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“That seems ill-advised.”
“Mr. Mason, your late father, was present in the house all the year round. I do not believe he kept a caretaker at all.”
“A former housekeeper or cook?” Nigel said.
Mr. Lester glanced at his hands. “You may find that no one wishes to revisit Ullinn House, now.”
“I assure you, Mr. Lester, that I am not my father,” said Charles.
“You misunderstand me.”
“If he was a cruel man, I do not wish for anyone to discomfort themselves.” Charles crossed his arms. He understood the possibility of a pernicious employer. Or one who might use their servants for sport. Lord Valencourt’s late brother provided him with a harsh primer on the matter. He’d had little choice: no one respectable wanted someone with his background or lack of qualifications for the position of valet.
If it was the street or work for a man who treated him as an animal, Charles decided he would brave the man.
“Your father, God rest him, was not a bad man,” said Mr. Lester.
“Then what is the trouble? Surely someone can allow me into the house.”
Selling it would be a difficult prospect, most likely. It was far from London, where everyone seemed to need or want to be, and still a journey from either Glasgow or Edinburgh.
“Ullinn House, Mr. Mason, is haunted.”
An unfortunate announcement. Charles was one of the few men he knew who gave any credence to such follies.
