Chapter One
I pity people who think to fool their fellow man. Take
poor Mary Gillenwather. She stuffed the front of her gown
with paper in an effort to appear better endowed. We all
knew she'd done it, but no one said a word; you simply
cannot work that sort of thing into a genteel
conversation. But it wasn't necessary after all. Last
night, at the Pooles' dinner party, she sneezed and
dropped an entire issue of the Morning Post into her
soup.
Lady Mountjoy to her friend Miss Clarissa Fullerton,
while sipping chocolate at Betty's Tea House
It was raining. Not a soft, whispering rain, the kind that
mists the world into a greener, lusher place, but a harsh,
heavy deluge that sopped the earth and saturated the very
air with unending grayness. Water pooled, collected,
swirled, swelled, and then burst into fields, raged
through ditches, and rampaged across roads.
It was in this heavy, unending torrent that the lumbering
carriage finally reached its destination late at night.
The driver and footmen were exhausted, the horses
straining heavily as they pulled the mud-coated ornate
wheels through the muck and mire that had once been a road.
Ten minutes later, around the curve of a hill, appeared a
looming stone castle that stretched up into the blackness
of night. The coachman didn't even bother to wipe the rain
from his face as he halted the carriage at the door. Too
wet to do more than tilt his hat brim to empty it of
whatever water had collected, he squinted at the dark
edifice that loomed in front of them. "Gor," he said
softly, awe overwhelming the tiredness of his voice.
Beside him on the seat was Paul the footman, a relatively
new arrival to Mr. Devon St. John's rather considerable
staff. Paul was inclined to agree with John the
coachman. "Dark, it is. It fair makes me shiver in me
boots. Are ye sure we've come to the right place?"
"Mr. St. John said to go to Kilkairn Castle and to
Kilkairn Castle we've come." The coachman shook his head
disgustedly. "Though to tell ye the truth, I think Mr. St.
John has bumped his noggin."
"Why do ye think that?"
"Just look at the facts. First he leaves his own brother's
weddin' afore it even begins and then he orders us to
bring him here, drivin' through godforsaken rain fer days
on end. And when we do get to this lumbering pile of
stone, there's nary a light on!" He sourly regarded the
bleak building in front of them. "Looks deserted and
hainted by ghosties, if I ain't mistaken."
Paul stood, stealing yet another glance at the dark
edifice before them. While he wasn't a great believer in
ghosties, the castle definitely left him with an uneasy,
spine-tingling sensation that was as unnerving as the
constant pour of rain.
Biting back a sigh, Paul made his way down from the seat,
landing in a huge puddle of muck that sank his wet boots
up to his ankles. "The drive's a rank mess."
"I only hopes they've a barn, though I daresay it is as
leaky as a sieve, judging from the looks of things. Didn't
they knowed we was comin'?"
"They was tol'. I posted the letter for Mr. St. John
meself." Paul tugged his hat lower, though it was so wet
it no longer protected him from anything the elements had
to offer. He hoped the owner of the castle was not as
ramshackle as his edifice and had a place prepared for
them all.
Holding this warming thought in place, the footman trudged
back to open the door for his master, stopping to collect
a lantern from a side hook. It took a while to get the
blasted lamp lit.
He carried the lantern to the door and hung it on a hook
there, the golden pool of light greatly diminished by the
weather. He tugged on the door handle, opened it, and then
let down the steps.
Inside the plush carriage sprawled a long, elegant figure
dressed in a well-fitted coat and breeches, sparkling top
boots, and a perfectly starched and folded cravat, set
with a blue sapphire. The jewel echoed the master's blue
eyes in an uncanny manner. There was no mistaking a St.
John -- black hair and blue eyes, a square, determined
chin, and a sharp wit marked them all.
At the moment, though, Paul couldn't make out his master's
face in the shadows, which left him momentarily anxious.
Though it was rare that Mr. St. John took an irritation,
he could be cold and cutting when occasion called for it.
Paul cleared his throat. "Mr. St. John, we have arrived at
Kilkairn Castle."
The figure inside stirred, stretching lazily. "It's about
time. I fear I had fallen into a stupor when -- good God!"
Mr. Devon St. John's blue eyes widened as he looked at
Paul. "You're drowned!"
"Just a bit wet, sir."
"That is an understatement if I've ever heard one. Go
ahead and say it -- it's wretched, horrid, awful,
godforsaken rain and you wonder why we're arriving so late
at night."
Paul hesitated, then nodded. "Aye, sir. All that and more."
"Indeed," the master said. "The reason I pushed us so hard
was because I mistakenly thought we'd be able to outrun
the family curse."
"Curse, sir?"
"The St. John talisman ring. It's a curse if there ever
was one. It seems that whoever holds the bloody thing is
doomed to wed."
Paul had heard of the St. John talisman ring, and it
sounded horrid indeed. "Do ye hold the ring, sir?"
"Unknowingly, I've held it since before we left England.
My brother Chase hid it in the blasted carriage. He must
have known I'd flee before the wedding, the bastard. I
didn't discover it until we were well on our way."
Paul shook his head. "Then ye're doomed."
Continues...
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