Down and over the ragged rocks, close to the narrow stretch of beach that lay beyond the huge boulders that jutted skyward, crouched a broad-shouldered man whose black cape whipped backward in the force of the strong sea wind.

The Viscount of Montlaine bent in upon one knee, an elbow resting there. His other arm was relaxed at his side as he surveyed his surroundings, ready to dart for cover should anyone other than the man he was waiting for approach.

He looked down into the small pool of water that had collected in a hollow of sand and saw his face looking back at him. His eyes were so black. This made him smile ruefully as he noted their color and his sharp brows did indeed, at that moment, appear satanic.

How the bloody hell had he found himself in such a situation?

That was the question of the hour, of the day, of the week since his actions or inactions brought him to this point.

He grimaced and stood up. Much of it was his own fault. He had been careless and wayward. Perhaps he had been hard-hearted. He had been selfish and blind, even to those closest to him.

Had it been the war? Had it changed him so much?

Had he the chance to change the past, would he? By God, he would!

Everyone thought him dead, but he couldn’t stay that way. He would have to find a way of clearing his name.

He stared at the yellow wildflowers that decorated the rocky hill at his back. What had he missed? Where had he gone wrong? When had the rumors of witchcraft begun and why had he not been alert enough?

Because, he answered himself, you were too busy drinking and whoring! Because you were riveted in the notion that life was meaningless, and that all the lives lost in the war solved nothing. You were disillusioned and full of self-loathing.

As you are still, said that nagging voice.

* * *

“Ho there, Willard,” a thunderous voice touched with raillery called to the grizzled elderly man within the small confines of the gatekeeper’s cottage. “Ho there, I say. Come on, ye old dog, open up for Montlaine!”

Willard set down his pot of hot water with a grumbling string of unintelligible words. Here now was the end of his fine day. He had just opened the gate for Lady Vanessa and her crew, but he remembered Lady Vanessa and her brother and liked them very well. Their parents always had a coin for him, and their children had been most generous in the same way when they greeted him. Aye, he liked them. The Echworths were a very different story.

Besides that, he had just been about to settle down for his lunch and a hot toddy.

He stuck his head out the door and saw the large black coach with the gold leafing and a coat of arms depicting the House of Montlaine. He grumbled to himself, for he disliked that the Echworths were already taking over Montlaine and all its belongings. Why, the poor viscount wasn’t even cold in his grave…as to that, there wasn’t even a grave!

“Well, be ye coming, whiskers?” the driver atop the coach called to him.

Willard allowed the driver a grimace. “Hold yer horses, ye resty ole man. Can’t ye see I’m coming?”

He swung the gate wide and stood aside to watch as the driver urged his pair of bays forward.

The driver slowed as he passed the gatekeeper and winked. “I’ll be down in a brace o’ snaps and we’ll have a cup, eh?”

Willard relented, “Aye then, but what news of Montlaine?” He was a Penrod man, had been for most of his fifty odd years. Penrod and Montlaine went back in time for longer than he remembered, and he was staunchly loyal to tradition.

“Sad to say, no news, old friend. Looks like his lordship has gone to his maker this time, looks like…” the driver mused on a grim note.

“Bad times these,” noted Willard with a shake of his head.

“Driver!” a woman’s voice within the coach called shrilly, rapping at the ceiling of the coach with a cane for emphasis. “What are you waiting for? Move on, move on.”

“Aye, Mrs. Echworth,” the driver said as he urged his horses forward and the Montlaine coach lumbered onto Penrod land.

* * *

Within the carriage, Mrs. Echworth regarded her traveling companions quietly. She had goals and no one was going to interfere with those goals.

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded her daughter. Sheila was nearing her twenty-first year, and had failed to ensnare a worthwhile prize. It was a great disappointment, but then the girl had not had the advantage of a fortune until now. Sheila, however, was being petulant and uncooperative. She simply had to make her understand that this was virtually her last chance. They needed the Montlaine money so she could give her daughter all the advantages that money could procure.

“Sheila, darling, may I remind you that we are very much concerned about our cousin, Mary. She has been missing since that terrible night, and I have reason to believe that Lady Penrod might know where she is.”

“Why should I care about Mary?” Sheila pouted and looked out the window. “I can’t wait until all this business is done and we can return to London.”

“Look there at the lovely lawns, the magical flower beds, the elegant gazebo, and the Tower itself. Sheila, Lady Penrod could help us get invitations from…”

“Oh, I doubt that she would be moved to do so,” the gentleman sitting across from them in the carriage interrupted her with a sneer.

Mrs. Echworth regarded him, one brow up. “I know you have a high regard for yourself, my son, and you do, indeed, dress in a manner that does us credit…”

“That Brummell himself would applaud my fashion,” her son interrupted again.

“Yes, well, Orson, though you dress well and your à la Brutus yellow waves might make the ladies swoon, you have not yet procured a wealthy bride, have you? And you could have had that Belchamp chit!”

“Indeed, you are correct, though even you would not have wished that dour little Belchamp girl on me!” he said with a shake of his head. “Besides, I am not in the petticoat line and doubt that I shall ever wed.”

“Why not? With Belchamp’s dowry alone, we could have all been comfortable for life. Once married, son, you can go your own way,” his mother said, and turned to stare out the window. She was heartily sick of their moderate income. They had the name, and the breeding, but her husband, who had been a second son, had gambled away his trust fund and then had died in a drunken stupor. What was she to do?

“Well, as much as we have every reason to wish Mary with her brother, Mother, I fear the girl is safely tucked within the walls of Penrod, protected by her godmother. There is little we can do,” Orson said on a heavy sigh.

“Stop such talk, Orson. We have no reason to wish Mary ill,” his mother admonished severely. She smoothed the dark grey mourning gown she wore and avoided her son’s eye.

“Don’t we, though?” Orson stuck in as he leaned forward and caught his mother’s attention. “May I remind you that it is my older brother who shall inherit Montlaine itself, along with the title, but still will share a good deal of the income with our cousin, Mary!”

His mother did not respond to this as they had arrived at the great doors of Penrod Tower. The footmen were already hurrying forward to open the door of the coach.

“What does it all matter?” Sheila stuck in before the door was opened wide. “There is a waiting period before our brother can claim his inheritance. They haven’t found a body and as to Mary, she is missing. Perhaps she will stay that way!”

Mother and son exchanged a look and the women were helped to the ground by the footman extending his arm.

* * *

Epps, Montlaine’s man, waited for the Montlaine coach to round the bend of the long, winding drive that led away from Montlaine Castle.

Beneath his breath he cursed the Echworth family, then, unable to stop himself, he grumbled out loud, “Vultures, the lot of ‘em.”

In the crook of his arm, a bundle rested as he scurried over the rough-hewn land toward the moors heading for Bodmin Heights.

He knew the moors better than most, he did, and was proud of the fact. He smiled to himself as he remembered how he had shared his secrets with Bret of Montlaine when the lad was still in short-coats.

He knew the Echworths were headed for Penrod, so he had plenty of time, and he raised his eyes heavenward and asked that the Lord sanctify his mission. He was a wiry man and moved easily through the low brush and yellow wildflowers. Heather was beginning to give off its intoxicating scent and he thought how he loved the land with its wild terrain.

No one came to these moors. They were superstitious in Cornwall, and this particular stretch of moors was associated with lewd tales of witchcraft. More so now, since the night Montlaine lost his life.

Rumor had it that Montlaine’s soul had found the demon horse, Midnight, and they rode the moors of Bodmin seeking revenge. Rumor, he grinned to himself, started by no other than himself.

Montlaine turned sharply at the sound of pebbles shifting over the craggy slope. A slow, sincere smile spread across his lean face. “Epps, my man, where the deuce have you been?” His tone belied his growing frustration, but his man, he could see, was not fooled.

Epps gave him a quick once-over and grunted. “Ye aren’t faring well. No doubt being cooped up all day, every day, does not sit well.”

“At least I get to travel about at night, not that it has done me much good,” the viscount answered on a heavy sigh.

“Dinna ye think on that which won’t help,” Epps said. “I’m that sorry I couldn’t get to ye sooner, but those devils had their eye on me.” He shoved the bundle under his arm forward and waited for the viscount to take a quick look inside before he said, “Thought ye might need these, seeing as ye can’t be doing laundry here.”

“Thank you, Epps…ah, now how did you get all this cheese and meat out of the kitchen without Cook being aware?”

Epps grinned. “I dinna tell her a thing, but Cook is a savvy one, she is. Watched m’comings and goings and figured it out. Told me I best take good care of ye or she would box m’ears.”

The viscount laughed out loud and then shook his head. “Midnight is low on grain, and that last wagon of hay is nearly done.”

“I thought as much. I’ve got another wagon full. I’ll pick up another load from the field and some will just fall off m’cart without me noticing, if anyone chooses to ask.”

“Let it fall off on the moors, I’ll manage it from there.” He stared off into space for a moment and added, “’Tis about time I came out of hiding and attended to my affairs in proper fashion.”

“No, m’lord. Ye canna do that. Why, ye’d be hanging yerself and the proud Montlaine name,” Epps cried. “I’ve set about looking for the villain that killed that poor girl and I’ll find him, I will. Then ye’ll make yerself known and take over m’investigation.”

“Epps, it is no good…me staying here like this.” By now, the two had reached the wide opening of the cave the viscount had been calling home. To one side of the cave was a makeshift stall where Midnight now pawed the ground, anxious for a run. To the other, blankets had been piled up as a bed, along with various eating utensils.

“What about that friend of yers, Mr. Parks? Has he naught come up with anything yet?” Epps asked anxiously.

“Parks has been doing all that he can, especially as he is also trying to stall the legal transfer of my estate to my heirs.”

“Whot he should be doing is talking to poor Melony’s friends…that’s whot. Aye, jest whot I been doing meself.”

“Have you, Epps? And what have you discovered?”

“The wench was wit child, which we all knew already. No doubt, her killer is also the father of her baby. I’ve been trying to find out who she was seeing. Fact is, begging yer pardon, m’lord, ye weren’t the light in her eyes. She had a lover all right and it weren’t ye.”

“Well, well, so she was the one playing fast and loose with me, was she?” The viscount would have laughed had the poor girl not lost her life. “Any guess who her lover had been?”

Epps shook his head. “Don’t, that is the sorry state of it. No one seems to know, though she used to meet him at night. More than one person saw her skulking about in town and had a thought or two about what she was up to. Her mother knew as well that she was sneaking out of her room and pretending she was asleep in her bed.” He shook his head. “Her mother always thought it was you, especially when she found yer piece of glitter in her hand that awful night…” his voice trailed off.

“And, of course, the entire town saw me often enough flirting with the poor girl in the light of day. But, Epps, I don’t know what it is, but it is more than what it seems.”

“Aye, but what are you saying?”

“I am saying, Epps, that I know that more than one girl was leaving her cottage at night, dressed in those odd hooded garments they found her wearing.”

Epps nodded. “Aye, there is a strange truth. And what of our neighboring tenants having problems with their cattle? Our tenants’ herds never seemed affected by the strange illnesses that befell those others. Made people take notice of ye and wonder. And those wenches…daughters of neighboring tenants none of yer own.” Epps studied him. “Ye are as handsome a buck as ever there was one, but ye do have those eyebrows and then coming from the war with not a scratch. Well, superstitious folk will go on about sech things.”

The viscount grinned broadly. “You had better get back before you are missed up at the house. In the future, Epps, I think we should limit our visits to the tunnel, as we have in the past.”

“Aye, but I won’t be missed. It’s why I was late getting here. The Echworths are up at Penrod, looking for information on Miss Mary.”

“Are they, by God!” the viscount thundered, and stood straight and to his full six foot plus height. They’ll not have her while I am alive. Epps, I’ll come out of hiding before I will allow that.”

“Aye, but no, ye won’t do that. What good would it do our Mary? They would clap ye in irons, they would. Besides, our people tell us Penrod hides her well. But she grieves for ye and which makes me sick at heart. She comes up here to Bodmin and it sore muddles my head when I think on it. Might be right if I was to drop a hint that ye be alive.”

“Not yet, Epps. If she knows I am alive and living this way, she will want to see me, make certain I have food and whatever else she deems I need. It would end in trouble.”

“Aye, och…these are sad days at Montlaine,” his man moaned.

The viscount laughed good-naturedly. “They are no better at Bodmin Heights, no better indeed.”