Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(4)

A trencher of stew and a wedge of mutton pie appeared on the table before him. Rhys dug in, keeping his gaze stubbornly trained on the food rather than his lovely server. He didn’t pursue married women, no matter what sort of looks they threw him. Not to mention, if she was married to Maddox and making eyes at Rhys, the woman must be not only fickle, but daft and half-blind in the bargain.

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and he cleaned both plates in a matter of minutes. He’d always been a fast, efficient eater, even more so since the army. More than once in the year since he’d inherited the Ashworth title, he’d looked up from a finely laid London dinner table to discover his table manners the object of intense, horrified scrutiny. Just another of his acquired traits that sent English ladies groping for their vinaigrettes.

He bolted the rest of his ale and carried the empty tankard to the bar for refilling. Mrs. Maddox had disappeared for the moment, and a gap-toothed young man stood behind the counter. Rhys recognized him as the youth she’d charged with stabling his horse. What was his name again? Dylan? Dermott?

“Darryl Tewkes, at your service, sir. Will it be another ale?”

The young man took the tankard from Rhys, and his left eye creased at the edge as he did it. Rhys couldn’t tell if it was a wink or some sort of nervous twitch. The latter, he hoped, when the eye flashed shut a second time. He had an amusing look to him, this Darryl Tewkes. Sharp nose, pointy ears. Like one of the piskies old moorfolk still believed in.

“Yours is a fine horse, sir,” Darryl went on, handing him a mug of fresh ale. “I’ve seen him settled in well. He’s unsaddled, watered. I’ll go back out to brush him down and give him hay in a minute or two.”

Rhys nodded his approval and raised his drink.

“Does he have a name, sir? The horse?”

He wiped his mouth with his cuff. “No.” He never named them, not anymore.

“Will the gentleman be staying long in the neighborhood?” Darryl asked.

“Just one night.”

At the outset, Rhys hadn’t been sure how long he’d stay. But now he knew—one night of this place was all he could take. In the morning, he’d ride up the slope and take a long, slow look at what he’d come to see. And then he’d leave. Surely he could hire a steward or land agent to come tend to any matters here that needed attention. That was what titled gentlemen of means did, wasn’t it? Where he’d go after that, Rhys had no idea. Wherever fate took him, he supposed.

“One night?” Darryl’s eye gave an eager twitch. “Sir, you must stay more than one night. One night isn’t anywhere long enough to see the local attractions.”

Rhys frowned. Attractions? There were local attractions?

The younger man’s eyebrows rose. “I give tours to travelers,” he said, his face brightening. “Two hours, or half a day. Best value for your coin is my full-day Mystic Moor excursion, complete with guided commentary and a picnic lunch.”

Rhys chuckled at the image of genteel travelers picnicking in the shadow of Bell Tor. He hoped they took precautions against the ravens. He cleared his throat and asked, “What sort of attractions?”

“Why, it’s a mystical trip through time, you see.” He made a grand, expansive gesture. “I’ll start by taking you round to the ancient burial cairns, and the abandoned tinners’ works from centuries past.”

Rhys was well familiar with those sights. They looked remarkably like random piles of stone.

“Then there’s the old monks’ crosses. And Bell Tor, of course. On a clear day, you can see—”

“Even more rocks?” Rhys grunted, still unimpressed.

“Oh, but that’s nothing. I haven’t yet told you the best part of the tour. The haunted ruins of Nethermoor Hall.”

Now he had Rhys’s attention. “Haunted ruins, you say?”

Darryl settled both elbows on the counter and leaned forward, as though he didn’t dare speak too loud. “Yes. Nethermoor Hall. The cursed House of Ashworth. Generations of evil flourished in that house. Till one summer night fourteen years ago, when it burnt to the ground in an unholy conflagration. My tour ends there, just as the hour turns toward dusk. Sometimes, if you listen sharp, you can hear the crackle of flames, or catch a whiff of brimstone on the wind. That blaze was the judgment of God, folk say. After that night, the family was never heard from again.”

“What happened to them?” Rhys asked, surprised to hear the question come from his lips. He had to credit the younger man. Darryl did have a knack for spinning tales. “I mean, you spoke of haunting.”

“Ah yes. Well, the old Lord Ashworth’s ghost hasn’t been seen. He never returned to Devonshire. Died just last year, somewhere in Ireland, I think. Lady Ashworth, she died several years before the blaze. There are some folk here—the ones with the touch—who’ve seen her ghostly form hovering high above the ruined house. As though she’s still pacing the upstairs corridors. But it’s the son people see most often.”

Rhys choked on a mouthful of ale. “The son?”

“Aye. He was a wild youth, always making trouble. Churned up the moor with his reckless rides. Folk say he had bit of devil in him.”

“And he died in this fire?”

“Not precisely. He nearly perished—should have died, by accounts. But even though he survived, it’s like he left a ghostly imprint on Nethermoor Hall. People spy his phantom wandering the place, especially on warm summer nights. They’ve even seen him gallop across the moor on a spectral horse, flames licking at his heels.”