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as the income shrank, more neglect followed.
    The old mansion, blended with the remnants of the castle that had preceded it, showed signs of abandonment. Several missing windowpanes had been covered with wooden boards, rather than filled with expensive glass. Trees and shrubs were overgrown. The courtyard had been hastily cleared of saplings and weeds to make it accessible for the brief visit of the uncaring previous owner.
    Percy harbored no illusions about the condition of the interior, or even its resemblance to his childhood memories.
    He left his horse in the usual place and climbed over the ruined wall in the usual spot. Tonight, he could have come through the main gate and the front entrance to the house. But he preferred to let himself in through the hunting parlor, to be there alone with his thoughts.
    Percy fumbled in his pocket for a key, then carefully unlocked the door. To his relief, it opened with ease. He closed the door quietly and slipped the key back into his pocket, from which he retrieved a tinderbox and candle.
    In the dim light, the hall seemed almost the same as he remembered it, with the exception of the empty wall under the Gothic arch where stuffed deer heads had hung. They had always frightened him and given him a lifelong distaste for hunting. He wouldn’t miss the old taxidermy, but it was probably a sad omen of what he could expect elsewhere in the house.
    Indeed, the main hall above the parlor, though prepared for Stanville’s visit, was chilling in its emptiness. The pier tables still hosted flower arrangements, but the ornate looking glasses, once above the tables, had been removed. The paintings were gone too. So were the marble busts of ancient poets, on the landing, brought from the grand tour by his grandfather.
    To his left was his father’s study. He pushed the door open. The room was completely empty; even the fireplace mantel had been removed. A surge of outrage washed over him.
    The door connecting the study to the library stood ajar. What little remained of the collection was piled haphazardly on bottom shelves. A disemboweled sofa, serving as a support for a now-tri-legged table, stood in the center of the room.
    A glance into the drawing room confirmed the same sad state of affairs. In the dining room, a breakfast table and two chairs—an attempt to provide Stanville with a dining space—were dwarfed by the size of the room and its fireplaces.
    All that remained from the splendid old chandeliers that had hung in the great hall of the old castle were the hooks in the beams below the ceiling.
    Stanville had emptied the house thoroughly. How many of these things graced his other homes? How many had gone to Christie’s auction rooms to supplement his purse already bursting with income from the sugar plantations? Oh yes, on that too Stanville had capitalized to the maximum. All of London knew that most of his household staff were slaves he’d brought with him after each visit there.
    Percy straightened his shoulders. He would not succumb to dejection, despite the weighty sadness of an irretrievable loss. His old home, though terribly neglected, was nevertheless his again.
    He was about to make his way upstairs when the light on the landing became suddenly brighter.
    An old but sharp voice he immediately recognized cut through the silence of the building, “Who’s there? Don’t you dare touch anything, thief! Others are coming.”
    “Good evening, Perkins.” Percy turned toward the lantern and smiled.
    There was a moment of silence, and then, “Oh heaven be praised! Is this really you, sir? Mary and I prayed for years to see this moment. Oh, God is merciful.”
    The lantern swayed to the floor. Behind it, the old footman bowed and sniffed.
    “I am glad to be back too, Perkins.”
    “Shall I bring you some refreshment, sir?” Perkins asked. “Mary already prepared something to welcome you tomorrow.”
    “No need, thank you. Let Mrs. Perkins sleep without interruption.