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Sofas – 6

Assorted chairs – 11

Rugs – 7

Small tables – 22

Lamps – 19

Mirrors - 12

He would have to wait for Miss Ballard’s expert opinion on their potential value. In the meantime, he let damp fall air swirl into the desolate mansion. The only part of the house he couldn’t bring himself to touch—not yet, despite it being the area most likely to yield valuables—were the family apartments beyond the carved double doors. There, he had grown up. Studied with tutors. Witnessed quarrels between his mother and father until he turned eight, when his father had the duchess confined to an asylum against her will.

He knew, now, that his mother had never been out of her mind. Lady Lucan had been bold enough to defy her husband and she paid a steep price for it. Instead of the luxury a duchess should have expected, she spent years of her life locked away in a small room, enduring well-intended but often brutal treatments that took a toll on her health.

As a child, all Gareth knew was that his mother was gone, and he was at his father’s mercy. He learned to worship his sire as if the duke were a god. To displease the duke was to suffer. Therefore, Gareth had learned not to question anything. He had been taught discipline and arrogance in equal measure.

This is what a duke worth his salt does. He asserts his will. He does not apologize.

After five years of this being drummed into him, Gareth had been sent to Eton, where he had learned different lessons. Some of them had been harsh, especially during that first miserable year. The attitude his father had ingrained in him meant he was reviled by most of his classmates. Slowly, he had learned not to be such an arrogant little twat, that there was joy in rebellion, and companionship to be found by not being a prick to everyone around him.

Eventually, he had formed friendships with two of his fellow aristocratic outcasts, the Duke of Ravensgrave and the heir to the Duke of Thornvale. Gareth had them to thank for helping him unlearn the worst of his father’s teachings.

Without them, he never would have stood up for his foster sister. He would have grown up to be exactly like his sire—cruel, domineering, and depraved.

He heard her laugh now.

Gareth whipped his head around. “Marina?”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest. Probably just Miss Ballard, he told himself without believing it.

His footfalls were quiet on the ancient oriental carpet, but the floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Chills raced down his spine as the faint but unmistakable sound of a young woman’s laughter raced into the distance. He stepped into the hallway with a sense of foreboding.

A pale figure in a white nightdress with a blue sash and long brown hair darted through the dust motes clouding a shaft of sunlight from one of the antechambers. All the air rushed from his lungs.

“Marina!” he called out, but as quickly as he’d seen her, she was gone.

Running straight to those menacing carved oak doors that marked the boundary between the relatively public parts of Wolfhaven, and the private family quarters where so much pain and heartache had damned them all.

Ruined his life.

Marina’s.

His mother’s.

A surge of anger made him stride to those double doors and wrench them open. Cold air wafted out as if he had broken into the family mausoleum. Dank. Decaying.

Footsteps thudded on the dusty parquet floors. Heavy. Not unlike his own. Only, Gareth wasn’t moving. He stood frozen in place as they came closer. Faster. Quick, now, almost running.

He stood his ground.

A gust of cold wind blew past him. Chilling him to his very bones.

“Your Grace?” called out a distant feminine voice from behind him. The swish of a skirt alerted him to Evaine’s approach. “Gareth?”

She dared to touch his arm. The spell broke. He whirled on her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her back.

“You should leave,” he growled. “Now.”