Shadows Over Greystoke Grrange

By Blair Bancroft

At eighteen, Adria Lovett can think only of making her come-out and finding the love of her life. Until, scant weeks before leaving for London, her world crumbles around her, pitching her into a situation shockingly contrary to anything she has ever known. And yet, far from London, Adria finds herself surrounded by a bevy of young men—though none of them what she envisioned when dreaming of her future. There is Dudley Greystoke, who should be Sir Dudley but is not; Chandler Satterthwaite, who has strayed far from the fold of his father, the vicar; the supposedly reliable Ned Steadman, son of the local squire; Garth Maddox, son of a gamekeeper, who calls himself Myrddin, the Welsh name for Merlin. And Drake Kincade, son of a wealthy merchant—the Drake Kincade known to many as "the Devil's Spawn," who has fled to the country to escape a bride selected by his father. And then there is Dudley Greystoke's twin sister, Daphne, a young woman as willful as she is beautiful, who plunges Adria into the world of witchcraft—a world already complicated by a barrage of evil deeds ranging from nasty pranks to murder.

Grimoires, spells, devil-worship, rape, and murder—not at all the Season Adria dreamed of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Jan 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999851951

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"I’ll choose my own bride!"

"It is a brilliant match. The culmination of all my—"

"You have overreached, Father. I promise you London shall not see hide nor hair of me this Season."

Adria is not a common name. It is, in fact, quite horrid. My Aunt Chillworth informs me, with a certain snide satisfaction, that my parents were so certain of a boy that they never chose any name but Adrian. Therefore, when their petit paquet turned out to be female, they were so nonplussed they simply eliminated the n, and I was christened Adria while I was still much too young to object.

I have become accustomed. Somewhat. It is never pleasant to encounter puzzled frowns from people quite certain they have misheard. Or endure the snickers of children delighted to pounce on such a juicy enticement to tease. Or, as I grew older, suffer the smirks of young people now too well trained to mock me out loud. In truth, sensitivity about my name was my sole, though admittedly niggling, alarm over the upcoming Season of 1816. But each time I felt a flutter of apprehension, I reminded myself that I was a mere Miss, and in no danger of having Lady Adria bandied about, the laughingstock of the ton. I was Miss Lovett, and Miss Lovett I would remain until I became well enough acquainted with someone for him to know my Christian name. And hopefully be so enchanted he would not mind.

I say he even though many of my new acquaintances would be female—ah, so many years later I still find myself blushing!—for why else did young ladies go to London for the Season except to find a suitable life’s companion? That was the whole point to making one’s come-out, was it not? And, heaven help me, at eighteen I was as arrogantly certain of finding my Prince Charming (titled, of course) as any other young lady of noble family. Except for having qualms about my name, I knew, simply knew the upcoming Season would be the most glorious experience of my life. I could scarcely wait.

Fortunately, my impatience for London and all that great city had to offer was somewhat alleviated by frequent visits from Miss Emmaline Osgood, Marlborough’s most accomplished dressmaker—the constant rounds of fabrics, patterns, fittings, and talk of accessories providing a continuing promise that it really was happening. In less than a month, my cousin Vivian and I would be making our come-outs, busy from morn to night with shopping, balls, routs, soirées, Venetian breakfasts, Almack’s, riding in the park . . .

Meeting eligible gentlemen.

Finding a new home. A home of my own.

And then . . .

I recall the moment like yesterday—the first shadow on the horizon. I was standing on a stool in the sewing room while Miss Osgood’s assistant pinned white silk roses at the upper corners of the swag that graced the bottom of an azure silk gown that was far and away the most glorious I had ever worn. My heart surged in a moment of sheer joy—surely this marvelous confection would go a long way toward helping me accomplish my goal.

My Aunt Chillworth’s piercing gray eyes flashed, and I quickly shuttered my delight. My aunt did not approve of strong emotions. Young ladies were to be composed at all times, with perhaps a soupçon of ennui to demonstrate that one was not a jeune fille just up from the country.

I should explain that most of the time I think of my Aunt Chillworth as Aunt Hesper, the only mother I have known since I was six. But since her nature is neither warm nor kindly, the temptation to think of her by her married name was frequently more than I could resist. I suppose you could consider me two-faced, but as it turned out, so was she.

Inwardly, I sighed, and after a full minute’s pose of indifference, returned to a surreptitious perusal of my gown. Ah, but it was magnificent! I was Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Guinevere—the princess of every romantic tale I had ever read. The azure silk was embroidered with white rosebuds enhanced by beadwork. A full-blown white rose, similar to the ones decorating the swag, rested in décolletage considerably lower than any gown I had worn before. I was enchanted, fantasies of love and laughter dancing through my head like a swarm of fireflies at twilight.

Ow! Pricked by a pin, I nearly fell off the dressmaker’s stool.

Ah, miss, I’m that sorry!

Even before the assistant’s apology, I regretted my outburst. The poor girl, not more than a year or two older than I, looked as if she feared for her life. It was nothing, I told her. Turning to the clearly anxious dressmaker, I said, My foot slipped, I was startled.

Aunt Chillworth transferred her scowl from the quaking assistant to me. Truly, I told her, assuming my most innocent expression—one I had perfected over my years at Chillworth Manor.

Lift your skirts, my aunt snapped.

I beg your par—

Now!

Aunt—

This minute, Adria.

I hiked up the skirt of the gown, offering my right leg.

The other leg. Do not be sly, Child!

Reluctantly, I lifted the gown’s hem above my left knee, hoping against hope there was nothing to see. Alas, a trickle of blood had made its way a half-inch down my leg.

Oh, miss . . . the assistant breathed.

Miss Osgood, you and your assistant may pack up your gowns and leave, Aunt Chillworth declared.

But, Aunt Hesper—

Adria, be silent. Remove the gown and return to your room.

I was ready to continue my protest, but Miss Osgood caught my eye, clearly entreating me to patience. And thanking me, even as she pleaded for forbearance.

How perfectly horrid to be so dependent on the willfulness of others.

As are you.

I carried on a grumbling conversation with my inner voice, even as I disrobed and wriggled into the too-tight sprigged muslin I’d been wearing since I turned sixteen. It was true, of course. Despite the Trust my parents left me, until I was of age I was totally dependent on the generosity of Uncle Clement, one of my trustees and a man unable to resist the importunities of his wife—namely, my Aunt Hesper. Over the years I had come to suspect she begrudged every penny spent on me, while wheedling generous sums from my Trust to support the Chillworth family in a style more luxurious than they could otherwise afford.

Which is why I had some inkling of the poor assistant’s feelings. Although I had never lacked for a roof over my head or food in my mouth, I knew what it was to live on sufferance. I had done so for the last twelve years, ever since the death of my parents in a boating accident when I was six. My mother and Aunt Hesper were sisters, though they were no more alike than chalk to cheese. Or at least that is what I remember of my mother: a warm, gentle presence, loving and kind. Of which not a single adjective applied to my Aunt Hesper Chillworth. How poor Uncle Clement had been so sadly fooled . . . but no doubt Aunt’s portion had been exceptionally generous, for the deVeres, my mother’s family, were known to be warm in the pocket.

When my parents died, there was little question about who would become my guardian. My father’s family, who tended to be adventurers, were scattered about the globe from India and Russia to the Greek isles and the Canadas. My mother’s father, the Earl of St. Alban’s, was a recluse. My Uncle Rolfe—generally known as Rolfe the Rake—was a dozen years younger than Aunt Hesper and at that time a schoolboy already giving signs of developing into the most charming rake to grace the ton in a decade. So Aunt Hesper did her duty, and I have never been certain which of us most looked forward to the day when her guardianship would be over.

Ungrateful wretch that I was, I could scarcely wait to escape. I had grand fantasies of love and marriage. Of having a home and family of my own. And I was nearly certain Cousin Vivian felt the same. For love was unheard of at Chillworth Manor—nothing more than vague affection dwelt there, frequently tempered with disapproval.

But we were nearly free. It was happening, really happening.

At least it had been, right up to the last few moments. Knowing any further arguments would be futile, I left the sewing room and descended to my bedchamber on the floor below. I had barely sunk into a chair by the fire when a soft tap on the door was followed by my cousin’s voice.

Addy?

I disliked Addy even more than Adria, but I sloughed off my pique, waving her to the comfortably upholstered chair on the other side of the fireplace. Vivian and I exchanged a long look of mutual understanding. Though we had little in common, from our appearance to our interests, we had perforce been allies for the past dozen years, for my hapless cousin frequently suffered more than I from her mother’s sharp tongue.

Vivian leaned forward, whispering even though no one else was about, Surely Mama cannot mean to dismiss Miss Osgood. If we include Mama’s new gowns, we must have ordered close to thirty new ensembles.

I agreed. Even Aunt Hesper Chillworth could not be so petty. Yet—Heaven forfend!—if she did not accept the gowns, Miss Osgood might be ruined, her assistant finding herself unemployed as well. But Aunt had such an odd look on her face when she sent the women on their way—almost as if she was pleased by the incident of the pin.

Which made no sense at all.

Vivian, eschewing every rule of deportment her mother had dinned into her head, curled into her chair, feet up, one elbow on the padded arm, her chin sunk into her upturned palm. Perhaps it was meant to be, she said, and heaved a long-drawn sigh.

Merciful heavens, she looked as if her favorite dog had just died. But Vivian tended toward a morose outlook on life, and who could blame her? Sometimes it seemed as if my aunt actually enjoyed goading her daughter by making comparisons between us: I was vivacious; Vivian was not. I was pretty, Vivian plain. My figure was willowy, Vivian fat. (I had protested that particular pronouncement by Aunt Chillworth with great indignation. Vivian could be termed sturdy perhaps, even plump, but not fat. To top it all, Uncle Clement added to the nonsense spewed by his wife by declaring that Adria could carry on a conversation with the devil himself and come out on top, while referring to his own daughter as Miss Mumchance.

Clearly, we were not a happy household.

You looked so beautiful in that gown, Vivian said, sounding as wistful as the day she admitted that she was desperate to lose a full stone or more. No one in London will see anyone but you. It will be as if I don’t exist.

Never say so! I cried. Your manners are far superior to mine—you know what a hoyden I am! Your embroidery is exquisite, mine mere chicken scratches. You plan menus, arrange flowers, visit the sick. And I swear you know the prayer book backward and forward. While I . . .

My voice trailed away as I took a critical look at myself. I performed the tasks assigned to me, but in truth I had done very little in return for a dozen years of shelter. I rode, I drove a gig. I took long, solitary walks and dreamed of my future after Chillworth Manor. I studied French and Italian, attempted to teach myself Greek (unsuccessfully). I taught several of the tenants’ children to read (a secret known only to Vivian and Bess, the maid we shared). Above all, I read—novels, classics (in translation), religious works, treatises on rebellion (American, French, and English). I even read about what was being called the Industrial Revolution and the latest methods of farming. I was that odd duck—a pretty girl with more than two thoughts to rub together.

Though at that turning point in my life, I admit the wonder, the excitement of being part of the Season of 1816 had nudged all else aside. I was, after all, a young lady of eighteen, with visions of love and a wondrous new life dancing through my head.

I suppose, looking back, I should have expected what happened.

Alas, I did not.

Chapter 2

"Are you certain about this, my dear? I rather counted on the Trust to support us through the Season."

"And why would it not? my lord’s spouse returned with some force. Goodness knows it is little enough recompense for tolerating the thorn in our midst for so long. And who will know? Blalock has accepted all the other expenses, and St. Alban’s pays not a jot of attention to anything we might do."

Feeling the earth beneath his feet rapidly softening into quicksand, my lord replied, Of course, my dear. No problem at all, I assure you. But his stomach turned queasy, his breathing ragged at this blatant violation of trust.

My Aunt Chillworth was a great one for establishing routines and following them with a rigidity that could have withstood a whirlwind. Every day, except Sunday, she met with the housekeeper in the morning room—and directly after, with Vivian and me. There, we received the Scold of the Day for whatever we had mismanaged the day before, endured my aunt’s latest lecture on the deportment of young ladies, and were given a list of duties she hoped might be carried out with more competence than we had shown in the past. Therefore, on the morning after the uncomfortable scene in the sewing room, I thought it strange to find Vivian hunched in a chair in the far corner of the room instead of sitting on the sofa as was her custom. However slight, it was a deviation odd enough to send a chill rippling through me.

Obeying the regal wave of my aunt’s hand, I sat on the sofa, clasped my hands in my lap, and waited with growing trepidation for whatever was to come.

It occurred to me, even as my stomach roiled, that my Aunt Hesper Chillworth was an impressive woman. Daughter of a viscount, married to a baron, she was a driving force in all that happened in our corner of Wiltshire. Though only of middle height, she seemed to command all she surveyed. Even Uncle Clement. But the years had not been kind to her—I sometimes allowed myself grim satisfaction over the increasingly deep lines cutting into what once must have been a highly attractive, if never beautiful, face.

I have dismissed Miss Osgood, Aunt Chillworth declared, continuing inexorably over my gasp of protest: I have decided only London’s finest will do for Vivian. We will, therefore, leave for town earlier than planned. Almost immediately, in fact.

But Miss Osgood’s gowns were magnificent, I protested. "As fine as any in La Belle Assemblée. "

They will not do, my aunt intoned.

My ballgown, my exquisite azure silk with white roses . . .

Anger blossomed, replacing my angst—anger I quickly swallowed, knowing it to be fatal. Raising my clasped hands, I pleaded, Aunt, please—I beg you not to dismiss Miss Osgood. She must have spent a fortune on those gowns.

Aunt Chillworth’s dark eyes fixed on me with the odd smirk of satisfaction I had seen in the sewing room. A pinprick. A mere pinprick. What excuse would she have conjured if that pinprick never happened?

"We may consider one or two of my gowns, she allowed, but you will not need yours, Adria, for you will not be going to London."

Stunned into silence, I could only stare.

Her smirk broadened into a smile of wicked triumph as I sat frozen, my brain in an endless spin of: Not go to London? Not make my come-out?

"We have decided, she declared, invoking my uncle’s power as head of the family, that Vivian will make her come-out without you constantly by her side. If all goes well, you may make your come-out next season. Meanwhile . . ."

I did not hear a word beyond next season. I clung to the sofa, quivering, my ears ringing, heart thumping, my mind refusing to accept her dictate.

Adria! Have you heard a word I said?

Ma’am? I managed, forcing my eyes to focus on my aunt’s stern face.

She heaved a sigh of disgust and began again. I received a letter a few days ago from an old friend, the mother of a young lady who will be making her come-out next season. They live quite retired from society, and she asked my advice about a companion, a well-brought-up young lady who can help prepare her daughter for the demands of a Season. My aunt paused, her gaze fixed on me with ill-concealed triumph, before adding, "I am confident I have prepared you and Vivian for all the challenges of a Season and that you, Adria, are the exact person to fulfill her needs. You have, after all, been a companion these past dozen years.

Companion?

Next season?

But I am to make my come-out, I choked out.

Not this year. Cold. Inexorable.

You cannot mean it, I whispered. All my dreams, my fantasies. A home of my own. Finding that nebulous vision, the love of my life . . . Gone in an instant. Destroyed.

I always mean what I say, Adria. You should know that by now. You may go. Bess has orders to help you pack.

Aunt . . . For perhaps the first time in my life, words failed me.

But my aunt was now glaring at her daughter. You, too, Vivian. We will be leaving for London as soon as Adria is off to Shropshire.

Shropshire!

Shropshire was the end of the world, nearly as remote as Yorkshire or Northumberland. No, no, I could not be exiled to Shropshire. Quite retired from society. How could they be anything else? Shropshire was beyond the edge of the civilized world, sharing a border with that craggy wilderness called Wales.

I turned up my face in desperate appeal and found only unrelenting determination. Go now, Adria, my aunt ordered. The sooner you are gone from here, the better.

I went to my room. Head down, I sank onto the edge of my bed and shook. I gasped for breath, as if all the air had suddenly been swept from my room. I’m not certain how long I sat there, pain building in the dryness of my throat, extending outward, swallowing me up, my aunt’s fatal words—The sooner you are gone from here, the better—resounding over and over in my head. I wanted to scream, rage, cry out against the injustice of it. Against the shattering of my most precious dreams. But I was trapped in an endless cycle of disbelief. This could not be happening. Not even Aunt Chillworth would stoop so low . . .

But of course she would. There was an almost audible click inside my head as my brain snapped back to life. Aunt Hesper had been keeping a close eye on every aspect of the new garments being created by Miss Osgood. With every fitting, she was treated to the sight of Vivian and I displayed side by side, just as we would appear when we made our debut in the ton. And she had seen what I had long taken for granted: I would cast Vivian into the shade.

But it had always been like that, I wailed to myself. There was nothing new about the gifts God gave us. I could not help it. Nor could Vivian.

A sob rose, nearly choking my already too breathless body. Knowing the why of it did not assuage my anguish.

A tap on the door. Addy . . . ?

Go away! I cannot bear it! But I did not say the words aloud. Vivian could not help being a Chillworth any more than I could help being Adria Lovett.

I am so, so sorry! my cousin cried, hovering before me, wringing her hands. I had no idea. Truly, Addy, you must believe me.

Lost in my own agony, I paid no heed to hers. I will be exiled to Shropshire forever, I declared. Like some sailor marooned on a deserted island.

No, no, Vivian assured me. You will have your come-out next year. Mama promised.

Her naivety astonished me, yet less than an hour ago, I had been nearly as young and trusting.

No more.

And finally my brain, which had been merely limping along for the past few minutes, severely hampered by self-pity, exploded back to life. I was not a pauper. I was not friendless. Yes, Aunt Hesper was my guardian, Uncle Chillworth one of my trustees, but my father’s solicitor was also a trustee. A kindly old gentleman, Cornelius Blalock paid a duty visit once a year, sent me three guineas on each birthday, and had always given the impression of being a sensible man. He might not be able to gainsay my exile to Shropshire, but he most surely would object to my staying there for any length of time.

I would have my Season. I would. Even if I must wait until 1817 to do it.

Or so I told myself, because otherwise shock and black depression would glue me to this bed until I was old and gray.

I shall be terrified without you, Vivian burst out. "You are the only reason I could contemplate facing the ton. You always know what to say. You have a smile for everyone—even though Mama says we should not. But I am quite certain she is wrong, for everyone likes you. With you around, I should never be a wallflower, sitting all alone and watching others enjoy themselves. But now . . ."

Vivian’s gulping sob penetrated the cataclysm inside me, tearing me from my self-absorption. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry! I’m so caught up in my own woes, I never thought—

Why should you? my cousin cried. I am the veriest beast to complain when it is you who is being deprived of your come-out.

Miss?

We looked up to discover our maid Bess regarding us with considerable anxiety. Evidently we had been too agitated to hear her knock. Behind her was one of the footmen bearing a good-size traveling trunk.

The mistress says I’m to help you pack, miss. When Vivian and I simply stared at her, neither of us willing to confirm this statement, Bess added, Are ye truly going to town before your fine new gowns are ready?

I lifted my chin. Stoically. Defiantly. (How brave I was when facing a maid and footman.) Thomas, you may put the trunk in my dressing room. I turned back to Bess. My cousin is leaving for London in a day or two, but I am to go to Shropshire immediately. Which means—I gulped—we must begin packing this very minute.

Bess stared, as well she might. I thanked Thomas who, after doing what he was told, gave me a look of heartfelt sympathy on his way out.

Vivian, I murmured, swallowing the bile that was threatening to make its way up from my stomach, I believe Bess and I must do this alone. If you would not mind . . . ?

Her tear-filled brown eyes wide, Vivian knuckled her mouth, heaved yet another sob, and scurried out. The door banged shut behind her.

And on my life at Chillworth Manor.

Chapter 3

"You are funning us, Mama," the startlingly beautiful young lady declared.

"An heiress?" her twin brother echoed, clearly more intrigued than annoyed by the proposed addition to their household. Some might even say his smile held a touch of the crocodile.

I did not look as we drove through Marlborough’s broad high street. I, who had thought myself mature enough to marry, was sulking with all the relish of a two-year-old. If I did not look, this . . . this travesty was not happening. I was not in a bright yellow post chaise, the cheerfulness of its paint in direct contrast to the gloom that had swallowed me up. I was not on my way to the back of beyond.

Be grateful. It could be worse.

A much-needed reminder from my more sensible self. And undeniably true. In all the years I had lived at Chillworth Manor I had never heard Uncle Clement raise his voice to his wife. Until last night. Until he discovered I was to be banished to Shropshire on the common stage. For a few glorious moments I thought I might be rescued from my fate, but my aunt had ruled the roost for too long. The best he could manage, Uncle Clement confided to me, looking more than a little hang-dog, was to make sure I had a safe and comfortable journey.

And he did not fail me. Which is how I ended up in a yellow bounder with Bess at my side and Thomas standing up behind, sharing the luggage platform with my trunk. He would return to