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He put the ledgers in the billiard room and went down the hall into what had once been the family sitting room. The housemaids had started a fire there too, but it was still cold, and light had to force its way through the filthy windows that overlooked the square. The faded and peeling wallpaper was marked with darker squares where paintings had been removed, and the drop cloths over the furniture were furred with years of dust. Loud thuds continued to reverberate from the roof.

He crossed to the hearth to warm himself. The cold seemed to have got into his bones. Above the mantel was a murky little oil painting darkened by layers of old varnish. He leaned closer. It was clearly the work of some amateur painter, and showed a squat stone castle backed by a green hillside. Above the battlements fluttered a tiny pennant with a white dot in its center. The place could only be Castle March.

It had never crossed his mind that he would own a castle. But then, he’d rarely spared a thought for the haughty family that had cast off his widowed mother on that cold winter day. His stepfather, Sir Godfrey, had been an MP. West had aspired to a career in government. He’d even been called “promising”—until he’d thrown it all away by falling in love, and his excellent future prospects hadn’t impressed the young lady's aristocratic parents.

He coughed again and tried to clear his throat to stop the itch in it. This was no time succumb to a cold. There was work to do. Not only must he learn about the March estate, he must catch up on the latest political news. He would, of course, sit in the House of Lords. He was looking forward to that. As an undersecretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer he’d faced a long slow climb to any sort of consequence whatsoever. But as a duke, his speeches and views would carry weight.

He glanced at the invitations in his hand. Wait... what was this? A kind note from Lady Beaufort, welcoming him back to London and inviting him to an evening party? How had she learned of his arrival so quickly?

Lady Beaufort was an elderly society hostess who'd been a political ally of his stepfather. West was very fond of her. One of her witty updates on the political situation would be worth more than a hundred newspaper articles. He glanced at the invitation again. It was for this very evening.

In the dressing room off the duke's bedroom, Tompkins was pulling everything out of the cabinets and drawers. “Your grace. I have just discovered that they are gone.”

“‘They’?”

His valet's face was ashen. He lowered his voice. “They. The gloves. It must have been when the housemaids cleared all the cabinets and shelves.”

West took a deep breath and returned to the bedroom. “Mrs. Raines, I wonder if I might ask you about an item that was in my dressing room.”

She looked up, surprised. “An item, your grace?”

“Yes. A pair of gloves.”

“The previous duke’s clothing was infested with moths and mice, and has had to be thrown out. We have thoroughly cleaned the insides of the cabinets with camphor soap.”

“Very good. And, er... the items that were removed—where are they?”

“The papers were saved for kindling, your grace. The rags were taken downstairs for the dustman.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Raines.” He was already halfway to the stairs.

The lower floor of the house was in a state of pandemonium. Clanging noises from the kitchen suggested that pots and pans were being scoured. Clouds of sweet-smelling vapor from the adjacent laundry room signaled that household linens were being washed.

He stopped a passing footman. “The rubbish?”

The young man’s eyes went wide. “Y—your grace? The dustman’s cart is in the service yard.”

“Thank you.”

He hurried out into the frosty cobblestone yard, which was crowded with the glazier’s van, a cart full of the chimney sweep's oversized brushes, and a greengrocer’s delivery wagon. The heap of rubbish in the back of the dustman’s cart towered above its sides. The driver was already seated, preparing to leave. West circled, peering over the boards. He saw nothing but broken crockery, moth eaten carpets, sun rotted draperies and filthy rubbish. The driver, who hadn’t noticed him, clucked to his team. “Gee up!” The horses plodded forward at a walk. The overladen cart rolled ponderously away toward the mews.

They were gone. There was no logical reason for this hollow feeling in his chest. After all, it had been two years. He couldn't have kept her gloves forever.

He turned to face the house. Thick hemp ropes snaked down its rear wall, and high above, a trio of sweeps picked their way along the ridgeline of the roof, their brushes slung over their shoulders. Two of the four massive chimneys were already releasing shimmering columns of hot air into the cold sky.

With a sigh, he flexed his stiff shoulders and went back inside.

Chapter Two

Violetta struggled to throw open the door. At length, and with a loud shriek of protest, the rusted bolt moved a few scant inches. Her heart pounding, she gave a mighty wrench. The cold and crumbling metal stained her hands. It was almost the color of blood, she realized, with a shudder. But the door did not budge. She had not strength enough to move it!

And then, from behind her, came the fatal sound of water. Nearer and nearer, and nearer still! The nightmarish rush and gurgle of it rising through the dungeon, spilling across the slimy rocks of the floors and rising relentlessly up the dripping walls.

O! Alas! Alas that she had come to this fateful spot! Alas! To perish in such a way—without even a last glimpse of sunlight… the air forced from her lungs by the onslaught of inky water that even now reached the chamber in which she was trapped—and lapped against her silk slippers and the hem of her velvet robe.

Her hands beat frantically upon the unyielding timbers of the door. “Help!” she sobbed—although there was no one to hear her. “Help!”

It was too late. Even her waterlogged and bloated corpse would never be found.