Alan Rothwell, Lord Ravenscar, drew his team of black purebreds to a stop on the uneven drive of Hollywell House. It was fitting that each mile passed on the road from Bath had added a shade of grey to the clouds. It suited his mood and it certainly suited the gloom of the sooty stone and unkempt lawn of Hollywell House.

The estate had seen better days and with any luck would see them again, but first he would have to buy the place. The only problem was that he had no idea from whom. The news that Albert Curtis had dropped dead in church in the middle of his sermon after recovering from a bout of fever was doubly unwelcome—now Alan would have to renegotiate the purchase with whoever inherited the house.

‘What now, Captain?’ His groom tilted his head to inspect the clouds and Alan handed him the reins and jumped down, avoiding a muddy rut. Even the gravel was thin on the ground and the drive in worse shape than the country lane leading up from Keynsham. No wonder poor Albert had wanted to escape to a mission in the jungle; he had not been cut out to be a landlord.

‘The door’s open. Perhaps the new heir is inside, come to inspect his new domain. Walk the horses while I see what I can do about this setback, Jem.’

‘Matter of time before we get soaked, Captain.’

‘Isn’t it time you stopped calling me Captain? It’s been six years since we sold out. Don’t think I don’t notice you only revert to rank when you’re annoyed with me, Sergeant.’

‘It’s coming through this stretch of Somerset, Captain. Always makes you jittery.’

‘With good reason. What’s your excuse?’

‘Your foul temper the closer you come to Lady Ravenscar’s territory, Captain.’

Jem grinned and tapped the whip to the leader’s back, setting the curricle in motion before Alan could respond to his old sergeant’s provocation.

Jem was right, of course. His temper was never one of his strong points, but it undeniably deteriorated the closer he came to Ravenscar Hall. Stanton had warned him to steer clear of Hollywell and find another property, preferably on the other side of Bristol, and Stanton had a damn annoying tendency to be right. No doubt he would tell him it served him right for trying to poke one in his grandmother’s eye. The satisfaction of imagining her reaction to his plans for Hollywell House was fast losing its appeal the closer he came to his childhood home.

No, not home. It had never been a true home. He had been six when he, his parents and his sister had left Ravenscar Hall for the first time, but old enough to be grateful it was behind him. The last thing he had wanted was to be dragged back there with Cat when his parents died, but at least he had spent most of those long years away at school rather than at Ravenscar, and the moment Cat had married, he had enlisted and sworn never to return as long as his grandparents were alive.

Hollywell House was another matter altogether. He had been here only last month on his return from Bristol, but his strongest memories of Hollywell were still those of a boy. For an angry and grieving twelve-year-old, Jasper and Mary Curtis’s library had been a sanctuary from the brutality of his grandfather’s tyranny. It was the library that had sparked the idea to acquire Hollywell for the Hope House foundation; it was light enough and large enough to make a fine memory room like the one they had established in London. After the fire at the old structure they had been using for Hope House in Bristol, it was no longer merely a good idea, it was a necessity. Whatever pressure he had to bring to bear on Albert’s heir, he would do so.

He took one step into the library and stopped abruptly.

Just last month he and Albert Curtis had shared a glass of brandy in what had been a perfectly ordinary and orderly library. The only unusual features were Harry and Falstaff, two weapon-wielding suits of armour which had taken pride of place in the centre of the room, standing guard over what was once a small ornate bookcase where old Jasper had kept his favourite books, and a pair of worn leather armchairs he had brought from France before the revolution. This unusual if pleasant arrangement had been reduced to a pile of tangled steel breastplates, helmets and books, and at the edge of the chaos stood a young woman wielding a very large flanged mace which had once been held confidently in Falstaff’s metal gloves.

‘Did you do this?’ she demanded.

The absurdity of her question when it was apparent she was not only the author of this destruction but probably also mad roused him from his shock. He surveyed the room again. And then her, more leisurely. She must be quite strong, because though the mace was substantial, she held it aloft very steadily, rather like a cricketer waiting for him to bowl. She was also reasonably pretty, so it was a pity she was mad.

‘Why would I do this?’ he temporised. ‘You can put that mace down, by the way. I’m not coming near you, believe me.’

The tip of the mace hit the floor with a thump that shook the room, but she didn’t release the handle.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘What I am doing is giving you a wide berth at the moment. Is your mania general or is it directed against anything medieval?’

She looked around the room for a moment and her mouth drooped.

‘I don’t understand. Why would anyone do this? It makes no sense.’

‘That is the definition of madness, isn’t it?’

She frowned at him.

‘I’m not mad. You still haven’t explained who you are and what you are doing here.’

‘Nor have you.’

‘I don’t have to. This is my house and you are trespassing.’

‘You are Curtis’s heir?’

She nodded, her mouth quirking at the incredulity in his

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