Free Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

Darkefell, the season I love.”
    “Ah, yes… it’s parliamentary season, and you should be in London,” she remarked.
    They set out, descending from the limestone cliff created by the explosion, and heading toward the unbroken sward of green grass that led to Darkefell Castle. The gravel drive was circuitous, and the grass more pleasant underfoot. “I have taken a leave from the Lords,” he said, referring to the House of Lords, “to solve the problems plaguing my people.”
    “What do you think happened to Cecilia Wainwright last night?” she asked. “Is it related to this foolishness, this werewolf business?”
    He hadn’t intended to speak of it yet and deflected the question with one of his own. “Did Lydia really ask you to come all the way here to find out what is going on?”
    “Now, should I ask another question, too?” she asked, glancing up at him. “Soon we shall have an assortment of unanswered questions between us, like a heap of refuse neither deigns to notice.”
    She was direct, and he was stymied. Obfuscation was a skill he had perfected in the last few months.
    When he didn’t answer, she said, “I propose that we each answer a question before asking one of our own. I’ll start. Yes, Lydia asked me to find out what is going on. She’s frightened and accustomed to having someone around upon whom she can rely.”
    “Why not rely on her husband?”
    “I asked her that—to be blunt, she fears that he’s regretting the marriage.” She glanced up at him and seemed about to say something but then stopped. She cleared her throat. “Now I’m allowed another question. This is working out nicely.”
    “But my comment was not truly a question.”
    “But it was, my lord. You asked why she could not rely on her husband, and I answered.” She smiled up at him, the sly expression and laughter in her eyes unexpectedly charming, even on such a plain face. “So,” she continued, looking ahead as they strolled up the long sloping lawn that led to the rise beyond which Darkefell Castle loomed. “Lydia implied that you weren’t discouraging talk of a werewolf. I don’t for one moment think you believe in such drivel, so why do you not put a stop to it?”
    “I choose not to engage in the discussion of werewolves at all. I don’t encourage such talk, I simply say nothing.”
    She shook her head, appearing to reject his words, but didn’t respond. It was his turn, by her rules, to ask a question. “Lydia seems to be frightened of me. I can’t imagine why. I’m really the simplest of men with whom to speak.”
    Lady Anne snorted. He chose to ignore that.
    “Has she confided anything to you?” he continued. “Anything about what she fears is going on or even anything about Cecilia, any relationships she might have had here since her arrival?”
    “Oh, my goodness!” she cried, dropping his arm.
    Her expression caught him off guard, and he stared at her in alarm. They had topped a rise and circled a grove of trees, and Darkefell Castle was in view for the first time as a whole. She was staring at it openmouthed. He crossed his arms over his chest; she would say something disparaging, now. His mother hated the castle, and any other woman who had ever expressed an opinion had deemed it hideous at best, terrifying at worst.
    “It’s glorious!” she said on a sigh, clasping her gloved hands together.
    “Glorious?” He stared at her and then at the building.
    It was huge, part of it in ruins. It truly was a castle, built in the fourteenth century, then abandoned, re-inhabited, then abandoned again in favor of the Jacobean Ivy Lodge, a more manageable household built by the third Earl of Staunby in the early years of the last century. His father had moved his family back into the castle and commenced rebuilding it, but soon after he died, his widow moved, as was her right, to what the late marquess had designated the dower house. He, as the new marquess, stayed in the castle.
    “Yes,