“Hurrah! Hurrah!” Luckily Oliver was already halfway up the hill when he began shouting, the dogs leaped and danced around him, not caring what they were celebrating.

She smiled up at her employer. “That was very kind, Mr. Lockheart, but you don’t need to indulge him.”

“It is something I will enjoy.”

Before she could thank him, he asked a question about the position of the pavilion. It wasn’t until they were riding home that she realized he’d once again deflected any words of thanks or gratitude.

Chapter Nine

Gareth was in the cellar again. The darkness was total; not even a pinprick of light. The floor was damp, cold, and slimy and the sound of things skittering and slithering around him was deafening in the suffocating closeness. He screamed, but he knew nobody would come; they never came. His voice was gone, his throat hurt and his mouth was flooded with the metallic taste of blood. Something heavy and furry brushed past his naked ankle and teeth like needles sank into his big toe.

He screamed.

The hoarse, terror-filled yell was like a catapult flinging Gareth upright in his bed. He couldn’t get enough air; it was like breathing water. His hands fisted the covers on both sides and the darkness that had shrouded his eyes cleared, burned away by the single candle he always kept burning, no matter where he slept. It was across the room, hidden by a blue glass shield, but it provided enough light to keep him from drowning in the terrifying blackness.

Afraid of the dark; he was afraid of the dark. The taunting voices of children floated through his mind like fragments of clouds across the moon. Children liked to find and exploit weakness, and none knew that better than Gareth.

His heart ceased its mad flapping against his ribcage and his breathing slowed. The fine Irish sheeting was twisted and wrapped around his torso, soaked with sweat and telling him the dream had been of long duration.

He untangled his legs and swung his feet to the floor, more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed—and he’d been plenty tired then, having spent the day either in a carriage or examining a brewery that had been run into near ruin by the current owner’s feckless speculation on the ’Change.

He might be tired, but he also knew there was no chance of getting back to sleep after one of these nightmares; dreams which plagued him at least several times a month. As always, he was famished—as if he had lived the dream and actually spent days in the dark without food or water.

He put on the heavy silver silk banyan Chalmers had purchased for him and slid his always cold feet into his sheepskin slippers.

He would go to the kitchen and hunt for food. He’d not yet done that at Rushton Park, but Jessup was familiar enough with his nocturnal habits in London that he would know to have pies or bread and cheeses and such always waiting for him.