Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood 1)

Mr. Sutherby might be smitten, but Evelyn wasn’t.

Oh, she was hardly in a position to complain. A handsome gentleman with an affable character and a sizable fortune wanted to marry her. It sounded perfect. For a gentleman to embody all three traits was a rare find indeed. It’s what her parents dreamed of. It’s what they would have wanted.

The only thing that could possibly make Mr. Sutherby more desirable was a title. But such far-fetched aspirations were only to be found in fairy tales, not dreams.

The wind gave a mournful cry, and the carriage rocked from side-to-side.

“Do you think we’ll even make it to the inn?” Evelyn asked feeling a little wary. “I think the forest is the worst place to be in a storm.”

“I’ve heard the sea is the worst place to be, waves as tall as houses, they say. We’ve only a few miles to the inn. We’ll bed down for the night, have a late start and be at Mytton Grange by luncheon.” Aunt Beatrice removed her hand from her muff and patted Evelyn’s knee. “Let’s not think about it. We’ll soon be tucked up nice and snug. Perhaps if we talk, we’ll distract our minds.”

Evelyn groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to talk about Mr. Sutherby, but it seemed the only thing her aunt was interested in.

“Of course, once your Mr. Sutherby —”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Her aunt narrowed her gaze but then gave a knowing smile. “I understand. You’re nervous. It’s to be expected. Very well, I shall think of a different topic to occupy our thoughts.”

Her aunt fell silent while she stared at a point beyond Evelyn’s shoulder.

Feeling somewhat impatient and having never ventured as far as the New Forest before, Evelyn asked, “Do you know anything about the area? Any exciting tales from ancient folklore?”

“Not really,” her aunt sighed, “though there are tales of the Earl of Hale. He lives a mile or two from here. Have you heard of him?”

Evelyn pondered the question. “The Earl of Hale. The name’s familiar. Do you mean the gentleman who’s said to be horribly disfigured?”

“Well, that’s what folk say.”

“But you’ve never seen him?”

“No, no,” her aunt said shaking her head vigorously as though the thought was abhorrent. “No one has.”

“Then how do they know he’s disfigured?”

Her aunt shrugged. “I’m sure someone must have seen him at some point. They say he had an accident abroad. When the old earl died, they say he wouldn’t set foot near the grave. He hung back in the shadows, his collar raised up to his cheekbones, the brim of his hat touching the tip of his nose.”

“To hide his terrible scars, I imagine.”

“Some say he’d been standing there all night.”

Evelyn was so intrigued she’d almost forgotten they were in danger of being blown away. She imagined all sorts of hideous marks: raised pink rivulets running down his cheek, an earlobe missing, an eye drooping and sagging. Had the earl been injured in a fight or fire?

“And he lives not far from here?” she said trying to distract her wayward thoughts.

“Yes. In an old Elizabethan house in a clearing.”

They fell silent for a moment.

Aunt Beatrice’s head shot up, and she gave a little gasp. “Have I told you about the Pixey mounds? Well, that’s what the locals call them. You’ll find them dotted all around the forest.”

“Someone must have seen him recently.”

Aunt Beatrice jerked her head back. “Who, the Pixey? The mounds are old burial sites. I don’t think they’ve got anything to do with real pixies.”

“Not the pixies — the earl. Someone must have seen him since the accident.”

Her aunt shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll never —”