“And then her lover shuts Lord Ravendark into the family vault and leaves him to go mad in the dark with his ancestors’ corpses, since he cares so much about the family line.”
“And thus the noble house comes to ruin because of a woman’s infidelities,” Wynn concluded. “An excellent analogy, Zeb. It quite expresses my own concerns as to Elise.”
Zeb had the sudden plunging sensation of a man who’d put his foot in it. “Hold on. I didn’t mean—”
“I understand your meaning perfectly.”
“I only meant that she has a very assured manner and she’s very lovely. And this is none of my business, any of it. You can leave your money as you please, and I dare say you’ll be with us another thirty years anyway, so it’s hardly pressing. You might even marry: Walter did at your age. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be part of your plans. Could I be driven to the station?”
Wynn sighed. “If you will not give my dear Jessamine a chance, I cannot make you. But I do want you to stay, all the same. I should like to get to know you properly. And who knows, perhaps you and your brother might reconcile, after a decade’s estrangement. Perhaps you may discover you have been wrong about Hawley’s character. Perhaps you will find yourselfbecoming fond of Jessamine as a cousin if not a lover. She will need a family soon enough.”
“Er, why?”
Wynn grimaced. “You said I had another thirty years. I regret that is not the case.”
He sounded meaningful, though he looked hale enough. “Is something wrong?” Zeb asked. “Are you not well?”
“You might say that. I think we spoke of the Wyckham curse last night?”
“Curse?”
“The fact that, since Walter, not one Wyckham has lived to be fifty. Not a child, a sibling, or a wife.”
“Haven’t they?” Zeb said. “Well, I suppose Walter’s wives couldn’t have, considering the rate he got through them. And his children died earlier than one might hope—”
“And their wives too. Your parents, mine, Hawley’s. Every one of them dead before fifty.”
“I thought Hawley’s mother ran away,” Zeb said. “I would have in her shoes.”
“Dead.”
“Oh. Well, that’s very sad, but Walter got to nearly eighty. That surely balances out.”
“More than you know. I take it your father never told you the story.”
“He probably told Bram,” Zeb said, perhaps a little sourly.
Wynn leaned back in his chair. “Walter was, of course, a successful man of business as well as an author. The tale goesthat one of his workers died, and this man’s mother, who also worked for Walter, cursed him in vengeance. He was at that time just turned forty-nine, and already planning a grand celebration for his half century; she foretold with strange imprecations that he would be dead before he was fifty. So Walter sold his wives’ and his children’s futures in exchange for his own.”
Zeb had had several things to say about that tale, but the last sentence struck it all from his mind. “He did what?”
“He made a bargain. He would grow old, but no wife or child of his should do the same. He married immediately, in the hope of children to exchange for his own longevity, and some say he murdered his first wife when it became apparent the marriage would not be fruitful.” He smiled. “Superstition does slander the dead.”
“Wait. What do you mean, bargain? With whom? Are we talking about a deal with the devil?”
“Such is the story.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Zeb said. “The old buzzard sat around with skulls and pentagrams or what-have-you, chanting Latin and selling souls? How absolutely typical of this family. Although, where is this story from? It can’t be Walter: he’d hardly tell people. ‘By the way, I sacrificed your soul to Satan, hope you don’t mind’—”
“It is no laughing matter!”
“Oh, it’s ridiculous,” Zeb said. “I’ll take your word Walter did something like that, and one might well look askance atthe number of wives he got through, but really, what a lot of nonsense.”
“The facts speak for themselves. Walter lived to seventy-eight. No other Wyckham since his bargain has reached fifty.”
“It happens! People get ill. Childbirth is dangerous. There are accidents. Your father, uh—”
“He drowned in the mire, out walking one misty winter’s day. He stepped off the path, and the treacherous ground pulled him under. A long, slow, agonising death, crying out for help that never came. He was forty-seven.”
