The talk of spirits and witches didn’t bother him so much as did the fact that they were connected to his property. He’d risked everything to come here. Hell, he’d left the earldom unprotected, having turned the day-to-day affairs entirely over to his steward and solicitors. He could trust them, of course, and if he was wrong on that account he’d left his close friend, Benedict DeBreed, in charge to ensure he wasn’t. He had protections in place, but still, if he’d been Trojan Horsed...well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. He’d find a way to make it work.
Ren climbed up on to the wagon and squeezed in next to Kitt. He decided to ease into the conversation. ‘Thanks again for coming to get me.’
‘I’m glad to do it, although I’m sure someone from the plantation would have been happy to come out.’ Kitt chirped to the horse and caught his eye when Ren said nothing. ‘They do know you’re coming, don’t they?’ He paused, interpreting the silence correctly. ‘Oh, hell, they don’t know.’
‘Not exactly,’ Ren said slowly. ‘I wasn’t sure there would be a “they” out there. I assumed Cousin Merrimore was the only one in residence.’ By the time he’d rethought that hypothesis it had been too late to send a letter.
Kitt shifted on the seat next to him and Ren’s sense of foreboding grew. ‘Well, out with it, Kitt. Tell me what’s wrong at Sugarland. Are there really witches and spirits?’ Ren absently fingered the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Bridgetown was behind them now and there was an overwhelming sense of isolation knowing that they’d just left the only town on the island behind. For a city man used to having entertainments, food and anything else he needed at his fingertips or at least within a few streets, it was a daunting prospect indeed, a reminder of the enormity of what he’d chosen to do. He would be relying on himself and himself alone. It would be a true test of his strength and knowledge.
Kitt shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business out there—of course, I don’t know the half of it. I’m gone most weeks.’ Ren didn’t believe that for a moment. Kitt was the sort who knew everyone and knew everything.
‘You don’t have to sugar-coat anything for me,’ Ren said sternly. ‘I want to know what I’m up against.’ Had he taken on more than he could manage? Assumptions were dangerous things and he’d made a few about Cousin Merrimore’s property, but he’d had no choice. It was either marry the heiress or gamble on the inheritance.
Kitt gave another of his shrugs. ‘It’s the apprenticeship programme. It’s a great source of controversy in the parish.’
Ren nodded. ‘I am familiar with it.’ Slavery in the British Caribbean had been abolished a couple of years ago. It had been replaced with the notion of apprenticeship. The idea was decent in theory: pay the former slaves who were willing to work the land they’d once worked for free. In practice, the situation was not far different than slavery.
Kitt went on. ‘Finding enough labour has been difficult. The plantation owners feel they’re losing too much money so they work the labourers to the bone, to death actually. As you can imagine, no one wants to work for those wages. Death doesn’t really recommend itself.’
Great, his fields were rotting and there was no one to hire. But Kitt’s next words riveted his attention. ‘Except at Sugarland and that’s what has all the neighbours angry.’
Ren let the thought settle. He tried to dissect the comment and couldn’t make sense of it. ‘You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid.’
Kitt did. ‘The plantation owners refuse to use the apprentice system fairly, except Sugarland. Anyone who wants field work, wants to work there where they are assured of a wage and safe conditions. As a result, Sugarland is the only place producing a significant profit right now.’ That was good news. Ren breathed a little easier, but just for a moment. Kitt wasn’t done.
‘Someone put it about a few months ago, at the time of your cousin’s death, that spirits were luring workers to Sugarland, that the woman running the place was in league with practitioners of black magic and that’s why the plantation was successful. Since then, the rumours have multiplied: she’s cursed the neighbouring crops, she’s put a growing spell on her own.’
‘Wait. Hold on.’ Ren grasped the information one idea at a time. Spells? Witchcraft? A woman?
Kitt took pity on him, misunderstanding the source of his agitation. ‘I know, the whole concept of black magic takes a bit of getting used to. The islands are full of it. The islands have their own names for it: voodoo, obeah. It’s from Africa. It’s full of superstitions and ghosts and spells.’
Ren thought of the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Black magic was the least of his concerns. ‘No, it’s not that. Back up to the part about a woman. There’s a woman at the plantation?’ Cousin Merrimore’s will hadn’t said a thing about anyone, certainly not a woman.
Kitt nodded and said with the most seriousness Ren had ever heard him use. ‘Her name is Emma Ward.’
A pit opened in his stomach and Ren knew with gut-clenching clarity there was no ‘they’. There was no absentee landlord syndicate to write monthly updates to. There was only a ‘she’. The other forty-nine per cent belonged to a crazy woman rumoured to be casting spells on her neighbours’ crops.
Ren was starting to rethink the merits of surprise, especially when those merits were reversed. It was one thing to be the surprise as he’d planned to be. It was another to be the one who was surprised. Ren definitely preferred the former. A more cautious man would have waited in town until he could have notified the plantation. But he’d never been one to wait and he’d never been one to shy away from a challenge. He made a habit of meeting those head on, whether those challenges were notorious females or not.
Ren leaned back on the wagon seat, letting the sun bathe his face. Ah, the Caribbean. Land of rum, risk and apparently a little insanity, too.
Chapter Two
Waiting was driving her insane! Emma Ward took yet another long look at the clock on the corner of her desk. He should be here by now, Mr Fifty-One Per Cent. If he was coming. Emma idly shuffled the papers in front of her. They could have been written in Arabic for all she’d been able to focus on them today. Emma left the desk and began to pace, a far better use of her energies than staring at a paper.
Was she technically even waiting? Waiting assumed he was actually coming. What she really wanted to know was at what point could she stop waiting and be confident in the knowledge that he wasn’t coming at all?
Her nerves were a wreck and they had been every mail day since Albert Merrimore’s death. That meant she’d gone through this uncertainty for four months. Was this the day she got the letter saying Merrimore’s cousin was coming? Or worse, would it be the day he actually showed up? Anything could happen. His ship could have been delayed, he could have been personally delayed and that was if he’d decided to come at all. It was just as likely he could have rethought the notion of coming halfway around the world simply to see his property when his profits didn’t depend on whether he saw the place or not. Most gentlemen wouldn’t bestir themselves if it wasn’t required, especially since there was some risk involved. Who was she fooling? Not some risk. A lot of risk, starting with an ocean voyage. Ships went down even in the modern age of steam.
Emma scolded herself for such a morbid thought. It wasn’t that she wished he was dead, merely marooned, her conscience clarified. It was possible his ship could founder and he could float to safety on an overturned table. For four months, she’d got her wish. How much longer before she could safely assume her wish had been granted on a more permanent basis? She didn’t wish Mr Fifty-One Per Cent dead, she just wished he weren’t here.
She had to stop calling him that. He had a name. It had been in the will and a terribly stuffy name at that. Renford Dryden. An old man’s name. But of course, what sort of relations did dear old Merry have if not old ones? Merry had been in his late eighties. A cousin couldn’t be ex
pected to be much younger. Even twenty years younger would put him in his sixties. Which perplexed her further—why a man of advanced years would want to make such a dangerous trip that would only serve to disrupt both of their lives? Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she would be safe on that front at least.
Emma wanted nothing more than to grow her sugar cane in peace and independence without the interference of men. After everything she’d been through, it wasn’t too much to ask. Men had never gone well for her, starting with her father and ending with a debacle of a marriage. The only man who’d done well by her had been old Merry and now she had his relative to contend with. She couldn’t stop him from coming, but she didn’t have to make it easy should that be his choice.
She’d already begun the campaign. She’d not written to him when she could have, explaining the situation when the solicitor had sent word to England. She’d feared a letter would be viewed as a personal invitation, as encouragement to come when that was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t sent the wagon into town on mail day these past months to see if anyone had arrived.
Guilt began to gnaw again. If he had arrived on this packet, she’d left an ageing man to fend for himself in the foreign heat. It was poorly done of her. She should have sent someone into town just to check. That was her conscience talking. She should tell Samuel to get the wagon ready and go to enquire about the mail. Emma glanced again at the clock, the knot in her stomach starting to ease. It was getting late. The threat had almost passed for another two weeks. If he was coming, he would be here by...
‘Miss! Miss!’ Hattie, one of the downstairs maids, rushed into the office, hardly attempting any pretence of decorum in her excitement. ‘It’s him, it’s our Mr Dryden! I’m sure of it. He is coming and that rascal Mr Kitt is with him!’
‘Kitt Sherard? Are you certain?’ What would the local scoundrel of a rum runner have to do with a man in his dotage? Sherard was the last person she’d want Renford Dryden to meet. Emma stopped before the mirror hung over the side table to check her appearance. Sherard was only one step above a pirate. ‘I hope he hasn’t got our guest drunk already.’ Emma muttered, tucking up a few errant stands of hair.
She wanted to make a good impression on all accounts. She had plans for that good impression and Kitt Sherard did not qualify as part of it. Emma was counting on that impression to convince Mr Dryden to sell his interest to her or, at the very least, to sail back to England secure in the knowledge that his money was in good hands, which was mostly true, she was just a bit short on funds right now. The harvest would change that.
She would gladly trade some profits for independence. The autonomy of the last four months had given her a taste of what it would be like to be on her own, to be free. She was loath to relinquish even an iota of that liberty or responsibility.
‘Do I look all right, Hattie?’ Emma smoothed the skirts of her aquamarine gown, one of her favourites. ‘Are they out front?’
‘They’re pulling up just now, miss. You look fine.’ Hattie gave her a saucy wink. ‘After two weeks on a ship, I think anything would look fine to a gent like him.’
Emma gave a dry chuckle. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Hattie.’ Satisfied with her appearance, Emma set out to meet Dryden with a brisk step as if her presence could undo any damage that had already been done. The sooner Dryden was free of Sherard, the better.
She was a little breathless in her eagerness and anxiety by the time she reached the covered porch. This was the moment she both feared and welcomed. At last, the future could begin now that Dryden was here. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, that future would be better than the limbo she’d been living in. If she could manage an entire plantation, she could certainly manage one old man.
The wagon pulled to a halt in front of the steps and she saw the flaw in her hypothesis immediately. Renford Dryden wasn’t an old man, not even a middle-aged one, but an astonishingly handsome young one. The man who jumped down from the wagon seat was certainly able bodied if those wide shoulders and long legs were anything to go on. So much for trying to caution him about the rigours of island life. He certainly looked as if he was up for it and much more.
Emma shot Hattie a sharp look that said: Why didn’t you tell me? But she supposed Hattie had warned her in her own way. She should have known something was amiss the moment Kitt Sherard’s name entered the conversation. Now she saw what it was. Up close, Renford Dryden was six feet plus of muscle topped with thick honey-blond hair and sharp blue eyes set above a strong, straight nose. He mounted the steps, oozing confidence and growing taller with each step he took. Still, he was a man and men could be managed, must be managed.
Emma took a deep breath. She needed to begin as she meant to go on. Men who weren’t managed had run roughshod over her life to date and she was done with them. Emma held out her hand to greet him as if he was precisely what she’d expected. ‘Welcome to Sugarland, Mr Dryden. We are so glad to see you.’ She hoped he couldn’t hear the lie.
His grip was firm as his hand curled around hers, sending a jolt of awareness through her. His eyes riveted on her, making her aware of the male presence of him. Never had a simple handclasp seemed so intimate. ‘I am so very glad to be here, Miss Ward.’ Was that a touch of irony she heard? Did he suspect she hadn’t been entirely truthful?
There was no chance to verify the impression. In the next moment she was very nearly lost. Renford Dryden smiled, dimple and all. It was a most wicked smile that invited the mind to imagine all sorts of pleasantly sinful things without even meaning to. He was that type of man, all charisma. But there was more to him than a charming facade. There was self-assurance and intelligence, too. Those blue eyes were assessing eyes, eyes that took nothing at face value and when they looked at her, they were shrewd and wary. It occurred to her that in these initial moments they were both doing the same thing: measuring the opponent, selecting and discarding strategies.
It didn’t take much guesswork to divine what his strategy would be. It was the strategy of all men when faced with a woman who had something they wanted. Emma stiffened her spine with a stern mental admonition to herself. She would not be wooed into giving up her independence. She had strategies of her own. It was time to teach Mr Dryden it wasn’t easy to run a sugar-cane plantation, time to lead him to the conclusion that his best choice was to leave all this in her capable hands and go back to the life he knew.
She flicked her gaze down the length of him, taking in the cut of his clothes, the expense of the materials. Here was a man of quality, a man used to luxury. Perhaps she could use that against him. Luxuries here were hard won, something men of charisma and charm weren’t used to. Those sorts usually didn’t have to work too hard to get what they wanted, especially when they were endowed with a heavy dose of self-confidence like Mr Dryden. They just smiled. But smiles didn’t harvest crops or pay the bills. Hard work was at the core of everything Sugarland had.
Emma gave him her hostess smile. ‘I have lemonade waiting on the back veranda. We can sit and talk and become acquainted, Mr Dryden.’ And he would learn how different they were and how he didn’t have to be here to reap the benefits Sugarland had to offer.
‘Call me Ren, please. No more of this Mr Dryden business,’ he insisted, stepping aside as two servants came up the stairs with his trunks.
Emma looked past him to the wagon, using the disruption to ignore the request for informality. For now she would resist the temptation. First names were usually the first step in any seduction. ‘Mr Sherard, would you care to join us?’ Politeness required she ask. She hoped Sherard understood politeness also required he refused.
Sherard shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I leave tonight on business and there’s much to be done before I sail. Now that the wagon’s unloaded, I’ll return to town.’ He gave her a strong look that reminded her Sherard was a man with a well-warranted reputation for fiercene
ss. ‘I expect you’ll take good care of my friend, Miss Ward.’ He nodded to Dryden. ‘Ren, I’ll look in on you when I’m back in port.’
Great. The notorious Sherard was on a first-name basis with her guest and now felt he could use that familiarity as a reason to call regularly at her house. Her conscience prodded at her again. The bloody nuisance had been busy today. It probably served her right for stranding Dryden at the docks. She’d left him to his own devices and this was what she got.
Having the new partner befriend Sherard was not what she needed, considering the other rumours swirling about her. Never mind most people didn’t believe the rumours wholesale about her, the mere presence of those rumours was enough to still cast a certain cloud on her reputation. It called attention to her, something no decently bred woman deliberately sought. Nor did Sherard’s presence help her disposition towards her new house guest. Sherard already acted as if Dryden were in charge with his damnable fifty-one per cent, no matter that he technically was. She was the one who’d been here. She’d seen to the planting and nurturing of the crop. If Dryden had been a few days later he would have missed the harvest too. How dare he swoop in here, unannounced, at the last and claim any sort of credit for her labour.
Emma tamped down her roiling emotions and led her guest through the house to the back veranda. She liked that word, ‘guest’. It was precisely how she should think of Dryden. It was a far nicer term than ‘Mr Fifty-One Per Cent’ and, better yet, guests were temporary. She would make sure of it.
* * *
He could stay forever! Ren let the lemonade slide down his throat, cool and wet. He didn’t think anything had ever tasted as welcome, or any breeze had felt as pleasant. Things were definitely looking up. When Kitt had pulled up to Sugarland, Ren had been more than pleasantly surprised with the white-stucco manor house, threats of witches and magic receding. He’d felt an immediate sense of affinity for the place. This was somewhere he could belong, somewhere he could thrive.
Playing the Rake's Game (Rakes Of The Caribbean Book 1) Page 2