Beatrice grabbed a hanging strap for purchase. The vehicle rocked side to side as it negotiated the uneven surface of the drive, which needed not so much a raking as it did utter reconstruction. The coachman slowed to a crawl in deference to the horses as he guided them around one gaping hole after the next. What might once have been a grand avenue of oaks was uncared for, overgrown and untamed, with years of fallen leaves gone to mulch at their roots. The way to the manor was circuitous, like something out of a myth, the final obstacle the hero must traverse to achieve his triumph.
There was no triumph to be claimed. As the house came into view, she saw that the shrubbery flanking the terrace betrayed a lack of care, as did the stones of the terrace itself, as did the crumbling masonry of the building, as did the shattered windows on the first and second floors… It was three stories of desolation, topped by attics that surely suffered from the woeful state of the slates on the deteriorating roof. The hedgerows had lost shape, the lawn was a disgrace, and there were no tidy rows of servants lined up to greet them upon their arrival.
Beatrice took it in, as the coachman sang the horses down to a halt, as an outrider opened the door, lowered the steps, and handed her down, as she shook out her skirts and waited for the vast breadth of duke to join her.
She took it in, every brittle brick, every weed and bramble, every shattered pane, the general pall of disrepair and disregard, and contrary to reason, jubilation flooded her being.
***
Madam was seething, Arthur could tell. She stiffened as she looked the place over, taking in its decrepitude and disuse, spine rigid, bosom swelling, hand clenching the silly purse she carried. Her face was impassive, and yet he was certain she was infuriated.
He’d love to see her lose her composure, see that icy mien dissolve in fierce rage. He imagined her behind closed doors succumbing to true feeling, the rime of her public persona melting. Would she be as fiery in private as she was frosty in public? Why in the world were his thoughts trotting down this road? It must be the fault of his bear.
He got a grumble for his pains, the beast continuing his sulk.
Arthur gestured to the porch, and Madam processed up the shallow steps, happily finding the safest places to set her feet. Her tiny feet; they must be miniature if the rest of her was anything to go on, as delicate as her fingers were, and her button nose.
Arthur raised a hand to knock and saw the flinch, so minute and yet there. By the Gods, could he resurrect that poxed wolf he would, and see Castleton sent straight back to Helheim. Or whatever constituted the lupine infernal place. He opened his palm to bash against the door.
Moments passed as they waited for a response. The weather, which had become more threatening the farther they journeyed from Town, looked to be turning nasty as gray clouds rolled in from the west. Arthur banged on the door again and then tried the doorknob. His heightened hearing discerned a slow shuffle as he was about to put his shoulder to the bloody thing and render it into kindling.
A key turned in the lock, a laborious undertaking of scraping and tugging. The knob turned slowly, ominously, like the work of a specter in one of Mrs. Anchoretta Asquith’s Gothic novels. A huff and groan put paid to that theory as the door creaked open to reveal a small man dressed in butler’s livery dating from the seventeenth century. Worn velvet pantaloons were tucked haphazardly into felt knee boots; the man’s waistcoat looked to have only ten of its required thirty buttons, and his ornate frock coat was threadbare. He was of a height with the duchess thanks to his profound stoop; a well-furrowed face beamed from beneath a decrepit wig.
“Master Artie!” The butler’s face collapsed into even more wrinkles. “As I live and breathe!”
“It is a miracle you do so, Conlon,” Arthur said. “You were ancient when Odin was a lad.” He looked down at the duchess, astounded, as she had poked him inelegantly in the side.
“And is this…” Conlon’s voice wobbled with emotion. “Oh my days, is this our new duchess? Your Grace,” he intoned and started to bow, an undertaking that would likely take an hour or more.
“Please, Mr. Conlon, do not.” Madam stepped forward, a warm look in her eye if not a smile on her face. Arthur consulted the heavens to see if a drove of pigs soared overhead. “I suspect you suffer from your joints, and I desire you not to exert yourself.”
“It is the lumbago, ma’am,” Conlon admitted.
“A tiresome affliction at this chill time of year,” she soothed even as she maneuvered him into the foyer.
Which was currently employed as a manufactory for spiderwebs. Madam cast her eye around, and Arthur anticipated a tirade. Instead, she patted the butler on his arm. “Conlon, I suspect we have caught you and the household by surprise,” she said, her voice as gentle as the rain that now pattered on the windows. “We have a variety of cases and trunks the royal footmen will carry in if you would direct them to the ducal suite.” Todd slipped in the door and hovered at her side.
“There’s no ducal suite no more.” A figure loomed in the dark of the corridor, her voice as raspy as the lock on the front door. “Ain’t been no need in Arcadia for many a year.”
“Is that any way to greet our new duchess, Morag?” Conlon’s neck tucked in and out of his collar in agitation as the woman, red-faced and black-haired, moved into the light.
“Freya help us. Morag?” Arthur exclaimed. “Have we a single servant under the age of one thousand in this household?”
“Your Grace.” Madam turned to him. “It is a testament to the loyalty of this house’s retainers that they continue in service, given they had none present to tend.” She turned her back on him entirely, the little clawed spitfire cake of a minx that she was, a choice not lost on Conlon or Morag; both looked thrilled at her bravery. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the housekeeper of Arcadia? Due to His Highness’s deep desire that we wed without delay, I doubt you were given sufficient warning of our arrival.”
“I am the keeper of the house such as it is, Your Grace, such as it is a house and not a home.” The most cursory of curtsies accompanied this reply.
“Another plain speaker. I comprehend it is the custom of this pack.” No one dared reprove her incorrect application of the term. “Is the ducal suite habitable, or is it not?”
The housekeeper glared in Arthur’s general direction. “It is not, ma’am, not since—”
“That will do, Morag,” he interrupted. “Help Conlon and Todd see to our things.”
“I pray you will avoid the stairs, Mr. Conlon,” Madam said. “May I trouble you to ask Cook to lay on some tea?” The wee man beamed and creaked off down the corridor. Madam turned to the housekeeper. “Morag, this is Mr. Todd, royal factotum at our disposal. Please convene with him over the best placement of our things at this time.”
She then cleared her throat. “If I may have a word, Your Grace.”
Arthur preceded her to the door of a receiving room, which was not pulled shut as it was leaning against the wall of the corridor. The room itself was clear of dust as well as vacant of furnishings of any kind but for a lone footstool.
“Beginning as you intend to go on, Madam?” Arthur asked as she ran a finger over the mantelpiece. She offered no reaction to the state of her fingertip. “Coddling the help?”
“It is not coddling but respect for another human being. Or, or creature.” Madam removed her gloves and her pelisse and held them in front of her like a shield. “He is rather small for a wolf.”
Not a wolf! his bear howled. “Our sort come in many shapes and sizes.”
“I presume this is the Osborn homeplace?”
“It holds that distinction.”
“It appears to have been uninhabited for many years.”
“You are the picture of perceptivity.”
She opened her mouth to inquire further but seemed to think better of it. Pain or sadness moved across her features until they resumed their customary immobility.
That could not be right. What care had she for the state of this place and that it had no one to live in it? He didn’t care, and it was his family home. Arthur turned away from the bright-blue gaze that seemed to peer straight into his soul. He kicked the footstool and scratched at the shredded silk covering a wall.
He heard her take a breath, pause, and then say: “I believe a cup of tea is required before another step is taken.”
“I shall leave you to it, then. The kitchen is to the left, down a short hall, and then to the left again, if you condescend to take your refreshment there.” Arthur bowed her out of the room as well as any royal footman and watched as she disappeared down the gloomy corridor.
He glared as a spider spun itself down into his line of sight and stopped himself swatting it away; it had a greater right to be within these walls than he.
He turned his attention to the shadows lurking at the first landing.
There was nothing for it, then.
The staircase leading up to the first floor seemed sound enough until Arthur put his foot through the second-to-last tread.
The runner in the corridor looked to be composed more of dust than yarn, and its edges bore the marks of mice of the animali puri variety. That they would dare enter the house of a Shifter was testament to the lack of predatory beasts under its roof.
More spiderwebs, dense as moss, hung from paintings listing on the walls, with several lying facedown on the floor.
The first door he attempted required the full force of his weight to breach. It was the family drawing room; he did not enter. He eschewed investigating the staterooms as well.
Each of the remaining portals on the first floor had an idiosyncrasy regarding their opening; in many cases there were no doors at all. He quailed to think Conlon and Morag had been reduced to using them for kindling. The interior of each room was a devastation of gouged walls and demolished furniture. The work of Hallbjorn, for who else would have wreaked such havoc? His bear remained mute, but not from spite, not now.
He did not ascend to the second floor to investigate the nursery that lay across the corridor from the ducal suite, nor those august rooms themselves, nor the portrait gallery that ran along the entire back of the house. He would put that off as long as he was able, as he would the third floor, which played host to the servants’ quarters and—Holy Freya, the attics! If the exterior view was anything to go by, the attics were in a disastrous state, and if that proved to be the case… He poked at a warped bump of wallpaper, and his finger went straight through it to the plaster. Upon closer inspection, the walls buckled like the ripples in a pond. He could not bring himself to look at the ceiling.
Was the entire household to live on the ground floor like a trace of rabbits? He did not dwell on what those left behind had faced over the years. He clutched a hand to his chest where he felt a twinge. It was likely the kippers repeating on him. That was what it must be, this broken feeling in his chest.
Oh, yes, his bear said, sarcastic. No more kippers for breakfast.
***
“…and the breakfast room is over on the other side of the hall, made sense to someone back in old Elizabeth’s day but it makes none now.” Morag finished her discourse on the failings and deficiencies to be found in the halls of Arcadia with some relish.
While the ground floor of the manor was fairly respectable, what little Beatrice had seen could do with improvement. The reception room in which she had taken the duke to task was not designated as such, primarily due to the fact there was no one to receive. Was its purpose to contain a single footstool? Or merely to provide the cluster of spiders free rein to weave their webs?
Upon repairing to the kitchen, she was introduced to Mrs. Porter, the cook, bullish in aspect yet content in demeanor, and two housemaids. Ciara and Glynis were both small, dark, and if not elderly then at the very best aging. They tilted their heads at her, showing their necks, a custom she knew demonstrated respect by creatures of their kind. It was done now, however, with greater reverence than had any in Adolphus Place.
The maids painstakingly set the table for tea. Beatrice had assured them that there was no need to stir up another fire elsewhere, that there was nothing like a kitchen for homeyness. There was no other room fit to sit in anyway.
Beatrice took a sip of the brew Mr. Conlon laboriously poured out. She selected a slice of shortcake and reveled in its light and buttery texture. “This is delicious, Mrs. Porter.”
“That’d be Ciara’s doing,” said the cook. “She’s a dab hand with the baking.”
“Well done, Ciara. I am not apprised of His Grace’s opinion, but baked treats are my weakness.”
The butler waxed lyrical on Master Artie’s sweet tooth as Beatrice made inroads into the shortcake. He cut himself off as she reached for the teapot and served her once more.
“Thank you, Mr. Conlon.” She brushed her fingertips on the scrupulously clean serviette. “I am impressed beyond measure by the care you have taken of this house. I see there is much left to do to bring it up to scratch. What of the lands? Is there a steward or chamberlain in His Grace’s employ?”
“No need for either since there’s no one to live in the cottages or tend the fields,” Morag said.
“There is a need now, at the very least to restore Arcadia to its true stature,” Beatrice said. “I shall call upon Mr. Todd, then, to take stock of the park and the surroundings.”
“Some use he’ll be, raiding the hen house.” The housekeeper smirked.
“Hush, Morag,” Mr. Conlon scolded. “You know the law.”
“The law?” Beatrice’s query was met with expressions showing a mixture of trepidation and appraisal. The women turned to the butler, who undertook the responsibility of explaining.
“I take it you are aware of our difference to you?” His voice was gentle, and she nodded.
“Among ourselves, we know who is who—” Glynis began.
“—and what is what,” Ciara finished. “But even then we would not be so rude as to ask.”
“We’re not to tell a human but our species, except under special circumstances,” Mrs. Porter added.
“Like as when a homo plenus marries one of us,” Morag said. “I’d call that special, I would.”
Beatrice looked at each. “Are you not wolves?”
The staff gasped as one. “Wolves!” Mr. Conlon’s sleepy eyes widened. “Good lady, no. We are as many as there are animali puri.”
“That’s the common or garden sort of creature,” Morag explained. “You may discern a versipellis’s true nature from certain characteristics, and you may speculate, but private-like.”
“Indeed. I do be passing slow, for example. My sort are.” The butler’s head retracted in and out of his shoulders. “For I am a turtle!” His little face crinkled with glee, and he clapped his tiny wrinkled hands.
“Ah!” Beatrice experienced delight for the first time in many days. “I vow to honor and respect this knowledge, Mr. Conlon.”
“Wolves!” Morag exclaimed. “I am a moorhen, ma’am.” She puffed out her impressive chest.
Mrs. Porter proved to be a cow and the maids, mice.
“This is unexpected.” Beatrice took in the open faces before her. “All in Adolphus Place were wolves, from the marquess to the boot boy.”
“That is a very old-fashioned way of going about things,” Mr. Conlon said. “As the years have passed, many the like of us turtles and hens and pigs and mice have pledged our loyalty to a mightier species, and we are the safer for it.”
What then was the duke that he should reign as Alpha? She would not reveal her ignorance of his creature.
How embarrassing he had not deigned to tell her.
How frightening he may be more dangerous than a wolf.
Morag snorted, an unlikely sound to emit from a hen. “We’ll see to your education, ma’am, as it appears your husband has not. Not a surprise as he is loath to do what’s expected of him.”
“Morag, I do appreciate a dash of salt, but only when doled out with respect.” The hen was testing to see how far she may push; Beatrice determined it was exactly this far. “I do hope my meaning is clear.”
Against the odds, the housekeeper looked pleased to be put in her place. “Fair enough, ma’am, fair enough.”
“Now.” Beatrice accepted a serving of fresh biscuits frosted with lemony icing. “Have I anywhere to sleep this night?”
***
Some time later, Arthur found the kitchen empty, the remains of a plate of lemony biscuits among the detritus of tea things. Shameless, he licked a finger to clean up the crumbs. Hustle and bustle down the hall led him to what had once been the stillroom.
It was a hive of activity. Two royal postillions, unaccustomed to work inside the house, struggled with a table that Arthur could carry with one hand. Another followed with an upholstered chair, yet another with a jug and bowl. Todd brought up the rear carrying a small case.
“What goes on, Todd?” he demanded as the footmen swept past in a tottering phalanx.
“We are appointing the temporary ducal suite, Your Grace.” The fox preceded him over the threshold.
He could say with confidence he had never set foot in this room as a child. It had been Ben’s domain, and his brother considered Arthur little better than a bull in a china shop and banned him from the place. A wall of all-but-empty glass-fronted cases ranged down one side of the room, and a large hearth took up the other. It was not spacious and was rapidly becoming less so as another pair of royal footmen muscled in a variety of trunks. Conlon struggled to set a dressing screen in place, refusing the aid of the hovering Todd, while Morag shoved a table next to the hearth crossways and appeared satisfied with its placement.
“What is all this?” Arthur demanded. As if he didn’t know.
“What is required in a sleeping chamber, Duke,” Madam said. “It is the largest room and the only one unused for habitation. Thanks to the unflagging industry of your staff, it is clean and ready for our installment but for the—ah, thank you, over here, if you will.” Madam directed the placement of the bed near to the window.
The bed.
There was only one bed.
***
The duke had taken one look at the room, at the bed, and fled.
Morag had snarled, while Mr. Conlon made excuses for His Grace’s essential self likely needing release.
Morag mumbled something off-color, and Beatrice directed the rest of the room’s arrangement to her liking until she was left alone to assess her surroundings. The chair set by the window looked as well as she’d envisioned. A footman had wrestled the sash open at her direction; how pleasant to have a footman at her direction. How thrilling to have a say in where the overstuffed Chesterfield library chair would be put, a mismatched ottoman for her feet. She chose to be gratified she was left alone and not required to bed down with a stranger, no matter he was her husband now.
A nightingale warbled, perched on the lowest branch of a nearby tree. She had not heard a night bird’s song in years. Had Castleton’s presence frightened the natural wildlife? Would Osborn’s clear the lands of smaller creatures? Or what if…
“I don’t suppose that is you, Duke?” Imagine such a large male becoming such a small thing. And that a miscellany of creatures should follow the lead of a songbird. “Forgive me, I know I am not meant to ask. Would you whisper a word in the ear of His Grace and tell him that not knowing the species of his creature is worse than knowing?”
She pulled the collar of her dressing gown tight around her throat and curled her legs beneath her. “Shall I tell you how I came to be in possession of this dreadful secret? It was a scene taken from the pages of a novel by Mrs. Anchoretta Asquith. A young bride, an isolated, moldering keep, the night of a full moon.”
The bird chirped and flew to settle on the sill. A stirring in the underbrush near her window put her on guard. Perhaps His Grace was eavesdropping. What use his hearing this story was she did not know, but: “I had not received a marital visitation for the third night in a row. Not that I sought it out, not that I wanted that husband, but how I longed for a child. I was so timid, little bird, so innocent when I tapped upon his door. I heard him mumbling wildly, and if only I had turned away… I opened the door at the precise moment that he gave over his humanity to the creature. He was a man, a titled man, a marquess, and then he was…a wolf, a slavering, snarling wolf. He leaped for me, but his valet stopped him, his valet who was also a wolf.”
She did not remember shutting the door, only the sound of two animal bodies throwing themselves against it, one to keep it shut, one to pursue her. She was so shocked she didn’t even run but exited through the connecting room as cautiously as she had entered it and locked her bedchamber door behind her. She had the foresight to lock the one that gave onto the hall and shut her windows; she got under the covers and stared at the ceiling as she began to shake, uncontrollably, until dawn.
The bird tweeted a descant as though inquiring after the rest. “The next day, my sweet friend, the marquess did not even explain himself but rather threatened me via his valet and the housekeeper. Both were matter-of-fact about the consequences, called attention to my parents and siblings and suggested I keep my peace.
“To be fair, there was no one to tell, no one to believe me until Castleton died without issue and the servants fled after he was taken away for whatever obsequies his kind adhere to. No one to tell at all, until His Royal Highness the prince regent informed me that the title had gone into escheat and of the pittance that would comprise my widow’s mite.” She smiled, bitter, sour. “And then, suddenly, I had someone to tell.”
Beatrice rose. “And now I have told you. I don’t know if it matters if you keep it to yourself. I shall leave it to your discretion.” The sash window moved smoothly and stayed open the few inches Beatrice deemed healthful for a good night’s sleep; by contrast, the interior shutters did not budge, and drawing the curtains proved an arduous business. She smiled as the bird peeped what she chose to believe was its good night.
She did not see the nightingale hop from the windowsill, narrowly escaping the attacking claw that sought its doom.