Chapter 4

He was cursed. There was no other explanation for it. Bastian Weymouth glared at the expensive toilet in his bathroom. Arms crossed over his chest, he shot a glance at the portly plumber who quivered in the doorway.

"What has you so agitated? I see nothing wrong." Bastian studied the room again, searching for signs of the disaster that the plumber insisted had taken place just a few minutes before he'd run to find Bastian.

The plumber gulped and took a deep breath. "The toilet was in place, and I was just tightening the pipes when the water exploded out of the bowl. It flooded the whole room!" The plumber waved his wrench about.

Bastian's displeasure deepened. The room wasn't wet. There wasn't one drop of water outside the bowl to confirm the plumber's story.

"I swear on my life, my lord! Water up to my ankles." The plumber jabbed at his pants where it showed the fabric soaked clear through up to his calves.

Yet the entire room was completely dry, and the plumber had only fetched him a moment ago to explain the flooding. Flooding, which by all appearances, hadn't ever occurred.

It was just one more irritation in a long line of complications that had occurred during the renovations, which began when he'd moved back to Weymouth and Stormclyffe seven months ago, after his family's fifty-year absence. Roofs leaking in newly patched areas, windowpanes shattering just hours after being installed, birds finding their way inside and dying when they broke their necks against the walls trying to escape. There were even workers talking about seeing a woman in a white dress along the cliffs. He'd never seen anything like that here. It was utter nonsense, but the list went on from there, each thing more frustrating than the last. All of it worsened the superstitions of the locals, especially the ones he had hired to repair everything. If he could just get the repairs completed, all of the superstitious nonsense would have to stop. The mutterings of "cursed" as he walked past local shops in the town would have to stop, too. He was tired of the black label his family bore in Weymouth because of the tragedies in their ancestral past. Restoring Stormclyffe, fixing it was the key. Something deep inside him compelled him to save the Hall. It was an almost tangible need to see the broken glass panes of the windows mended, the rooms dusted, and the broken stones replaced. Maybe returning the Hall to its former glory would make it look less like a tourist attraction for ghost hunters, and would make the townspeople stop spreading tales about it. Then he might have a chance at a somewhat normal life, rather than be the target of village gossip.

His grandmother had been convinced that if he could fix Stormclyffe, there would be no more problems, no more tragedies, no more lost loved ones, like his father.

"It is fine, Mr. Tibbs. I'll compensate you for your services. I trust you'll stay here to see to the remaining water closets?"

"Thank you, my lord, but I have to say I don't feel comfortable staying here after dusk." The portly man shifted on his feet, eyes darting around the lavish bathroom. "I'll return first thing in the morning."

Bastian didn't blame him. It was obvious Tibbs was a superstitious sort, and given the bloody history of Stormclyffewell, that wasn't a surprise. Bastian's newly married grandparents had fled the castle in 1962 after an upstairs maid was found hanging from the rafters of the great hall. And they hadn't been the first to leave over the Hall's last two centuries.

The authorities hadn't been able to figure out how the girl had gotten out to the center beam to hang herself; there was no way it could be reached without an impossibly tall ladder. Yet the maid had been discovered swinging all the same. Nessy Harper, the victim, had been a local girl, and his family's reputation with the nearby town had been blackened. The coroner's report had read suicide, but there had been talk about his grandfather driving Nessy to it in some sort of doomed love affair. Bastian knew it was nonsense, but it didn't make the sting to his family's honor and pride any less significant.

Bastian's grandmother, who'd spent her last days in their London town house, had died murmuring about Nessy. He grimaced at the memory of her last moments when he'd been alone with her.

"Beware the shadows Bastianthey hold evil. Stay away from the castle. Poor sweet Nessy, milk-white eyesshe was so scared Touch not the heart of evil What once was broken must be mended." The frail old woman exhaled her last breath, and six-year-old Bastian had screamed in terror at being left alone with a dead woman. Her words had never made sense, but he'd always wondered if she'd meant that the castle shouldn't lay empty and crumbling. His grandparents had been the last heirs to live in the castle after all, and the guilt of leaving it behind might have weighed upon her in her final hours. Many people suffered from delusions and superstitions in their twilight years.

"Tibbs, I'll pay triple your price if you get this toilet up and running before sunset."

The plumber's eyes bugged out in surprise. He nodded and rushed off to collect more tools.

Bastian left the water closet and headed back downstairs, ignoring the chaos of repair people and staff he'd hired to help with the upkeep of the castle.

"My lord," his butler, Randolph, announced. "The stone mason has finished repairing his work on the bell tower, but he said to advise you that if you wish to have the bell working properly you'll need to replace the clappers since all of the bells are missing them."

"Fine. I'll add it to the list of things I need to fix."

When Bastian turned to leave, his butler coughed politely. "One more thing, my lord. You have a visitor. I put her in the red drawing room."

Bastian cocked an eyebrow and scowled. "A visitor?" That was the last thing he needed.

Randolph swallowed, his eyes shifting away. "Er, yes. She said she is here to do research on the house, and you invited her in a letter. She's American."

American? For a second he couldn't imagine who Randolph was talking about. When the butler handed him the letter in question, obviously taken from the visitor, he studied it.

"ErYes. I remember." He scanned the note he'd hastily written several months ago. It all came back, the numerous e-mails and phone calls from the American woman named Jane Seyton. He'd asked her to wait until renovations were complete before she visited, yet here she was, showing up in the middle of numerous disasters. He'd made it abundantly clear she wasn't allowed any access to his family's archives. Apparently Americans didn't understand blunt honesty. No surprise. He crumpled the letter in his fist, failing to quell the sudden frustration.

As if superstitious workmen weren't enough to cause him trouble, having the American here would prove to be one more irritation. She would have to be supervised to make sure she didn't pry into his family's documents and that nothing was taken intentionally from the house.

Randolph cleared his throat. "Will she be staying here, my lord? I can have a room prepared immediately."

Stay here? Surely he couldn't let the woman stay in the castle. Bastian was about to declare as much when something out of the corner of his eye flickered. A shadow at the edge of his vision seemed to be creeping along the wall toward him. He turned and focused in the direction he'd glimpsed it, but all signs of the shadow were gone.

I'm seeing things, too, blast it! These workmen are driving me to madness as well. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"My lord?" Randolph prompted, which made Bastian realize he must have been silent for several moments. The shadows had him on edge. Perhaps it would be nice to have a bit of company, if only she wasn't a bloody American. Given the rumors of ghosts and other such childish stories, most of the staff at Stormclyffe refused to stay overnight. Only Randolph and a few of the loyal staff from London remained after dark.

"I shall meet with her. She will not be staying here."

Jane Seyton was sure to be like every other historian he'd met and probably as stubborn as one of the Queen's corgis with a bone. Given half the chance, she'd run off to the nearest garden and bury his secrets where only she could find them. He didn't like anyone having that power over him.

Well, he did have a way with women. If she proved too troublesome in getting her to leave, he'd simply seduce her. There wasn't a woman born yet that would say no to an invitation to dinner if the Earl of Weymouth asked her. No doubt she was a lonely little bookworm, probably wearing spectacles and never been kissed. The idea was almost charming. He smirked as he headed toward the drawing room. If he wanted her gone by nightfall, she'd be gone and all it would cost him was dinner.

When he reached the drawing room and laid a palm on the heavy oak door, it swung open revealing the rich red- and gold-papered walls and dust covered furniture. He hadn't had the chance to visit every room in the castle in the last seven months, since he'd been here sparingly, and he had definitely not been into this one. Randolph had been overseeing the cleanup of the rooms upon Bastian's instructions and given the number of rooms, many had yet to be opened.

Personally, he had been avoiding this room because it was the only room in the castle where a portrait of Isabelle hung. His grandmother had said looking upon Isabelle's face was bad luck, and since Stormclyffe had been abandoned for longer than he'd been alive, he'd never had the chance to find out himself if it was true. But now, seeing his ancestor for the first timehe was arrested at the sight.