An Inheritance for the Birds

by Linda Banche

  Such a sweet smile. If they had met under other circumstances, she might have sought his attentions. Her lips curved in response and her stomach fluttered in an unfamiliar manner. “Good morning.” To distract herself from the curious sensation, she smoothed her skirts as she approached the sideboard. “I trust your sleep was undisturbed after I removed Esmeralda.”

  “Yes, thank you.” He pulled out the chair beside him.

  Angela selected scrambled eggs and bacon from the dishes offered and smiled again as she took the offered chair. Gracious, how tall he was. Somehow, she hadn’t noticed last night. Her stomach fluttered again. Ignoring the bewildering feeling, she snapped open her napkin a little harder than required before settling it on her lap.

  She selected a scone from the central dish and slathered raspberry jam over it. She bit into the pastry and closed her eyes in bliss. “I do so love Mrs. Henley’s scones.”

  “I agree.” He buttered his own scone. “Along the way from my bedchamber, I counted five ducks. I encountered more ducks than people.”

  “We have fourteen ducks living in the house.”

  He choked. “That many?”

  “But we do not see them all that often. The mansion is large and they have the run of most of the place.”

  “Then I may meet a duck when I least expect to.” A good-natured smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like last night.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Someone must have left your door open. We must be extremely careful about closing off rooms or the ducks will invade the entire house.”

  “A wise move.” He reached for another scone and stopped. His eyebrows pinched together and he slanted a peculiar look her way. He shifted his chair a little farther away from her.

  What was amiss with Mr. Winnington? Angela took a too-large bite of her scone and coughed.

  After a brief hesitation, Mr. Winnington patted her on the back. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She wiped the crumbs from her lips with her napkin. “Right as a trivet now.”

  “Good.” He opened his mouth, and that same strange expression overspread his face. Snapping his jaw shut, he moved his chair a few more inches away.

  Gracious, was something under the table?

  Puzzlement creasing his features, he rose and pulled his chair to the side. He lifted the edge of the tablecloth and leaned back to peer under the table. Muttering, he dropped the linen and then proceeded to the sideboard. After selecting another rasher of bacon and some strawberries and grapes, he set his plate down and moved his chair even farther from hers before he sat. “I would like to tour the property today. Can you tell me where to find the steward, Mr. Lloyd?”

  She blinked. What unusual behavior. What was going on? Shaking the thought away, she cleared her throat. “Mr. Lloyd retired two years ago. I ran into our current steward, Mr. Jones, this morning as he left the stable. He was on his way to check for storm damage. He should be back by this afternoon. I can introduce you then.”

  He nodded and took a bite of bacon. All of a sudden, he jerked. His eyebrows flew up and he turned slitted eyes her way. “Miss Stratton, please stop rubbing against my leg.”

  “What? I have not…Oh, no!” She flipped up the hem of the tablecloth and stuck her head under the table.

  Mr. Winnington leaped away, his chair falling backwards with a clatter. “Miss Stratton, please—” He choked out the words.

  “Obadiah, you bad bird, come out from under there at once!” She straightened and held up the tablecloth edge.

  A mallard drake waddled into view. The bird took one look at Mr. Winnington and hurtled toward him. He rubbed his bill along Mr. Winnington’s top boot.

  The shock on Mr. Winnington’s face dissolved into laughter. “So you are the one who brushed against me.” He bent and picked up the bird. The drake nestled against his chest and rubbed his head against his new friend’s waistcoat. “Affectionate thing.”

  “Found a new chum, have you, Obadiah?” She patted the bird’s head. “You are fortunate. Obadiah is very particular. He bites most men, but has taken a fancy to you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Obadiah.” He stroked the duck’s feathery back. The drake expelled a blissful quack. “I have no idea why you like me and not other men, but I wager you and I will become bosom bows.” Obadiah quacked again as Mr. Winnington sat back down and settled the bird in his lap. Red flared in Mr. Winnington’s cheeks. “I apologize for my accusation, Miss Stratton. Although I saw the duck fly into the parlor, I had no idea he had hidden under the table.”

  “No offense taken.” Gracious, did women often fondle him under the tablecloth? She swallowed. Why did that idea bother her? And why had the parlor suddenly grown so hot? Forcing the thought away, she took a bite of her eggs.

  He offered the drake a bit of his scone, which the bird readily snapped up. Mr. Winnington, his light brown eyes dancing with merriment, laughed and then bit into his bacon.

  Something inside Angela melted. Mr. Winnington was really quite sweet. Especially after that embarrassing interlude with the duck. She gave a mental wince. Last night, she had been vastly rude, but the idea of losing her home had vexed her ever since she had learned of this ludicrous contest.

  Too bad she would have to disturb their new-found accord. She swallowed her eggs. “I have already dispatched the maids to Mr. Jones’s house to set your bedchamber to rights. You will be able to sleep there tonight.”

  His face, so amiable before, took on a rock-like cast. “I will stay here. I cannot ‘keep the ducks happy’ if I spend half my time in the steward’s house.”

  “But you must move. I have no companion.”

  His frustration melted into concern. “You have lived here alone since Aunt Augusta died? Then that is what Bates meant last night. You should have told me you had no chaperon. I would have returned to the village.”

  “You arrived very late, and the weather was too inclement to send you back into the dark. But you can understand why you must reside elsewhere.”

  “Yes.” His eyes half-hooded with thought, he stroked Obadiah, the drake still happily snuggling into his waistcoat. “Can one of your relatives live here for the duration of the contest?”

  She shook her head. “Any relations I have are so distant I barely know their names.”

  “Is there a suitable lady in Theale you can hire?”

  She tapped her forefinger on her chin. “Now that I think on it, yes, there is. Mrs. Sophia Castin is the widow of a Wells barrister, and she could use some cash. But I do not have any funds. Since Lady Bridges’s death, all her assets are frozen until the outcome of our contest. Mr. Holt provides only the money necessary for maintenance.”

  He frowned. “Well, what if we hire you a companion, and whoever wins the competition pays the lady?”

  “A capital idea, and most generous of you, Mr. Winnington.”

  “Generous, if I win. If you win, the expense will be yours.”

  “I will most gladly pay my companion when I win.”

  He cocked an amused eyebrow at the word “when,” but he grinned. “We shall see.” He extended his hand. “Agreed?”

  She shook his hand. His skin was warm and his hold firm without being overpowering. Most men’s grips were too harsh when they shook hands with a woman. Apparently, he had no need to prove himself physically stronger than she. Another point in his favor.

  His touch also set off those unusual little flutters through her stomach. “Agreed. And I will write to Mr. Holt so neither of us forgets our bargain.”

  ****

  Kit smiled at her mischievous grin. She thought to get the better of him. We shall see. But he already had had some success. She hadn’t banished him to the steward’s residence. He could afford to be magnanimous.

  Today, she wore her waist-length golden hair up in a simple twist, the sunlight sparking bronze fire in the silken locks. Several wispy tendrils had escaped to frame her face. Her dark eyes sparkled with good humor a
nd her berry-red mouth curved in a smile to match. She was short and slender, and her pale blue dress complemented her flawless skin. Why had his mind pictured her as ugly?

  He held her hand a little longer than necessary. Her skin was soft, her clasp firm, unusual in a woman. Most women’s hands drooped like limp noodles in a man’s grasp.

  And her eyes were a striking shade of violet blue. He had wondered all night. Last evening’s warmth returned to his chest.

  Enjoying the feeling, he spilled Obadiah onto the floor, the duck emitting a disgruntled quack. They finished their breakfast in pleasant conversation.

  Their newly discovered amity was so enjoyable, he was reluctant to leave her. But, at last, he could delay no longer. He placed his napkin beside his plate and pushed back from the table. “I have not seen Apple Tree Manor for four years. Mr. Holt said Aunt Augusta bought more land. Since I cannot talk to Mr. Jones until later, I will explore a bit now.”

  “The new estate map is in the library, if you want to see the extent of the additions. Do you intend to return for the noon meal?”

  “Yes. I plan only a short tour.”

  She nodded and scooped up Obadiah, who had again nestled against Kit’s boot. “And I will walk to Theale and ask Mrs. Castin if she would like to become my companion. Until later, then.”

  Kit pulled her chair out as she stood. His gaze swung down to the gentle sway of her hips as she quit the parlor. He ran a finger under his collar. Damned if he hadn’t been shocked when he felt that rubbing on his leg. At first, he had thought she intended to seduce him in order to win the contest. His heart had almost stopped when she stuck her head under the table, dangerously near his privates.

  At the same time, the idea of her head near his privates was highly arousing. He gave himself a mental shake. Stop thinking such thoughts! You need to stay focused on winning the estate.

  After fetching his hat, now dry and clean from the housekeeper’s ministrations, and checking the estate map, he exited from the back door. Behind the house were the stable, barn, dairy, and washhouse, as he remembered. Each sported a new coat of paint. A quick glance into the neat stable revealed fewer horses than he recalled from his last visit, but cows and goats filled the barn. A maid carrying a basket of laundry greeted him with a shy smile when he passed her on her way from the washhouse.

  After securing a spirited stallion from Tom, the stable master, who had worked here longer than Kit could remember, Kit ranged over the Somerset Levels to Apple Tree Manor’s former edges and farther afield to the new boundaries. He passed acres of the neat apple orchards which had given the holding its name, and silvery groves of long-leaved willow trees, whose bark provided the material for the region’s famous baskets.

  He pulled his horse to a halt in an extensive apple orchard, the trees frothy clouds of pink blossoms, and breathed in the flowers’ delicate scent. Aunt Augusta had done well. Although the property was twice as large as before, all the fields were under cultivation and the tenants’ cottages well-maintained. Mr. Lloyd had done a good job, but Mr. Jones had made significant improvements after his predecessor’s retirement.

  His tour completed, he circled back to the mansion. At the front entrance, a footman took his hat and Kit strolled down the corridor, glancing into each room along the way. Sunbeams sparkled off gleaming furniture and the scent of beeswax polish filled the air. The house was in as good repair as the lands.

  His stomach growled, and he headed toward the dining room. He glanced into the study as he passed. Miss Stratton, her forehead furrowed, sat at the massive oak desk. Books scattered around her, she wrote on the sheet of foolscap before her.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Stratton.”

  She looked up from her writing. With a cordial smile, she leaned back in her chair. “Good afternoon, Mr. Winnington. Are you ready for luncheon? I believe Bates has readied the food in the dining room.”

  “I was on my way there.” He entered and ran his fingers over a row of leather-bound ledgers in the bookcase beside him. “I remember this place as Great Uncle Julius’s study.”

  “After his death, Lady Bridges converted this room into her office. In addition to the land, she also dealt in stocks and bonds, and I helped her with them.”

  “Do you still handle her funds?”

  “Mr. Holt directed me to continue until the end of the contest.” She smoothed the paper before her. “But this account is mine.”

  He lowered himself into the leather chair before the desk. “How did you come to manage money?”

  “I have long had an interest in finance. My father was the third son of a baron and he worked as a stock jobber at the London Stock Exchange. Money ventures fascinated him, and I picked up his enthusiasm. He taught me how to research investments and when to buy and sell. One can make a goodly profit trafficking in bonds and mortgages.” She gathered the books and papers into a neat pile. “Lady Bridges visited from time to time to see my great-grandmother, who came to live with us after Mama died. When Papa passed away, she offered me a position as her companion. She knew of my interest in financial affairs and gave me a little money with which to experiment. When I doubled the amount in a month, she let me manage some of her funds. Eventually, I oversaw all her investments.”

  “How have you done with joint stock ventures?”

  Her face clouded. “I stay away from them. Every partner is liable if the venture does not succeed. My father made the mistake of investing in the only one he handled that failed. We lost everything. I think the mistake killed him.”

  “My condolences.”

  She pushed the stack to the side and folded her hands on the blotter. She raised her head, a sad smile curving her lips. “And you, sir, what do you do?”

  “I hail from Suffolk. My father is a baronet with an estate there. My interest has always been the land. When I was a boy, I followed our steward around the property, asking questions. After Cambridge, I returned home and worked with him for three years.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “But you came from London. What happened?”

  “Our steward retired this past winter. My older brother wanted me as steward, so I would have everything well in hand by the time he inherited.” He hunched a shoulder. “The two of us failed to convince Father. He hired someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “Father is somewhat old-fashioned. Since I am the second son, he expected me to join the army. But the military holds no appeal for me, and with Napoleon defeated, the country is awash with half-pay officers. For a while, he accepted my arguments against the army, but when our old steward retired, he started in again. When I refused a commission, he hired a new steward and stopped my allowance, thinking to force me to his bidding. Since he had never paid me for my work with the old steward, I had to find salaried employment. I inquired about steward jobs at other landholdings, but nothing turned up. My brother was angry at Father’s decision and secured me a place in London as secretary to Lord Hanger.”

  “So you took that position. A happy ending.”

  He grimaced. “Not quite. I thought being a secretary meant writing letters, keeping track of Lord Hanger’s appointments, and such. Instead, I accompanied him to his so-called ‘business meetings’—his lordship’s euphemism for drinking parties. My task was to bring Lord Hanger, always soused to the gills, back home.” He slumped against the chair back. “How I despised those long nights in shut-in rooms full of stale tobacco smoke and cup-shot men.”

  “I am sorry. Hating your job must be dreadful.”

  He shrugged. “Not as dreadful as having no job at all. When I asked Lord Hanger for a two-month leave to attempt to secure this inheritance, he turned me off.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Then you have nothing to return to.”

  “My plight is not so hard as you might think. I plan to observe Mr. Jones’s work, and help him, if he lets me. Thanks to the additional experience, I may convince a landowner to hire me. At the least, I will receive the ann
uity and can keep looking.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “And you, what about you?”

  “At the least, I too would receive the annuity.” She sat back, a world of weariness in the gesture. “I suppose I could teach, although I never cared for spoiled brats. With my knowledge of finance, I would attempt to increase the annuity.”

  “Sounds like we would make a good team. I would work the land, and you would invest our profits.”

  Her expression became pensive. “Yes, perhaps we would.”

  All of a sudden, their easy accord sparked into something different. Miss Stratton, with her lovely features and intelligent mind, was no longer merely a friendly competitor. Her very presence shot a bolt hotter than the sultry summer sun straight through him.

  Astonishment flared in her violet eyes. Did the same feeling strike her, too?

  Her gaze darted away and she fiddled with the stack of books and papers. Still without looking at him, she stood and dusted off her fingers. Her hands trembled. “Shall we have luncheon?” Her voice was hoarse.

  He also stood, surprised he could remain upright after the earthquake that had rocked his world. Say something! “Did you find Mrs. Castin?”

  “Yes.” Her attention now directed to the floor, she rounded the desk to his side. “She is most willing to accept the post. She will arrive before dinner.”

  “Good. Then I can keep my room here.”

  Her head jerked up, and a slow smile curled one side of her mouth. “Indeed.” She looked down her nose and drew out the word.

  The tension shattered.

  All of a sudden, Kit’s day blazed with joy. With a laugh, he offered her his arm and they quit the study.

  A tall, heavy-set man, tapping his wide-brimmed straw hat on his thigh, approached them down the passage.

  Miss Stratton stopped. “Oh, Mr. Jones, just the person I wanted to see.”

  The steward’s face lit with pleasure. “What can I do for you, Miss Stratton?” As Angela introduced Kit, Mr. Jones’s expression cooled.