As queer circumstances would have it, the rider turned out to be his king, who had been hunting in the nearby woods when his horse had been spooked by a small animal. King George, of course, had been exceedingly grateful for the interference which he swore had saved his life. And there’d been no talking him out of being quite generous in his gratitude.

His manager, Artemus Whipple, was sitting across the desk from him and avidly listening to the gossip, rather than the business at hand. Christopher had to say his name twice to draw his attention back to his last question, and repeat it once again.

Whipple was a portly, middle-aged man who had come with the estate, and Christopher had found no reason, really, to replace him. As long as the estate produced an income, which it did, he could hardly fault him, even if some of the expenses he incurred could boggle the mind. He did always have a ready excuse for them. But some were so outlandish, they demanded questioning.

“Fifty pounds for laborers to plow and plant the home farm? Did you ship them in from the Americas?”

Whipple noted the sarcasm and blushed uncomfortably. “They were outrageously overpriced, yes, but it’s getting increasingly more difficult to find farmers to work here. There’s a silly rumor that Haverston is haunted and that’s why you won’t stay in residence.”

Christopher rolled his eyes. “What rubbish.”

“Oh, I say,” Walter Keats interjected. “First interesting thing I’ve heard since we got here. Who’s the haunter supposed to be?”

Walter, the youngest of the three friends at twenty-eight, was the one who abhorred the thought of marriage. His powdered wig was askew at the moment, after an itch had been scratched absentmindedly. Though wigs, and powdered ones at that, were mostly worn only on formal occasions these days, Walter took his cue from the older aristocracy and didn’t leave his dressing room without one. Fact was, it was vanity and nothing more, since his dull brown hair didn’t give him quite the flair that a perfectly powdered wig did, coupled with his vivid green eyes.

“Who?” Whipple asked the young lord with a blank look, as if he hadn’t expected his reason to be dissected, and in fact, Christopher rarely did question him further on any of his given excuses.

“Yes, who?” Walter persisted, putting the manager on the spot. “If a place is haunted, stands to reason someone is doing the haunting, now don’t it?”

Whipple’s blush increased as he said stiffly, “I really wouldn’t know, Lord Keats. I don’t give much credence to peasant superstition.”

“Nor does it matter,” Christopher added. “There are no ghosts here.”

Walter sighed. “You’re such a stick, Kit. If my home had history, as in the blood and gore type, I’d bloody well want to know it.”

“I don’t consider this my home, Walter.”

“Whyever not?”

Christopher gave a careless shrug. “The town house in London has always been my home. This place is just a place—a chore.”