The Man In The Mask: The Manor Series, #1

By Anya Summers

He wore a mask.

He touched me like he could read my mind, like he knew my deepest, darkest fantasies.

He demanded complete surrender.

 

I gave him everything.

I still don't know his name.

I only know he has a secret capable of destroying me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S & G Books, LLC
• Release date: Dec 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735639826

Book preview

1

Great googly moogly!

Bremly Manor was massive. A crisp, chill breeze blew and carried a hint of smoke from a nearby fireplace. Dying leaves with their musty aroma blanketed the ground and rustled over the paved driveway. I wrapped my coat more firmly around my body and stared at Bremly Manor. The enormous house was crafted of worn gray stone and gleaming black wood. Built in the 1840s, the manor was expanded and modified in the late 1890s to its current size. After the Great Depression, the home was abandoned for many years until its current proprietor purchased the house and land surrounding it.

Nestled in a secluded section in upstate New York, northeast of Syracuse, the home was surrounded by miles of forests and mountains without a lot of accessibility. One small winding road led in and out from the manor property. The towering gothic structure was more like a castle than a home. I studied the tall stone turrets and walkways. It even boasted a modern drawbridge with a moat surrounding the house.

Didn’t that beat all? A moat and drawbridge I had to cross over in my battered Corolla to enter the circular stone courtyard. The house was unlike anything I had come across in my short twenty-five years.

So what was I doing at Bremly Manor?

I had been invited by the owner, Maximillian Donovan. He had purchased a box of Ulysses S. Grant’s personal effects, that included a journal from his early years, at a recent private auction. The kind of swanky event where they served champagne and canapes.

The timing of the invitation couldn’t be more perfect because I was close to finishing my dissertation on Ulysses S. Grant’s early life, long before he became the Commanding General of Union forces during the American Civil War.

Maximillian Donovan was an important, brilliant man. When I inquired about the find and asked if he would allow me to study the journal, never in a million years had I thought he would actually respond. But to my delighted amazement, he replied with an offer, one that was more than my wildest dreams could have imagined.

This venture will make me the first historian, as in numero uno, to document the personal effects and study the journal in depth. Talk about an incredible coup for my career. There may or may not have been some dancing in my tiny apartment when the offer came through. And my friends could attest to the fact that I never dance or feel the urge to boogie at the clubs with them. But for this…getting my grove thing on seemed appropriate.

Plus, as a huge bonus, not only did I get to study the journal and artifacts, detailing my discoveries, and incorporating those findings into my dissertation, I got to live here at Bremly Manor. Me, in a house that could fit my entire former freshman dorm inside. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. The next two months I would live and work here.

If I could tap dance here on the front stoop with the large double oak front door, I would.

The unexpected benefactor of my good fortune was Maximillian Donovan. He was considered an eccentric billionaire and owned one of the largest collections of historical primary documents in the world. For the next two months, I had an all-access pass to the collection.

I had no idea how or why Lady Luck chose me for this task. My colleagues at Syracuse University were green with jealousy over my good fortune. But the entire situation was a fluke.

No, really.

The news of the auction had appeared in my email inbox a month ago, with the name of the individual who purchased the item included within the article. After receiving the notice, I tracked down a contact email for the reclusive billionaire, which to my mind should have been more difficult to locate, but I did.

Yes, my logical brain wondered why me, why had I received the exclusive invitation. I know I asked for the opportunity and shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Even though, I had a million uncertainties, for once in my life I didn’t question my luck. Maybe I should have asked more questions when Mister Donovan issued the invitation, but I didn’t, so sue me.

And this house, God, I got to stay here!

I couldn’t contain my giddiness as I pressed the doorbell. A gong chime bonged and echoed from inside.

The massive, dark walnut oak front door opened inward with nary a creak. I had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t a man with white tufts of hair sticking out from his balding dome, lips pursed, the craggy lines of his pale face proclaimed he was pushing senior citizen status of indiscriminate age. He was about my height, but his slight frame made me wonder if a gust of wind would topple him over in his formal black suit and tie. Thick, bushy white brows rose over wizened pale green eyes, wrinkling his forehead further as he studied me. May I help you, miss?

Pasting a pleasant smile on my face, I replied, I’m Prudence Mallone, Mister Donovan is expecting me.

Ah yes, Miss Mallone. He surveyed my single, battered, navy carryon suitcase with disbelief on his craggy face. Is that all you brought with you for your stay? I have it on authority that you will be with us for two months.

No, I have more in the car. I wasn’t sure how long I would be waiting. And my instructions are specific, I’m to meet with Mister Donovan first before I get settled into my room. In fact, my email correspondence with the reclusive billionaire had been downright thorough and unsettling. He was granting me access, but with conditions.

First, I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Much like Vegas, anything that happened at Bremly Manor, be it with the staff or the benefactor himself, was not for public disclosure. Before he would permit me to stay, the agreement had to be signed before a notary, and sent back to him. Second, I had to agree to remain at the manor for two months without leaving. Which while an odd, rather bizarre condition, it wasn’t a dealbreaker for me. I had the tendency to get lost in libraries. Truthfully, there were libraries I would sleep in, if it was allowed. And Mister Donovan had basically given me the thumbs up to do just that in one of the biggest private collections in the world.

Yeah, both conditions weren’t problems for me.

Right you are, Miss Malone. I’m Sherwood, Mister Donovan’s butler and valet. I’ve been with him for the past decade. Come in. You can leave your suitcase by the door. If you provide me with your car keys, I will retrieve the rest of your belongings while you are meeting with Mister Donovan and deliver them to your bedroom.

Oh, but some of them are really heavy. I couldn’t possibly—

Sherwood cut me off with a dismissive wave. Nonsense. I can see to your luggage. I will put them in the bedroom prepared for your arrival. Now, if you will, he gestured toward the grand staircase leading to the second floor, I will take you to Mister Donovan.

We stood in a roomy foyer with ivory marble floors. There were two hallways offshoots on either side with dark walnut hardwood floors, taupe walls that were decorated with artwork I wanted to study more closely. And I would, the moment I didn’t have someone watching over my shoulder.

At the man’s insistence, I passed him my keys. I hoped like mad that my car load of supplies didn’t put the older gentleman in the hospital. Since I was going to stay here for two months, I brought the reference books with me that I might need for my dissertation. There were six cases of them in office boxes and they were rather heavy.

Plus, it was the second week of October, so I packed enough clothing to handle the change of seasons. This far north, fall gave way to winter much sooner than it did down south. I preferred to be prepared for any scenario. The nearby town was a blink and you will miss it type of township. It meant, there were not available places to shop for additional clothes nearby.

However, my bank account was on life support—as per the norm. For now, I couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. That would all come later, after I finished and defended my dissertation in the spring. Once I found a job at a university, I would have more wiggle room money wise. While beginning professors didn’t make tons of money, the overarching goal was to work my way up, publish, and make tenure. Those would provide me with a solid financial base, but it wasn’t an overnight prospect.

Packed in my small sedan, I had my computer along with reams of notebooks that were filled to the brim with all my dissertation notes. My suitcases were stuffed with stacks of new, unused notebooks for the copious amount of