“Like Kit?” Dev asked.
A flash of emotion crossed the boy’s face before it shuttered up. He gave a taut nod.
“When did they die?” Dev asked, wondering how long Miss Kendall had overseen the household. For despite her brother’s presence, in matters pertaining to the family and the house and its day to day running, Charity Kendall was Lord and Master, skirts notwithstanding.
“Just after Jane was born,” John said, frowning over his cards. “Charity says it was a harsh winter. The birth weakened our mother and she never recovered. Her death hit our father hard from what Kit told me. The illness took hold and he died not long after her.”
For a moment the troubling picture of a young Charity nursing her dying parents and caring for a newborn and a three-year-old boy flickered behind Dev’s eyes. He suspected she was in her mid-twenties now, so seven years ago she’d have been eighteen, if that. Dev watched the boy, intent on his cards now, and wondered if he ought at least express his sympathies. He suspected the child had heard it all before though, and it would change nothing.
“Come along, then,” he said instead, impatiently as John looked up at him. “I haven’t got all day. Are you playing this game or not, you young varmint? I intend to wipe the floor with you.”
John grinned at him, his freckled face full of amusement. “Damned if you will, sir,” he said, the curse word leaving his mouth with gusto.
Dev snorted and gave an approving nod. “That’s more like it.”
***
The next morning, Dev’s head felt a little less like it might roll from his shoulders and hit the floor at the slightest provocation. That being the case, and having spent another idle morning and most of the afternoon going out of his mind with boredom, he ventured down the stairs.
John had been busy with chores and so hadn’t had time to win back the rest of the money he’d lost. It amounted to a rather startling seventy-five guineas now but Dev could tell that the boy was coming about. He’d won two of the last five hands and Dev had taught him a few of the tricks the unscrupulous could use to prey on greenhorns who knew no better. If the boy wanted to play such games, it would be as well to know the pitfalls that lay in wait for the inexperienced.
Raised voices reached his ears from what he suspected was the door to the kitchen. Miss Kendall’s familiar and somewhat strident tones were easy enough to identify.
“Well, whoever this dreadful Blackehart fellow is, I hope he finds him. With luck he’ll challenge the damned rakehell to a duel and bloody well shoot him through his shrivelled-up heart.”
Dev’s eyebrows raised at the vehemence with which she had spoken the words. For a woman who disapproved of swearing she had a rather impressive vocabulary.
“Charity Kendall!” The sound of an older woman’s censorious voice quieted the clamorous din of whatever was being discussed.
“I’m sorry, Batty,” Miss Kendall replied, sounding anything but. “But the man is a scoundrel and it would serve him right to reap what he’s sown.”
Dev could hear pans clattering as someone moved about the room.
“If this Blackehart owns the man as people are saying, everything makes perfect sense.”
“How does it?” Mrs Baxter asked.
Dev frowned, glad the older woman had raised the question he couldn’t ask. The name Blackehart had started his heart thudding in his chest, but he was damned if he knew why.
“Because that’s why the viscount is selling the farm.” Kit’s voice this time, grim and angry.
The conversation carried on behind the door as Dev’s chest grew tighter and their words circled his brain. There was something familiar about whatever it was they were talking about, something that made his skin prickle with alarm and recognition.
The kitchen door swung open, making him give a guilty start as Miss Kendall stepped through, almost walking into him.
“You!” she exclaimed, anger in her voice.
Dev’s mind was still reeling, but he could not help but note the fact her dress was old and faded, the sleeves rolled up, showing sun-browned arms. Her hair tumbled about her face, dishevelled and wild, and her cheeks glowed, flushed from the heat of the kitchen. There was a floury smudge on her chin.
Caught off balance by the heat of her anger, Dev took an involuntary step back as Miss Kendall advanced on him.
“You,” she repeated, stabbing him in the chest with her finger. “I want a word with you.”
“I am at your service, madam,” Dev replied, sneering and retreating into his iciest manner, trying to find himself on surer ground.
“He’s ten years old, for heaven’s sake! Is it normal, for a man of your age and experience to corrupt a little boy when you are a guest in someone else’s house?” she demanded, her dark eyes filled with rage.
“What the devil are you on about?” Dev replied as Miss Kendall snorted and folded her arms, glaring at him with such contempt a lesser man might well have blanched.
“Gambling, swearing, and drinking too!” she threw back at him with the righteous indignation of a priest casting the devil into hell.
Dev stared at her for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing.
“You think it’s a laughing matter?” she exclaimed, looking very much like she wanted to put her hands about his throat and squeeze.
“No,” Dev said, shaking his head. “Not in the least. The boy ought to have learnt such things on his own account by now but being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a harridan and a poet has deprived him of a proper upbringing.”
To his immense satisfaction the virago before him stared with a shocked countenance, open-mouthed and speechless. Seeing Miss Kendall stunned into silence was quite a treat. Naturally, it didn’t last.
“A proper upbringing?” she repeated, the words faint, though the glint in her eyes promised retribution. “I suppose that’s the upbringing you were given, Mr Nobody? If so, that explains a great deal about the kind of shallow, arrogant, pompous… morally lacking….”
To his amusement she floundered, her fury running ahead of her tongue as she searched for a sufficiently dire description of his lamentable character.
“Rakehell?” he supplied, raising one eyebrow in query.
“If the cap fits,” she snarled, unfolding her arms and clenching her fists.
For a moment Dev wondered if she might strike him. The desire to do so shone in her eyes.
“One day,” he said, ensuring his voice remained the bored drawl of a man who believed the conversation beneath him, “if you do your job well and don’t tie the lad to your apron strings forever, he will venture out into the world. He’ll be eager for a taste of life, as all young men are. Do you think it better for him to go into that world prepared for the tricks that might be played on him and with conversation that will welcome him into the company of like-minded young men?” He tilted his head to better observe something that might have been a glimmer of doubt in Miss Kendall’s eyes. “Or would you send him into the world unprepared, an innocent lamb to the slaughter?”
“He’s ten,” she repeated, her voice implacable. “I’m not expecting him to catch the next mail coach to the big city just yet.”
“No, indeed,” Dev replied, affable now. “Yet I am only here for a short time, God willing.” Miss Kendall snorted, looking as unimpressed as a woman who dressed as a serving maid could look when addressing a man far above her station. She did a remarkably fine job of it. “And you did all this out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”
It was Dev’s turn to snort now as he returned a scathing look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was bored out of my mind. I had to do something.”
Miss Kendall opened her mouth and shut it again, rendered speechless for the second time that afternoon.
“Stay away from John,” she said, her tone quiet but furious. “No more gambling, swearing, and certainly no drinking!”
She turned on her heel and headed back into the kitchen, banging the
door behind her.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Dev shook his head. Wondering why the devil he was bothered, he slammed his palm against the door and followed her in. “He had barely a third of a glass, with water!”
Miss Kendall turned around in shock. He suspected no one had ever dared pursue an argument in the face of her temper before, and that drove him to push even harder.
“He wanted to feel like a man instead of a little boy for once in his sorry life!”
To his astonishment, Miss Kendall just stared at him, her eyes filling with tears. Before he could say anything further she fled the kitchen. Dev stood there, wishing there wasn’t a creeping sense of guilt working its way under his skin. Damn, but the woman put his hackles up. It was her fault not his, he reasoned, wondering why that didn’t make him feel better as a tsking sound came from the far side of the room.
“Well, then. You’re the mystery man who’s setting the house on its ears, no doubt.”
Dev turned to find a short, stout woman regarding him with curiosity
“Sit yourself down,” she commanded, gesturing to the table.
Dev did as she told him, wrong footed once more and at a loss for any other options. The woman bustled about and placed a frothing tankard of ale before him, along with a slice of what might have been game pie. Dev’s eyes lit up as his mouth watered in anticipation, and he took a large bite.
“Mmmm, meat,” he mumbled through the crumbliest, lightest pastry he’d ever tasted. “One more mouthful of cheese and I feared I would squeak,” he admitted, reaching for the tankard of ale.
The woman snorted, pushed her curly grey hair back from her flushed face, and chuckled. “Aye, and whose fault is that, then? That’s what you get for complaining in this house.”
Dev frowned at her and she shook her head.
“The doc said to keep you on simple fare for the first few days. After you complained about it, Charity decided it would do you good to keep to the same diet rather longer.”
“Ah.” Dev snorted. Touché, Miss Kendall. “I see.”
He ate the rest of the slice in three large bites and pushed his empty plate away as the woman pulled up the chair beside him. She placed a full basket before her and two empty bowls. She slid one bowl in front of Dev, who stared at it and then at her.
“If you’re well enough to go battling Miss Kendall and eating my pie, you’re well enough to lend a hand. Get to it,” she added, gesturing to the basket full of short, fat, green pods.
“I beg your pardon?” Dev replied, stunned.
“Surely you stole peas from the garden as a lad?” She picked up a pod and squeezed it. The bright green casing gave a soft pop and split open, revealing a row of juicy peas, nestled vivid and jewel-like in their silky container. She reached for another and handed it to him.
Dev stared at her, and then took the pod, curious despite himself. She grinned at him as he popped the casing.
“Satisfying, isn’t it?” Dev ran his finger along the pod, scattering the peas into the china bowl as the woman had showed him. Strangely enough, she was right. He reached for another pod, and popped it open, this time stealing two peas. They were fresh and sweet, full of sunshine.
“Here, none of that,” she scolded, though there was laughter in her eyes. “You want to eat my pie, you work for it, scape grace.”
For just a moment her words transported Dev to his childhood and the last nanny he’d had before they had sent him away to school. An image of his father swam behind his eyes and the wash of hurt and loneliness that followed it stunned him. What the devil? How could he remember that and not his own name? He let out a breath, surprised and unsettled by the memory.
“Come along. then,” she urged, watching him with something that might have been concern in her warm eyes.
Dev cleared his throat and scattered the rest of the peas into the bowl.
“You’re Mrs Baxter?” he asked by way of conversation as he reached for another pod.
“I am,” she said, her stubby fingers working far faster than Dev’s. Her bowl already had a gleaming pile of peas in the bottom. “Batty they call me,” she said, rolling her eyes, though it was clear the affection nickname gave her pleasure. “My husband, Ralph Baxter, works here too. We’ve been here since we were first married. Worked for their grandpa to begin with, after his wife died, then for their parents, and now for them. ‘Bout forty years, I suppose.”
She sent him a curious glance, frowning a little. “You reckon you were born in these parts? Can’t tell by your accent.
Dev laughed and gave a shrug. “I don’t know for certain, but yes, I think so. The landscape feels like….” The word home came to mind, only to be dismissed. It didn’t feel like home, but it felt familiar. “Like I know it well.”
“Young John likes you,” Mrs Baxter said, her voice mild though there was a shrewd look in her eyes as Dev turned to look at her.
“Miss Kendall, on the other hand, does not,” he replied, his tone dry.
“Well,” Mrs Baxter said, getting up to pour herself a tankard of ale, “you can hardly blame her for that. You’re not exactly a gent, are you?” She turned and gave him a narrow-eyed look. “And there’s little point in telling me I’m no lady. I know it better than you, so you can hold your tongue.”
Dev did just that, torn between amusement and indignation.
“You weren’t far out, mind,” Mrs Baxter said, her inflection softer now as Dev frowned. “She does coddle the boy rather. He knows the land well enough to go hunting alone but she won’t let him, and there’s no harm in him learning to cuss and play cards if you ask me. She’s afraid of messing up though, trying to be mother and father to the lad and after everything it’s not surprising. She lost so much, so young, and what with Kit….”
He watched, alarmed as the woman’s voice grew thick, but she took a deep drink of her ale and cleared her throat.
“Well, anyway. She’s the motherly sort and she’s so afraid of failing them, of doing the wrong thing. It plays on her mind.” Mrs Baxter sighed and set down her ale, returning her attention to the peas. “Poor thing never had the chance to consider her own future, between her parents and Kit, and running this place.” Mrs Baxter looked up at him. “She’s no idea what it is to let her hair down, to have fun or not be the one in charge. Never got a glimpse at romance either or even dreamed of falling in love, I reckon. Kit went away to school, you see, and Charity stayed here, bringing up the little ones and keeping the place going.”
Dev stared at the pea pod in his hand, lost in thought until Mrs Baxter elbowed him.
“If you want dinner at any point this evening….” With a huff, Dev returned to his work.
Chapter 5
“Wherein if you can’t say anything nice… hold your damn tongue.”
By the time dinner was ready, Charity had rediscovered her equilibrium. The day to day running of the farm usually soothed her temper, and if perhaps she’d spent a little too long explaining her irritation to the pigs so be it. They were good listeners and it had made her feel better. There was little doubt in her mind that their guest, for lack of a better term, was a rake and a scoundrel. What such a man had been doing in these parts alone, and at such an hour of the morning, she could not imagine. The suspicion he knew Lord Devlin, and had perhaps even been on his way to visit him, was something that inspired no further warmth for him. He was just the kind of rude, hateful person she could imagine carousing with the viscount. Living in the middle of nowhere as they did, little gossip about the outside world reached their ears, but tales of Devlin’s excesses were legend.
The nagging suspicion that his words about John might have had a grain of truth to them did not ease her rage. If she was honest, that fact only made her even angrier. How dare he come in here with his snooty voice and hands that had never seen a day’s work in his life, and criticise her efforts to raise her family as she saw fit?
She took a deep breath, aware that her equilibrium was rath
er more lost than she’d realised.
Hurrying out of her workaday clothes she washed in cool water, grateful for the shock of the damp cloth against her hot skin. Charity slipped on her only ‘best’ dress, a simple white cotton gown, tidied her hair as best she could, and hurried downstairs. The fragrant scent of roast chicken stuffed with herbs drifted from the kitchen as pushed open the door.
“It’s all done, dearie,” Mrs Baxter said, waving her away. “Go and sit, Baxter’s just taken the potatoes in.”
“You’re a wonder, Batty. Thank you.” Charity smiled, guilt at having abandoned the poor woman in her temper making her feel crosser than ever with the wretched man occupying the guest bedroom. Still, at least she didn’t have to look at him… over dinner.
Charity halted in the doorway, gritting her teeth at the sight before her. John looked up and grinned at her from beside her nemesis.
“Look, Charity, our guest is well enough to join us now. Isn’t it splendid?”
Charity’s jaw tightened further as the despicable man quirked a dark eyebrow at her. She refrained from answering. As her mother had always said, if you can’t say anything nice….
They all sat and endured as Mr Baxter cleared his throat and read a passage from the bible. Charity always wondered how he reconciled his beliefs in supernatural creatures and omens with his love of the good book, but he wasn’t one for philosophical discussions.
“I think Pipkin is a lovely name,” Jane commented once the sermon was over and grace had been said. The little girl reached out to take a slice of bread from the basket beside her. “I had a rabbit called Pipkin.”
“It’s hardly a man’s name, you goosecap,” John replied, giving his younger sister an impatient look. “I think Arthur is a good name.” He turned to their guest, whose pale blue eyes rested on him with amusement.
“Like the king?” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Charity’s eye over the table.
Charity and The Devil (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 11) Page 4