Secrets of Midnight
dim, flickering light
shrouding in shadow a dilapidated interior that must have at one time been
quite grand.
    Henry Gilbert had told him that the estate had changed
hands many times in the past century before being bought by Donovan's father,
the last owner an elderly viscountess who had wanted a more modest country
house closer to London. She'd cared little about the ancient abandoned mine at
the northeast corner of her property, not seeing its potential as had the Duke
of Arundale. After he ordered the sinking of deeper and deeper shafts, a rich
lode of tin ore was struck, making Arundale's Kitchen one of the most
profitable in west Cornwall.
    Not that his father had spared many shillings on the upkeep
of the house and grounds, Donovan thought disgustedly to himself. Nor to pay a
fair wage to the miners—no, tinners, as Corisande had so graciously corrected
him. As graciously as a spitting cat. But at least he had found the perfect way
to silence her in a pinch, his bride-to-be quite kissable for a shrew.
    Quite bloody kissable.
    Frowning, Donovan shook off the memory of Corisande's
soft parted lips and moved to the sweeping staircase. But he switched his
course at the last moment and headed for the library instead, wondering if
Gilbert had purchased the few items he had requested that morning on the way to
the mine. Soap, shaving paste, and a razor to start. The house was bare of such
simple necessities, and he hadn't enjoyed a good shave since his short
overnight stay at Arundale Hall.
    He had asked for paper as well, pens, ink, and more
candles and lamps to light the place, especially the library. And good brandy,
of course, if Gilbert could find it. Obviously not too difficult a task,
considering the superb quality of the spirits Donovan had tasted at the
parsonage.
    He was no fool. Smuggling had to be rampant along this
godforsaken coast, given the high taxes levied upon so many goods to help pay
for the war. A sizable portion of the Reverend Easton's parishioners were no
doubt chin-deep in the running of contraband from France to Cornwall. How else
could such fine brandy have found its way to a vicar's cupboard?
    Donovan wished he had a strong dose of that brandy now
as he opened the door to the library, anything to help him stomach writing a
letter to Nigel about his impending marriage. He might have found a way out of
his miserable predicament, but what he had to do to gain his inheritance still
chafed like hell. No, he wouldn't allow himself to sleep until that letter was
done. He'd be damned if he would allow a new day to start on such a galling
note—
    "What the devil?" Donovan came to a halt at
the sight of Henry Gilbert fast asleep in a tattered wing chair drawn close to
the fireplace. A fireplace that, amazingly enough, wasn't cold, black, and
empty but filled with fat logs that burned brightly, the lively hiss and
crackle of the flames a welcoming sound in this drafty place. Gilbert's
discordant snoring, however, was anything but pleasant, the agent's mouth
hanging open and his bony elbows dangling over the arms of the chair.
    "Nothing like an honest day's work to tire a man,"
Donovan muttered dryly, wondering how a fellow so slight could make such a
racket. He moved to wake him, but a full decanter of brandy flanked by a pair
of cut-crystal glasses set to one side of the marble mantelpiece caught his
attention. Reminded with a grim jolt of the letter he must write, he decided
rousing Gilbert could wait. A moment later, the brandy was poured and snaking a
warm path down his throat, a vintage almost as fine as the Reverend Easton's.
    "Good man, Gilbert. Good man."
    Donovan's loud-spoken compliment had the desired effect, Henry's snores coming to an abrupt halt as he
blinked open his eyes. Upon seeing Donovan, the agent lurched at once to his
feet, nearly upsetting the chair.
    "Oh—oh, my lord! I had no idea—"
    "Sit down, Gilbert, and get your bearings. I don't
want you tumbling into the fire." As Henry

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