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bitter irony. “Sinking into the swamp.” His stare wandered across the lifeless marsh, the stubbled grasses, grayed and stiff with frost. He cast Ben a cynical half-smile. “They say it’s haunted, have you heard? And cursed.”
    His friend stared earnestly at him. “I wish you would not do this, Dev. You can still walk away.”
    â€œNo, I can’t.” His wry smile faded, the cold hatred darkening his eyes once more, like a cloud shadow moving across the face of a sun-swept hill. “I pay my debts.”
    â€œEven in blood? Even if it costs you your life?”
    â€œWhat life?” he whispered.
    He walked back to rejoin the others, leaving his loyal valet staring after him in distress. As Dev strolled back into the gaudy ballroom, Charles turned to him brightly.
    â€œAh, there you are, sir!” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Mr. Dalloway has agreed to a new price of thirteen hundred pounds. If this is acceptable to Your Lordship, the deal is done.”
    â€œYou think it fair?”
    He nodded. “It is reasonable.”
    â€œWell done, Charles.” He snapped his fingers. “Cheque.”
    Immediately, the other footman stepped forth bearing a portable desktop, which he held for him. Dev opened the hinged top and pulled out his draftbook. Dipping his quillpen into the tiny inkbottle, he scratched out the promissory note, chuckling darkly to himself.
Cursed. Haunted. How very apropos.
“See that the place is properly insured before work begins on it, Charles.” He handed Dalloway the cheque. “We’ll need a reliable contractor to coordinate the repairs. Carpenters, roofers, painters, plasterers.”
    â€œYou need the rat-catcher first,” Ben muttered, walking in with a disgusted glance at the ballroom while Charles blanched at the expenditures.
    â€œRight. Summon the exterminator to rid the place of pests. As always, thank you for your time, Charles. Mr. Dalloway, you’ve been most helpful. Darling.” He beckoned impatiently to the woman and then stalked out, his entourage falling into ranks.
    Behind them, Dalloway silently danced a jig over the rotting floorboards.
    Upon walking back out into the cold, Dev heard the cadence of galloping hoofbeats and looked over to find someone riding hard up the drive.
    â€œWhat an ugly horse,” Ben remarked, also watching the rider.
    â€œFast, though. Good, long stride,” Dev murmured. “Are we expecting someone?”
    â€œNo, my lord,” Charles offered, “I believe it is an herald.”
    And indeed, as the rider came closer, they could see the cockade in his hat and the uniform that marked him as an express messenger. Dev helped the blonde into the coach, and a moment later, the rider reined in nearby, his horse’s hooves kicking up a clattery spray of gravel.
    â€œLord Strathmore?” he called out.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œExpress for you, sir!” The messenger held out the letter.
    â€œThank you.” He quickly took the letter before the ink ran and nodded to Ben to pay the messenger for the delivery. bath , read the outer fold of the envelope.
    Aunt Augusta?
    A twinge of guilt stabbed him. He knew he owed the old girl a visit. More than that, he wanted to see her. The dragon had been like a mother to him. She had even saved his life back when he was twenty-one, half-mad with grief, and destroying himself with the bottle. She had bought him a ship, put him on it, and sent him off to see the world in the care of their gruff Scots gamekeeper, Duncan MacTavish. Hang it, he missed the old girl, he thought as he broke the wax seal, but each time he thought of going to see her, everything in him shied away again like a spooked horse refusing a jump.
    He couldn’t help it. The love in him was so tied up with loss and pain that he could scarce separate one from the other, and so tended to avoid the whole situation.
Like a coward,
his