Chapter One

      October, 1811

      “Courage, Beatrice! Are you to be daunted by tales of dragons and witches? No, certainly not,” she answered herself, unconsciously speaking the words aloud. “This is nonsense, sheer nonsense! Papa would be ashamed of you.”

      Beatrice shivered, pulling her cloak more tightly about her body as the mischievous wind tried to tug it from her. She was approaching the gates of Steepwood Abbey from the eastern side, having just come from the village of Steep Abbot, which clustered outside the Abbey’s crumbling walls at the point where the river entered its grounds.

      In the village behind her lay the peaceful beauty of gracious trees, their bluish-green fronds brushing the edges of an idyllic pool in the river’s course. Ahead of her in the gathering dusk was the great, squat, brooding shape of the ancient Abbey, its grounds almost a wasteland these days. It was not a pleasant place at the best of times, but at dusk it took on a menacing atmosphere that was as much a product of superstitious minds as of fact.

      “There is not the least need to be nervous,” she told herself as she peered into the shadowy grounds. “What was it Master Shakespeare said? Ah yes! Our fears do make us traitors. Do not be a traitor to your own convictions, Beatrice. It is all careless talk and superstition…”

      But there were so many tales told about this place, and all of them calculated to make the blood run cold.

      The land had been granted to the monks in the thirteenth century, and the Abbey had been built in a beautiful wooded area bordering the River Steep. Its origins were mystical, and it was held in popular belief that there had once, long centuries past, been a Roman temple somewhere in the grounds. Some of the stories told about the goings on at the Abbey were enough to make strong men turn pale.

      So perhaps it was not just the chill of autumn air that made Beatrice shiver and turn cold as she paused to take her bearings.

      “Foolish woman! This is autumn,” Beatrice scolded herself, “and you ought to have remembered the nights were pulling in. You should have left half an hour sooner!”

      It was now the fourth week of October, in the year of Our Lord 1811, and the nights had begun to pull in more quickly than she had imagined possible. She ought in all conscience to have set out on her journey home to the small village of Abbot Giles at least half an hour sooner.

      Most sensible females who lived in one of the four villages that lay to the north, south, east and west of the Abbey would not have considered crossing the Abbey’s land after dusk, or—since the Marquis of Sywell had taken up residence some eighteen years earlier—during the day for that matter!

      Beatrice Roade, however, was made of sterner stuff. At the age of twenty-three she was of course a confirmed spinster, the first flush of her youth behind her (though not forgotten!), all hope of ever marrying denied her. She was tall, well-formed, with an easy way of walking that proclaimed her the healthy, no-nonsense woman she was. Attractive, her features strong, classical, with rather haunting green eyes and hair the colour of burnished chestnuts, she was thought slightly daunting by