Page 45 of A Treason of Thorns

“I’m not permitted to allow strangers onto the grounds,” I tell him. “And I didn’t know you were coming.”

He mutters something under his breath. “Look, girl, I’m here on His Majesty’s business, and I expect you to let me in, or the king will hear of it.”

I don’t want to. The House doesn’t want me to. Wyn doesn’t want me to. But if I don’t, and Falmouth takes word back to theking that I’m being uncooperative, there’ll be hell to pay.

“Burleigh,” I whisper, resting my hand on a thornless length of bramble. “It’s alright. I know he’s hurt you before, but I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Reluctance pulses through the palm of my hand.

“Go on, then,” I coax. “You’re fine, I promise.”

Slowly, the brambles begin to pull apart, and I can feel the House’s ill humor in the ground beneath me. At last, there’s enough space for a single horse to pass through, and Burleigh stops there, refusing to yield any further. I give the wall a disappointed look.

But Lord Falmouth urges his charger forward. The horse shies a little in the gap, as the House reaches out to it with thorny fingers.

“Behave, this is for your own good,” I hiss at the air and the grass and the gravel of the drive. There’s a distant grumble of thunder in answer.

At close quarters, Lord Falmouth appears to be a good thirty years my senior, with an unforgiving jawline and eyes that don’t miss a thing.

“You’re the tavern girl from last night,” he says as he dismounts. “Does your mistress know how you spend your evenings?”

“Oh yes,” I answer. “She doesn’t mind at all.”

Falmouth’s scowl grows more pronounced. “Well. That’s no way to run a household. Things will be a damn sight different here once I’m Caretaker, mark my words.”

I say nothing, because I refuse to countenance the idea of this boorish nobleman as Caretaker of Burleigh House.

“Have a groom take my horse away and water him,” Falmouth orders abruptly. “And fetch your mistress for me. I want to discussBurleigh’s management with her—this House is a disgrace.”

Behind Falmouth, a length of bramble snakes out from the wall, running across the ground toward his horse’s rear hooves.

“Sir”—I reach out for the charger’s reins and lead it forward a few steps, out of harm’s way—“I’m afraid there’s no groom at present, so you’ll have to make do with me. The staff isn’t what it was when my—when Master Sterling was alive.”

“You mean before he was sentenced to death for betraying the king.”

I paste on a thin smile, more for the benefit of Burleigh than this odious nobleman. Thunder rumbles again, and half a dozen slate tiles slide from Burleigh’s roof and smash on the drive in front of the House. “Just so. Would you like to walk with me to the stables, or go on inside and wait?”

“I’ll join you. Burleigh was hardly congenial the last time I was here, and it would be nice to see a bit of the grounds.”

I lead the horse and Lord Falmouth falls into stride next to me.

“Did you visit during the old master’s time, then?” I ask, both to make conversation and to keep him from looking toward the House. From this angle, you can see the wide cracks in the exterior walls of the guest wing, and I don’t want him knowing Burleigh’s in such dire straits.

“No, I never visited while George Sterling was alive, though we were well acquainted. But I serve as the king’s proxy in his absences. He binds the Houses to obey me while he travels overseas. He was away in Belgium when George’s House arrest ended, so I was the one who had to retrieve the body, though Burleigh House did fuss about it. I ended up having to force the gate.”

The ground beneath us shifts a little. I stop dead in my tracks and turn to face him. “I’ll thank you not to speak so lightly of the damage you did.”

Falmouth reddens. “Who are you to speak to me in such a fashion, girl? I’ll have you beaten for your impertinence.”

Burleigh’s livid. Every stone on the gravel drive begins to chatter, like the sound of small malevolent teeth.

Peace, Burleigh, peace, I think desperately at the House.

I can’t keep this up.

“I’m Violet Sterling,” I say. “George’s daughter and the current mistress of this House. As I said, I don’t appreciate any mention of what you did last time you were here. To do such a thing to a House under a binding is unconscionable.”

“Of course you are. George’s get would be working as a barmaid—he always spent too much time at the Shilling himself.” Falmouth rolls his eyes. “And don’t be dramatic. The House did it to itself. What was I supposed to do? Leave your father decaying on his deathbed while this place festered and went bad? Did you know that the boy George kept under arrest with him never even dealt with the corpse—just left it lying out to rot. All that was left by the time I made the House open up was bones. I had the trouble of a burial and a headstone to deal with myself.”