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Chapter One
December 1816
A village near the Black Isle
“Believe me, Ishare your confusion, Mr. Lester,” Charles Mason was often called a tactful man.
At the moment, drenched in rain, he was sure that he just seemed desperate.
His younger half-brother scoffed at his side, equally wet and cold. “Mr. Lester, surely you know someone who has a spare key?” Nigel was impatient. Always had been. He never meant to be off-putting, but hopefully Mr. Lester would not take it personally.
“The house has stood alone for months. No one goes there, now, Mr. Mason,” said Mr. Lester. Then he looked at Nigel, offering a smile. “And Mr. Maclean.”
“We just need to gain access,” said Charles. It was obvious that no one had been there for some time, from the patina on the outer walls to the overgrown garden.
Mr. Lester winced. “Has not Mr. Long provided you with a set of keys?”
The widowed innkeeper knew the reason for Charles and Nigel’s errand, namely, viewing a house left to Charles by Charles’ late father. They’d stopped at the inn for directions upon arriving in the village from Inverness. Mr. Long had been Charles’ father’s man of business, and he had a distant approach to the whole affair.
Mr. Lester was ready to point them in the direction of Ullinn House. His business seemed to be unraveling due to the loss of local industry. But it was a clean inn, and he was personable if easily harried.
“None work on the gate. Its lock is rusted.” Charles did not divulge that if he needed to, he could easily pick locks or climb the fence. Neither of those things was especially evocative of trustworthiness. If he’d wanted to climb the high fence, he should have done it before returning to the inn for further questions. Nigel, at least, would not have told anyone he’d done it, just like he was not going to breathe a word about Charles’ lock-picking.
They were close even though Charles was older. Their mother had married Nigel’s father when Charles was three, and Nigel came one year later.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Lester.
All Charles wished to do was rest. Had an angel told him he should plan on traveling north before the year’s end, he would not have believed it. Scotland held little joy for him.
He was surprised when, one morning three weeks ago, a messenger arrived at the door of his employer’s townhouse with a letter. Mason did not regularly correspond with anyone except for Nigel, who was not the most consistent letter writer. Even their mother did not write much.
When the letter turned out to be for him, he read its contents and almost cast it into the nearest fire. His blood father was dead.
There was a house and a little money. It had been left to him.
They—Mr. Long and a solicitor—had some trouble locating the younger Mr. Mason, so the property had been vacant for four months. That was not unexpected. His history of work was varied enough. While he did not use an assumed name now, he knew he might be elusive.
His present employer, the Duke of Welburn, encouraged him to see what the house was like, at least. Lord Valencourt believed that if Mason wished to sell the property, he would want to know its state and contents firsthand. Both Lord and Lady Valencourt maintained that he might find himself swindled if he did not.
It was better, they said, to take care of it himself. Scottish politics were complex enough as it was, Lady Valencourt had pointed out, and Mason was fortunate that his father’s property had not been seized to cover old debts.
He did not explain the nature of his connection with his father. That there was none at all save a name. He knew little of Mr. Roderick Mason.
Hedidtry to say he wanted nothing to do with this Ullinn House.
They still declared he should go. So he went. Normally thankful for his employer’s unusual frame of mind, he did not appreciate it in this instance.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Lester. He tilted his head. “Forgive me, but as you own it, perhaps you could simply break the lock?”
Nigel shifted a laugh into a cough.
Charles took a breath. It was warm in Mr. Lester’s establishment and he would have the chance of a cooked meal. But now that he had made the journey, it seemed ridiculous to put off its purpose. He was there for a reason. It had little to do with relaxation.
All he needed to do was enter and assess the property. He had assumed—perhaps wrongly—that it would be possible to stay in the house.
“Does Ullinn House not have a caretaker?” Charles struggled not to rub his nose on his shirtsleeve. The cold made his nose run. Water rolled from his hat to his forehead, cheeks, and nose. December was bitter.
“It does not.”
