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prosperous country squires, but after the aristocratic Davenports had taken charge of him, he had buried all memory of the Stantons.
    Strickland had been built in Tudor times, a sprawling two-story house with gables, mullioned bay windows, and bold octagonal chimneys. It faced south so that the sun fell across it all day long, while the back commanded a view of gardens, lake, and rolling countryside.
    The fact that the house was typical didn’t mean that it was not beautiful.
    The really shocking realization was how little had changed. The grounds were well kept, the house in good repair. Only a faint air of emptiness said that his parents or young brother and sister would not walk through the door and down the front steps.
    He shivered, his hand tightening so hard that his horse whickered and tossed its head. Forcing himself to relax, he dismounted and tethered the stallion at the bottom of the stairs. He went up lightly, two steps at a time, driven by an uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
    His hand paused for a moment over the heavy knocker, a brass ring in the mouth of a lion. He had admired it greatly as a child, longing for the day when he would be tall enough to reach it. He buried the memory and rapped sharply. When there was no quick response, he experimentally turned the knob. After all, he owned the place, didn’t he? He would begin as he intended to go on, and that was as master of Strickland.
    The knob turned under his hand, and the massive door swung inward, admitting him to a large entry hall with carved oak wainscoting. He passed through to the main drawing room, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He had anticipated many things, but not that there would be virtually no changes at all.
    Everything was neat, with only a slight suggestion of mustiness. The colors, the hangings, the furniture dimly visible under holland covers—all were unchanged. Faded certainly, and shabbier, but the very same pieces that had defined his world when he was a boy. Ghost memories of his parents sat at the blind-fretted mahogany card table, laughing over a game.
    He turned sharply away, stalking across the room to the passage beyond. Wasn’t anyone here? There had better be, or someone had better have a damned good explanation for why the front door was open.
    He circled around to the right, toward the morning room. There he found a plump woman removing covers from the furniture.
    She looked up in surprise as he entered, wiping her hands quickly on her apron and bobbing a curtsy. “Mr. Davenport! You gave me a start. You made good time. We only just heard the news, and there hasn’t been time to set everything to rights.”
    Reggie wondered how she knew he was coming, then decided it was logical for a new owner to inspect his property. “You have the advantage of me. You are ...?”
    She was in her forties, a rosy-cheeked country woman who was polite but hardly obsequious. “I’m Mrs. Herald. You wouldn’t remember, but I was a housemaid here when you were a lad. I was May Barlow then.” Looking him up and down, she added with approval, “You’ve grown tall, like your father.”
    His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the tenant farms was worked by a Herald.”
    â€œAye, I married Robbie Herald. We’re at Hill Farm.”
    â€œThe house is in excellent condition.” Reggie spoke absently as his eyes scanned the morning room. The proportions were pleasant, and there were large mullioned windows on two walls. His mother had always particularly liked it here.
    â€œAye. It was leased to a retired naval captain for a good few years. He maintained the place well enough, but never bothered making changes. It’s been vacant since about the time the old earl died. I’ve kept an eye on things, watching for leaks and dry rot so the estate carpenters could make repairs as it was needful.”
    â€œYou’ve done a