dramas. In fact, I’m quite certain modern Courtenay Hall has appeared in at least one production. In the twenty-first century, it’s periodically open to the public, and when I visited it as a girl, my mind had been blown by the sheer scope of the place.
I’ve never been to nineteenth-century Courtenay Hall. This past summer, August always came to us, sometimes bringing Edmund. August’s wife, Rosalind, died when Edmund wasn’t even a year old. I say “died.” William says died. Most of the world says died. Rosalind was apparently known for her moonlit rides on horseback, and one morning, she wasn’t in bed when August awoke. Her horse was later found drowned, having apparently panicked and charged off a seaside cliff.
Clearly, Rosalind is dead. What other explanation could there be for the disappearance of a young mother who, by all accounts, adored her husband and son? Well, according to August, she left. Abandoned them. Ignore the fact that she never threatened any such thing, that they hadn’t been fighting the day before she disappeared, that she’d never given anyone the slightest indication that she wanted out of the marriage. No, forget all that. Rosalind abandoned him, and he will hear no reasonable argument to the contrary.
William has long since stopped beating his head against this particular wall, and I cannot do it either, however frustrated I might be. I never met Rosalind, but I am offended on her behalf. For a good man, August is making a very stupid mistake—obviously preferring anger to grief—and our only consolation is that he does not share this theory with their son. He tells Edmund only that his mother loved him very much and died tragically.
We leave mid-afternoon because it’ll take three hours to get to Courtenay Hall. I am not looking forward to repeating the journey late tonight. All right, given what William promised, I’m looking forward to at least part of the return trip. The rest will not be quite so comfortable in the middle of a winter’s night.
August offered us overnight accommodations at Courtenay Hall, but his brother vetoed it. Apparently, the earl is a bit of an ass. That’s my description of Everett Courtenay. William’s is much more colorful. According to the Earl of Tynesford, we do not rate an overnight stay, and if my condition makes the long journey difficult, perhaps we shouldn’t attend.
“He means perhaps I shouldn’t attend,” William says as we draw close to Courtenay Hall. “Our marriage may have brought me a measure of respectability, but I am still not acceptable in polite society.”
William is referring to the scandal that has dogged him for over a decade. Three young women have disappeared in William’s life: his sister, his former fiancée and Rosalind. That count sometimes rises to four. I’m the fourth—the mysterious girl seen with him all those years ago.
William was responsible for none of those disappearances. We solved the two murders, and I laid the spirits to rest. That is not, however, the sort of thing he can say in public.
“The problem,” I murmur, “is that while you may have married, I am not someone the earl—or any of his compatriots—has ever heard of. A middle-aged widow from the Americas? Very suspicious.”
“Devil take them all, I say.” He glances my way, his face shadowed by his fur-lined hat. “They won’t bother you. They won’t dare. That’s the one advantage to possessing such a dreadful reputation.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care either. I understand why we can’t spend the night, though. It is his brother’s house.”
“And by the time his lordship decreed we could not stay, the local inns were full. There are others farther along, though when you see the condition of them, you may prefer to carry on.”
“We have blankets,” I say. “If you do not mind me curling up in the back . . .”
He smiles. “I do not mind at all. In fact, I believe I packed enough blankets that you may strip down to your knickers and curl up quite comfortably.”
“And then the sleigh breaks down, and you’re left standing at the side of the road with your wife in her underwear.”
He waggles his brows. “That would certainly provide a boost to my reputation.”
“Not in the proper direction.”
I push my hands deeper into my muff and gaze out at the winter wonderland. Endless fields of snow stretch to the horizon, with the falling sun painting the world a festive red. I cuddle closer to William as he turns the horse