by Allison Lane
But she had. And his eyes spoke volumes, none of it bad. Could she trust him? He vowed to keep his word. And while his reputation terrified her, when she faced him, she was more afraid of herself than of him.
Already you are in danger, warned her conscience. You are befriending him. Have you forgotten what happens to those who believe a rake?
The reminder was necessary. Look at her poor mother. Seduction and betrayal. Men were practiced at it. Even those who swore by honor would do anything in pursuit of pleasure. Rakehells were worse. Like Millhouse. Only last summer he’d ruined the innkeeper’s daughter, then denied responsibility for her child.
Agnes reported that Merimont was little different. Hope could only pray that he would tire of this remote estate and accompany his friends back to town.
Soon.
In person, he could make her forget the harshest lessons.
Chapter Four
Max grunted as he and Henry wrestled a sideboard across the hallway, blocking access to the east wing. A heavy cabinet would sit on top to hide the view, though sound could still carry through a gap near the ceiling. The same was true upstairs, though he had barricaded the hall with a pair of wardrobes. Miss Ashburton would have to keep her doors shut tight and remain quiet if she wished to remain undetected. Only in the stillroom would she have more freedom. He had rigged a bar across the door. The guest servants were unlikely to spend much time in the laundry – or so he hoped.
“I don’t like lockin’ her in,” mumbled Henry as they fought to lift the cabinet into position. “What if a fire breaks out?”
The words raised the hair on Max’s arms, triggering a memory of the fire that had swept part of Seven Dials last year. A dozen people had burned to death because they had no escape.
But that was not true here. “There are other exits,” he said soothingly. In addition to the servants’ stairs, she could reach the main staircase through her extra bedchamber. Here, the office opened into the entrance hall. She could unbar the laundry door to reach the kitchen or go directly outdoors through the dairy.
Yet his conscience pricked him. It was all very well to declare this wing uninhabitable. Blocking the halls would keep the households separate. But it wasn’t enough. Hiding her protected her reputation, but he should also protect her modesty. Sound would pass the barrier in both directions. Would she understand what she was hearing?
Having grown up in a vicarage…
He shivered. What sensibilities did the mother possess? Were they even more rigid than the daughter’s?
But that raised another question. Miss Ashburton confused him. One minute she was as prissily disapproving as the most ardent spinster. The next, she pragmatically accepted suggestions he almost blushed to make, and revealed considerable understanding about the party’s purpose.
And her face was as open as any he’d seen. He couldn’t blame her for the distrust that often clouded her eyes. Mrs. Tweed’s outburst had hinted that the Ashburton ladies had a low opinion of men, which explained her eagerness to escape his touch yesterday. She had no way of knowing that he rarely even treated maids as he’d treated her – in fact, he had a hard time explaining why he’d done it.
Touching her had been more than a social faux pas, he admitted, swearing. He couldn’t forget the feel of her. It had awakened something better left dormant, leaving him decidedly uncomfortable and in great need of Annette’s attentions.
Thrusting the memory aside, he concentrated on the manor’s limited space. Closing off the hallways made the house seem even smaller. At best, his friends would be disgruntled. He was even less happy about it than yesterday. While he enjoyed Annette’s skills, her inane prattle was annoying. How was he to live with her for two weeks, not only sharing a bed, but sharing the only private space he had? He preferred sleeping alone, as did most men. If only he could think of an alternative.
But he couldn’t, and the others would arrive soon. At least the neglected grounds and threadbare furnishings would make his claims about the east wing seem reasonable – it was structurally unsound and could not be safely entered.
It was time for his meeting with Miss Ashburton. He rapped on the office door.
“Enter,” she called.
When he pushed it open, she was already seated behind the desk, a ledger open before her. Brisk. Efficient. Businesslike. It was yet another image, at odds with the others he’d seen – the delectable maid he had accosted on arrival, the fierce protector of her mother and home, the anxious woman trying to handle a job too large for her. And her appearance offered other contrasts – the lush bosom molded by her thin gown, the spectacles perched on her nose as she studied the accounts, the wisps of hair blazing in a shaft of sunlight.
His senses stirred.
“How is your mother today?” He closed the door, forcing his mind onto business.
“The fever is no higher, but neither is it lower.” She bit her lip, drawing his attention to its sensual fullness.
Annoyed, he frowned. “Have you called in a doctor?”
“Of course, but he claims it is yet another chill that must run its course. He refuses to bleed her, and won’t even blister her when she slides into delirium. I don’t know what to do. She has grown frailer in the three years he has treated her. This is her fourth serious illness this year alone, with several lesser maladies. Yet Dr. Jenkins does nothing. He swears that all we can do is pray. Either she heals or she doesn’t. It is out of his hands. What sort of doctor says that?”
Her outburst surprised him, though he could understand it. She had no one in whom to confide, for she did all the work. Those in charge could not reveal their fears to those who depended on them.
“Do not doubt his judgment,” he said soothingly, relieved that he could perform this one service. “I have a friend who was trained in Scottish medicine. His patients are remarkably robust, recovering from ailments that kill those treated by others. He swears that bleeding is rarely a cure and often makes illnesses worse.”
“Really?” She frowned. “Why? Doctors have sworn by it for centuries. It releases the evil humors of disease.”
“Perhaps, but the Scots insist on testing all treatments. When they compared patients who were bled to those who were not, they discovered that those not bled were much healthier. So they concluded that bleeding was harmful. The test of blisters found no difference in recovery, but those being blistered suffered more pain.”
“Goodness!”
“Exactly. I suspect that your doctor is well trained and quite competent. You are fortunate.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed the anxiety from her face. “You asked about the estate. What do you wish to know?”
“Everything you can tell me. Ashburton described the place as lucrative, yet you say he deliberately destroyed it. How?”
She paused, clearly disturbed at mention of her uncle. When she spoke, she chose her words with care. “The estate was reasonably profitable in my grandfather’s day. Our half of the income averaged five thousand guineas a year.”
He straightened, for that was good indeed. It could earn even more if his experiments worked. “What is the current income?”
“We settled the annual accounts after the harvest last week. My thousand guineas plus Watts’s salary as steward exhausted all proceeds.”
“What happened to produce such a loss?”
“Destruction is quite easy. The year Grandfather died, Uncle Edward demanded every shilling of the profits, allowing no repairs and turning off most estate workers. Believing the orders were a mistake that would soon be rectified, Bellows – who was steward at the time – borrowed operating funds from us, repaying them out of the next year’s profits. It cost him his job, though the loan did not come to Uncle’s attention until after it had been repaid.”
He gasped.
She continued. “Watts has specific instructions, one of which is eschewing loans, and even gifts, especially from us. The only benefit the tenants enjoy is that he is
not allowed to raise rents, but the lack of maintenance and Uncle’s other orders more than cancel that advantage. Watts hates the situation, but he has no choice.”
“Why is Ashburton so determined? I know men who strip estates to line their pockets, but I’ve never heard of anyone throwing away his inheritance. That is little better than shooting oneself.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands, watching them twist a handkerchief into knots. “It does not matter why. Your concern is learning what happened so you can address the resulting problems.”
She was right, though admitting that hardly satisfied his curiosity. He did not know Ashburton well, but he would have heard rumors if the viscount was this negligent with all his properties. So this must be something personal.
He shivered. The man had thrown away five thousand guineas a year for nearly ten years. Pique over his inability to evict his brother’s family could hardly explain such insanity. So why had he done it?
But he could not ask. “What is the current situation?”
She relaxed. “Several fields have not been planted in years. Others were converted to unsuitable crops. Inbreeding has weakened our sheep, resulting in less wool and fewer lambs. We no longer raise cattle or dairy cows. The pottery that used to supplement the tenants’ incomes is closed. Timber cutting ceased five years ago, despite the increased demand for wood – that is one place in which you can produce immediate income, by the way. The wood needs cutting. While the willow may be too overgrown to bring much, the hornbeam should more than compensate.”
“What about buildings, fences, and lanes?” Fury made his voice harsh. How could Ashburton be so stupid?
Her mouth curled into a smile that showed no sign of humor. “Without maintenance, what do you think?”
“Roofs leaking, hedgerows overgrown, walls crumbling,” he muttered.
“Exactly. One lane is impassable, even on foot. Its hedgerow is so overgrown that you will likely destroy it trying to cut it back. The estate outbuildings all need work. The tenant farms are less derelict, for the tenants have done their own maintenance.” She frowned. “I wonder if Watts warned Uncle that future income would fall below the estate obligations unless he changed his orders. That might explain him risking its loss.”
She’s right. An idea that had been lurking in the back of his mind suddenly bloomed. Words he had not heeded echoed. Laugh at defeat … wager Redrock … you know how he feels. He had no recollection of playing out the hand. Had Ashburton taken advantage of his dizziness to concede without showing his cards? His own had been inauspicious. To win, all eight cards in the stock pile must have been face cards.
But he’d discarded five losers.
He swallowed the sudden dryness in his mouth. Ashburton had deliberately conceded.
His father’s announcement had told the world that Maxwell Longford needed a home. Everyone knew that the last place he wanted to live was Widicomb. Thus he would personally take possession of any property he acquired.
Trepidation crawled down his back. This business seemed havey-cavey even beyond the questionable card game. For some reason, Ashburton wanted him at Redrock. If the man knew how ill the mother was, he would know that occupying the house could create a scandal demanding marriage. Was he scheming to trap a marquess’s heir? They were virtual strangers, so the viscount would not know that Max’s rakish reputation was exaggerated.
But that was for later. Right now, he was safe enough. They had physically divided the house so that contact was impossible – he ignored the fact that they were alone together for the fourth time in two days. She held the keys to all exits. They shared nothing, not even servants. To be doubly safe, he would block the nursery floor and check the lock between Miss Ashburton’s stairs and the attic. Once his guests left, he would repair to the dower house.
In the meantime, they would discuss business. Her grasp of agriculture had already surprised him.
“Can Watts really serve me well as steward? Surely the tenants despise him.”
“No, for they know where the blame lies. If you are serious about returning Redrock to prosperity, Watts will rejoice, and the tenants with him.”
“I wish to experiment with new ideas and techniques, so I need a steward who will accept machines.”
“He will be comfortable with that. As will the tenants. They are quite intelligent.” This time her smile was almost sly.
“What are you hiding?”
“Watts oversees a small property I own. I have encouraged him to try anything that might make it more productive.”
Glancing around the dilapidated room, he shook his head. “It would not appear that he has been successful.”
“Do you always judge without facts, my lord?”
He raised his brows.
“I could not allow the tenants to suffer. Our current income may be less than it used to be, but it is guaranteed. The same cannot be said for the tenants, who are at the mercy of Redrock’s owner. After Bellows left, I realized that the estate was doomed. But I could not abandon the families who had served my grandfather, so I bought land they could work jointly – they’ve time enough, for even with Watts’s help, half of their own land lies fallow.”
His mouth was hanging open. Never had he met anyone who would consider such an arrangement. “Where did you find the money?” he finally asked.
“Most came from the repayment of my loan to Redrock. The rest was our profit that year. Our needs are simple and can be met by our guaranteed income. The project has cost me nothing beyond the land itself. The tenants split the profits. Watts donates his time – probably to assuage his guilt.”
“So that is how the tenants maintain their own homes.”
She nodded. “I believe you will find Watts knowledgeable about the latest agricultural theories.”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, chuckling. “Does your property include a house?”
“Would you use it?”
“Of course not!” he snapped, abandoning the intimacy that had crept into their exchange.
“I thought not.” She shook her head, sadness dulling her gray eyes. “Had one existed, I would have suggested it yesterday, but I bought only land.”
He was distracted by her sensuous lips, nearly missing the rest of her admission.
“If I’d known then how bad things would become, I would have bought a full estate and left. We could have lived more comfortably and the tenants would not be in such straits. But I considered only land that would be convenient to Redrock. None of those parcels held homes.”
He straightened. “So he destroyed Redrock to hurt you?”
She shrugged. “It no longer matters.”
“But it does,” he insisted. “If Ashburton hates you, he might trap me into some new plot against you. I need to understand the dangers, so I can avoid them.”
Terror blossomed in her eyes. “Then you had best leave. Believe me, if he decides to use you, he will make your life a living hell. Nothing ever stops him – not honor, not decency, not even sanity. If only I had understood sooner, but I didn’t. Don’t fall into the same trap.”
It was clear that she feared her uncle, seeing him as an omnipotent demon. “I can care for myself, and I assure you that I will never treat you like that,” he said firmly.
“We shall see. In my experience, men do whatever they wish according to the desire of the moment.”
“Men are not all alike, Miss Ashburton.”
“So you say, but I would rather err on the side of safety,” she snapped, turning away.
The subject was closed. They spent the next hour discussing Redrock. When he left, his head reeled with questions, but few of them concerned estate matters. Why the devil had Ashburton involved him? And why had the man wasted ten years and nearly fifty thousand guineas persecuting two women? Some men would kill for a fortune that large.
Then there was Mrs. Ashburton’s own family. They should have stepped in to protect her. Was she an orphan, or did her father lack pow
er? Perhaps she’d married above her station.
Yet that still failed to explain Ashburton’s behavior. Even men who despised Cits would hardly waste a fortune on one who posed no threat. As near as he could tell, neither Miss Ashburton nor her mother had made any effort to enter society.
This did explain the lease, however. Ashburton’s father had expected this battle, which meant the grievance had roots long in the past and must be aimed at the mother.
But the real victim was Miss Ashburton. She should not be shut away in the country, nursing a sick mother and scheming to help needy tenants. Most ladies her age had long since produced the requisite heir and a spare and were now enjoying life. Her father had been a viscount’s heir. Helping her take her rightful place in the world could solve both their problems. She would marry and join society, and he would gain full use of his property. Mrs. Ashburton could either live with her daughter or move to the dower house.
He was reviewing names of eligible gentleman when carriages approached along the drive. He opened the front door. Acting as his own butler would signal the hardships that awaited his friends. He could find Miss Ashburton a suitable match after everyone departed.
* * * *
Hope sighed as she locked the door behind Lord Merimont. He was not at all what she had expected of a disreputable rakehell. How did he know so much about agriculture? Even Squire Porter – who willingly answered all her questions and followed Coke’s experiments with fanatical interest – knew less than Merimont. He must have studied the subject, though such concern did not fit his reputation.
Even when he was not staring at her with heat in his eyes – she had to admit that such evidence of debauchery was flattering, for he made no move to force her – his wit made him the most attractive man she’d ever met. If this was typical of rakes, she must forgive her mother for becoming ensnared by one. Only constant reminders of the danger he represented had kept her eyes off his broad shoulders and twinkling blue eyes.