The rain had been falling on Whispering Hall for three days when Arthur Blackwood found the first page.
He was twenty-eight years old and had inherited nothing but a crumbling estate and a name that meant less to the people of Yorkshire than the dust that coated its library shelves. The Blackwood fortune had been spent across four generations—first on the wrong side of the Napoleonic Wars, then on gambling debts in London, then on a disastrous venture into Indian tea plantations that had ended...
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