Biting back a sigh, Paul made his way down from the seat, landing in a huge puddle of muck that sank his wet boots up to his ankles. “The drive’s a rank mess.”

“I only hopes they’ve a barn, though I daresay it is as leaky as a sieve, judging from the looks of things. Didn’t they knowed we was comin’?”

“They was tol’. I posted the letter for Mr. St. John meself.” Paul tugged his hat lower, though it was so wet it no longer protected him from anything the elements had to offer. He hoped the owner of the castle was not as ramshackle as his edifice and had a place prepared for them all.

Holding this warming thought in place, the footman trudged back to open the door for his master, stopping to collect a lantern from a side hook. It took a while to get the blasted lamp lit.

He carried the lantern to the door and hung it on a hook there, the golden pool of light greatly diminished by the weather. He tugged on the door handle, opened it, and then let down the steps.

Inside the plush carriage sprawled a long, elegant figure dressed in a well-fitted coat and breeches, sparkling top boots, and a perfectly starched and folded cravat, set with a blue sapphire. The jewel echoed the master’s blue eyes in an uncanny manner. There was no mistaking a St. John—black hair and blue eyes, a square, determined chin, and a sharp wit marked them all.

At the moment, though, Paul couldn’t make out his master’s face in the shadows, which left him momentarily anxious. Though it was rare that Mr. St. John took an irritation, he could be cold and cutting when occasion called for it. Paul cleared his throat. “Mr. St. John, we have arrived at Kilkairn Castle.”

The figure inside stirred, stretching lazily. “It’s about time. I fear I had fallen into a stupor when—good God!” Mr. Devon St. John’s blue eyes widened as he looked at Paul. “You’re drowned!”

“Just a bit wet, sir.”

“That is an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. Go ahead and say it—it’s wretched, horrid, awful, godforsaken rain and you wonder why we’re arriving so late at night.”

Paul hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, sir. All that and more.”

“Indeed,” the master said. “The reason I pushed us so hard was because I mistakenly thought we’d be able to outrun the family curse.”

“Curse, sir?”

“The St. John talisman ring. It’s a curse if there ever was one. It seems that whoever holds the bloody thing is doomed to wed.”

Paul had heard of the St. John talisman ring, and it sounded horrid indeed. “Do ye hold the ring, sir?”