked.
“Mr. Long resides in Inverness. It does not seem terribly strange that he would simply send you a ring of keys.”
“Doesn’t it?” Charles questioned.
“Mr. Mason was no laird. He only had a bit of property. The house,” said Mr. Lester. “No title. I do not suppose that his relationship with Mr. Long would be the same as an illustrious client’s, for example. His matters, I imagine, would be more straightforward.” Mr. Lester stretched his hands toward the fire. “And unlike someone of a higher station—pardon me for saying it—Mr. Mason has not left behind a queue of creditors.”
Charles exchanged a glance with Nigel, who knew more of the milieu. He’d remained in the country his entire life, unlike Charles, who had gone south at the first opportunity. With some schooling to his name, he’d