CHAPTER ONE
Northcliffe Hall
Home of Douglas and Alexandra Sherbrooke, Earl and Countess of Northcliffe
Near Eastbourne, England
October 1841, near midnight
The first time Grayson Sherbrooke saw the huge black stallion, he was on his knees looking down at a flirtatious goldfish in the ornamental pond in the western Northcliffe gardens. It was near to midnight. Grayson hadn’t been able to sleep and had decided a walk was just the thing to tire him out and slow down his brain, which was always busy teasing out another Thomas Straithmore story. As for Thomas’s most recent otherworldly adventure, The Ancient Spirits of Sedgwick House, it was going on sale in the new year.
Grayson breathed in deeply. The night was cool, the air still, the moon nearly full, lighting up the gardens, so he’d pinched out his candle and left it just inside the side door of Northcliffe Hall. A clear, perfect night was an amazing occurrence, a special treat for an Englishman.
Grayson looked beyond the gardens to the home wood—filled with maples and oaks and deer and foxes and who knew what else. He’d spent many hours in the home wood as a boy, visiting his cousins, and he knew it stretched to the narrow, rutted country road that meandered through small hamlets to the larger fishing village of Eastbourne on the southern coast. The massive white limestone cliffs drew visitors from all around, even Frenchies, which made the locals snort in their ale.
A black stallion suddenly burst from the wood and pranced to the pond. Grayson held himself still and watched the magnificent animal gracefully lower his head. Grayson didn’t think he made a sound, but suddenly the stallion’s head whipped up and he stared directly at Grayson. Time seemed to freeze. Neither moved. He was wearing an ornamental silver bridle, a red stone set at the forehead. Then the stallion nickered softly. Grayson said, “Who are you, boy? You’re beautiful, you know that? Where is your rider?” The stallion snorted and reared up, his hooves flailing the air. He gave Grayson another long look, tossed his head, and galloped back into the trees.
Grayson got slowly to his feet. He didn’t wonder who the stallion belonged to, didn’t even wonder why he was drinking in the Sherbrooke ornamental pond at midnight. No, what he wondered was why the stallion had looked at him with intelligence—and recognition—and why he wore a beautiful silver bridle that looked to be very old. He’d greeted him too, hadn’t he? Again, he wondered how such an animal could have come to him. Grayson shook his head—his writer’s brain was working overtime. A horse was just a horse. He rose and dusted off his breeches and walked back to the hall, turning to look every couple of steps toward the home wood, but there was no sign of the magnificent black stallion.
He didn’t detour to the walled-in eastern garden with all the naked marble statues of men and women in various sexual positions (brought from Italy by a long-ago earl), but he would visit before the end of his stay. He imagined his five-year-old son, Pip, staring up at the naked statues, mesmerized, eager, asking questions that would leave him blank-brained, and shuddered. Thankfully, none of the children were old enough to sneak into the garden and gawk and giggle and point. Give them another four, five years.
He picked up the candle he’d left in the small entranceway, touched a lucifer to the wick, and made his way back up the massive front staircase to the western wing to his bedchamber, designated as his for years now. He found himself walking past his chamber to the nursery. He quietly opened the door and looked in. Moonlight flowed through the three large windows, bathing the long rectangular room in soft light. It didn’t look much different than it had when he’d been a boy—scores of maps, mostly old, but some newer ones as well, and oil paintings of horses covered the walls. He saw Napoleon’s troops on a shelf, the soldiers, horses, and the cannons in disarray, obviously defeated. Wellington’s army sat in splendid formations on the shelf above, soldiers on horseback, the cannons at their backs. Thankfully there’d been no wars since the last battle between Wellington and Napoleon at Waterloo that long-ago June of 1815. But revolution was in the air in Europe, and that meant violence was coming. Would England be involved? He prayed not. He glanced at the other shelves filled with bows and arrows, several wooden foils, and ancient, thankfully unloaded, dueling pistols. A rocking horse set on three wheels stood in a corner. It was a little boys’ nursery, nary a doll or a ruffle to be seen.
There were four doors off the main room, each opening into a small bedchamber. He walked to Pip’s door, quietly opened it, and cupped the candle flame with his hand so not to awaken him. Pip lay on his back on the small bed, his arms over his head, needful, he’d told his father, to protect him from fire-breathing dragons that came at night. A fine solution, Grayson had said. He looked down at this precious being, always marveling, then he quietly left his room to check on Barnaby. Barnaby’s hands were crossed over his chest, making him look quite dead. Where had that pose come from?
Grayson looked in on P.C. too. She was smiling in her sleep. Dreaming about Barnaby? Would he be her stepfather perhaps this year? Next year? One of her hands was closed around a small wooden pistol her grandfather, known as the Great, had given her for her last birthday. If the young Sherbrooke twins, Douglas and Everett, were here—instead of being in London with their parents, James and Corrie—he knew they wouldn’t dare torment her. She’d show no mercy and clout them without hesitation. P.C. looked more like her mother, beautiful Miranda, every day, her hair the same rich honey color, her eyes as blue as a Sherbrooke’s. He didn’t doubt she’d break hearts when she grew up, and wasn’t that a thought. Time, he was realizing, kept moving forward, sweeping away youth, making a father into a grandfather at breakneck speed. He thought of the earl, his uncle Douglas, still tall, straight, hair thick and white as snow. Grayson couldn’t imagine him ever leaving this earth. Had he stood in the nursery years ago just as Grayson was doing, watching his own sons, Jason and James, sleeping?
When Grayson finally fell asleep, he dreamed the magnificent black stallion was standing silent, watching him. With recognition, wearing that ancient silver bridle. What was that red stone? He wasn’t surprised in his dream when the stallion walked to him, nodded, blew into his hand, and Grayson swung himself up on his back. He rode the stallion until he awoke with a start as the stallion jumped an impossibly high fence. He realized his heart was beating fast with excitement. He felt quite well rested—wonderful, in fact. He also realized he missed Miranda and wished she hadn’t had to remain at Wolffe Hall to tend her sick mother-in-law. At least he’d brought P.C. and Barnaby with him, a treat for the children as well as for him since their antics never ceased to amaze and amuse him.
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning
Grayson’s aunt Alex, the Countess of Northcliffe, smiled at him across the breakfast table the next morning. The sun pouring in through the long window made her red hair gleam like the most brilliant ruby, and any white hairs were discreetly tucked under the vivid red. She whispered as she handed him the muffin basket, “Cook made nutty buns to welcome you, Grayson. Your uncle Douglas will be back from the stables any minute, and he will try to nab them. Quickly, take two. Hide one under your napkin. Hurry.” Alex took her own advice and grabbed two nutty buns out of the basket, hid one and bit into the other, and chewed. She looked ready to fall unconscious with pleasure. After one bite, Grayson was in a near swoon himself.