LITMIR.BIZ

      Prologue

      March 1887

      It could be worse.

      The phrase repeated itself over and over in his head like the irritating refrain to a little-liked song.

      Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, stared at the façade of Fairborough Hall and tried to ignore the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, a weight that had settled there since the moment late in the night when he and the rest of the household had been roused from their beds by cries of fire.

      “It doesn’t look nearly as bad as I thought it would,” his cousin, Grayson Elliott, said in what he obviously meant to be a helpful manner. It wasn’t. “A bit scorched around the edges perhaps, but not bad, not bad at all.”

      “No, it doesn’t look bad.” The two men stood some ten yards from the house at the foot of the circular drive that linked the long drive to the main gate. And from here, given this precise angle and in the cold light of late afternoon, there was indeed little to indicate the destruction within the stone walls of the hall. Certainly what was left of the front door was charred and the glass in most of the windows in the center section of the house had shattered, but the east and west wings appeared untouched. All in all it really didn’t look bad.

      “Appearances, cousin, are deceiving.” Win started toward the house, barely noting the puddles of soot-laden water or trampled, filthy snow or the chunks of charred wood lying about. Nor was he especially aware of the pervading aroma of smoke and acrid burned matter or the brisk breeze and his lack of suitable outer garments. “It is much worse than it looks.”

      It could be worse.

      “Fortunately,” he continued, “everyone in the house escaped unharmed. And no one was injured battling the blaze.”

      “Something to be grateful for,” Gray said at his side.

      Any number of people still milled around the building, mostly

Скачать книгу