After traveling for three hours on the train up from the university town of Durham in the north of England, and another hour and a half on the bus from Edinburgh, Joachim’s resolve flagged. He was much too shabby to be a guest in a place like this.

Bollocks. When he’d concocted the scheme to venture into the lowlands of Scotland to gather research for his PhD, Stuart Graham, his mentor and friend who made the arrangements, could have at least warned that he belonged to a wealthy family. But Joachim had never been a coward—had he? He pressed the doorbell before he answered that question.

Less than thirty seconds later, the door opened wide. A smart black-suited man—the butler?—looked the weary traveler over with such liveliness that Joachim’s ears pinked. Really, Stuart, you could have warned me to buy a new blazer at the least.

Joachim introduced himself and asked for his host. “He should be expecting me?”

Dammit, he shouldn’t have ended on that questioning note, but the unseasonable April heat coupled with the dusty hike from the bus stop left him all out of sorts. He did his best to surreptitiously slick down his wavy hair, difficult without a comb and mirror.

The butler ushered Joachim into a wood-paneled hall and held out an arm for his stuffy wool overcoat and hat, which he handed over with relief. Sniffed himself furtively. Didn’t smell as slovenly as he looked, thank heavens.

“Ah, yes. Master Ainsley is in the parlor awaiting your arrival.”

The answer settled some of the gnawing in his belly; for the past two hours, he’d whiled away the final leg of his trip worrying that Stuart’s quirky at best—barmy as a Bedlamite at worst—younger brother would refuse to give him accommodations for the night.

But he was expected, and Joachim inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face as he was led down the hall toward the tinny sound of a gramophone belting out Let’s Misbehave.

Odd choice of music for an intellectual.

Though perhaps not so peculiar when said scholar had annihilated his reputation as one of the Empire’s most learned folklorists by publicly insisting that he chatted with ghosts.

On a daily basis.

A sitting room worthy of Sir Walter Scott greeted him. A fireplace large enough to house a small family crackled, flanked by sterling sconces in a similar grand ratio that radiated a warm glow. The room sported two enormous wooden chandeliers, their electric lights turned off, and heavy green draperies were pulled shut instead of allowing the sunshine in.

Such a waste on a day like this. They were few and far between in Britain.