How to Ruin a Reputation (Rakes Beyond Redemption)

by Bronwyn Scott

  There would be too many reminders of the previous night. Even now it was hard to look at him and not remember the decadent things he’d awoken in her. It was probably no less than she deserved. There was a reason curiosity killed the cat. She’d satisfied her curiosities and now she knew exactly what it was like to be with Ashe Bedevere. Those exquisite moments would be for ever etched in her mind, on her body, for the rest of her life, for better or worse.

  ‘What are you going to do today, Henry?’ Genevra asked, turning the conversation a different direction in hopes of distracting her thoughts.

  ‘I have a meeting,’ Henry offered vaguely. He made a great show of taking out his pocket watch and checking the time. ‘In fact, I am nearly late. If you’ll all excuse me, I need to go.’

  Ashe put aside his napkin. ‘We need to make an early start as well. I’ll call for the gig and have it brought around in twenty minutes.’

  Genevra couldn’t help but notice the aunts smiling at one another as she left to go change. No doubt this was a prime opportunity in their eyes for her and Ashe to spend time together. Perhaps they were already thinking Ashe was showing signs of interest by extending the invitation to join him. The poor dears would be shocked if they knew the truth.

  *

  ‘We should talk about last night.’ They’d barely turned on to the road, Bedevere still visible behind them.

  ‘We both know what last night was.’ Genevra kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘What was it?’ Ashe said coolly.

  ‘Two people satisfying their curiosity about each other, I think,’ Genevra replied.

  ‘A curiosity that could have resulted in a child. Surely you didn’t overlook the fact that we took no precautions,’ Ashe pressed.

  ‘I very much doubt it. Before my husband died, we’d resigned ourselves to a childless marriage. It is unlikely I’ll conceive.’

  ‘I do love American bluntness.’ Ashe’s voice carried an edge to it. They went over a deep rut in the road and the gig lurched heavily. Genevra grabbed Ashe’s arm to steady herself.

  ‘Well, there’s no sense mincing the truth and I won’t lead you down a path I know to be a dead end.’

  ‘Still, I think it must be considered. Infertility isn’t always the woman’s fault.

  Men don’t like to admit it, of course. Should your hypothesis be proven wrong, Neva, I would want to know.’

  It had been on the tip of her tongue to say something cutting such as, ‘so you can trap both of us in a marriage neither wants’. But intuition struck and kept her silent. Is that what he wanted? Did he want control of Bedevere so badly he’d risk a child to force a marriage? Would he doom himself to a relationship he didn’t want? Of course, it wouldn’t be a hardship for him. He’d marry her, leave her at Bedevere and return to London for his mistresses and entertainments.

  Genevra spoke in sober accusation. ‘You promised last night didn’t have to mean anything beyond pleasure.’

  ‘So I did.’

  But it occurred to Genevra as they pulled up to the first cottage, that this was a promise Ashe Bedevere might not be able to keep.

  *

  The day sped by, filled with faces and names. Ashe shook hands with farmers, toured their fields, met their wives and children. He made list upon list, overwhelmed at the need. There were roofs to repair, fences to mend, farming implements to replace. Everyone he met was polite, but Ashe had a growing sense that things had not been taken care of at Bedevere for a very long time. The guilt he’d fought since arriving flooded back. This was his fault.

  He would have to make it right somehow. He was starting to suspect making it right would involve swallowing his pride. There weren’t enough billiards games in the county to bankroll these improvements. He was going to need Genevra’s money.

  Meeting with the shopkeepers in the village went better. Ashe positioned himself outside the inn, setting up a hasty plank ‘table’ across barrels and ordering ale for those who wanted to sit and talk.

  One theme emerged regularly in those conversations. Business had been slow since the farmers had less money to spend, merchants were worried about their revenues. The item on their minds was the annual St Bertram’s festival. Some believed it would help bring additional revenue to the village while others thought they ought to forgo the festival out of respect for the old earl’s passing.

  Ashe smiled. The festival of St Bertram had been a regular occurrence in Audley Village since nearly time immemorial. He and Alex had enjoyed the festival as boys. ‘Is it still the first week of June?’ Ashe asked, quelling the growing discussion with his question.

  ‘Yes, and it’s still the largest local fair in these parts,’ the owner of the tavern put in, bringing another round of ale.

  Ashe looked over the heads of the men gathered at his makeshift table. He spied Genevra with a group of women, someone’s toddler on her lap. She was never very far away. She looked up, having heard the talk of the festival. Ashe chuckled to himself. She was probably already calculating how many handkerchiefs and jars of jam she could sell, God bless her American sense of entrepreneurship.

  ‘I think the festival should go on as planned,’ Ashe declared. ‘Summer is a time of renewal and Bedevere is ready for that. A new time has come.’ Never mind at the moment he was responsible for only forty-five per cent of that new time. No one needed to know that except he and Genevra.

  Over the seated crowd, Genevra’s eyes met his and she smiled her approval. It was gratifying and surprising to feel pleased at having obtained her favour, but Ashe felt them both. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to care what anyone thought about him or what he did. But he was caring now, a definitely new sensation.

  *

  ‘You made a good choice today,’ Genevra offered once they’d completed their visits and turned the gig towards Bedevere. ‘The festival will mean a lot to them and it’s well positioned right at the end of spring planting.’

  Ashe nodded, his attention only partly on the conversation. The gig seemed to be listing slightly to one side or perhaps it was his imagination and too many ales this afternoon. Too many ales? Really, the thought was laughable. He’d been in the country too long. He was Ashe Bedevere. In London, he could drink all night and not feel the effects. He doubted four ales in the middle of the afternoon was responsible for this.

  Perhaps it was the road. There were ruts aplenty, leftover from winter snows and rains. ‘Alex and I used to love the festival, we played all the games. Alex was a crack shot with a pistol. I don’t think he lost a shooting contest since he was fourteen. Our father was so proud.’

  ‘What about you?’ Genevra ventured. ‘Were you a pistol man, too?’

  ‘No, I was a knife man.’ Ashe smiled as he bragged. For the first time since coming home, it felt good to talk about the past, about his family. All those years alone in London, he hadn’t realised just how little he spoke of them. ‘Whatever Alex could do with a gun, I could do with a throwing knife. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a box of ribbons still tucked away in the attics. Our mother saved everything.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes, I had one, you know.’ Ashe joked.

  ‘It’s just that no one ever mentions her,’ Genevra replied quietly.

  ‘Well, she’s been gone a long time.’ They were back to more painful memories now. It was more fun to talk about the festival. ‘She died in a boating accident when I was seventeen. Alex was nineteen. She had been visiting friends over in Trentham and they’d gone out on the lake.’ Her death had marked the beginning of his troubles with his father. Without her to act as a buffer between them, he and his father had failed to manage their disagreements. Not even the presence of the aunts could mitigate those quarrels.

  ‘I didn’t mean to stir up sadness.’ Suddenly the gig lurched. Genevra grabbed for the side railing of the bench, barely keeping her balance. ‘That must be some rut we hit,’ she gasped, recovering her seat.


  Ashe shook his head. ‘We would have seen a rut that big. Do you think the gig is riding lopsided?’ The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a final lurch and the little cart crashed, turning on its side and taking them both to the ground.

  Ashe’s first and only thought in the time it took for the accident to happen was Genevra. She would take the brunt of the fall. Whatever had happened, happened on her side of the vehicle. He grabbed for her, trying to break her fall, trying to roll with her out of harm’s way. Only the weight of the horse still in the traces prevented the gig from rolling once more on top of them.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Ashe asked briskly, staggering to his feet.

  ‘Nothing mortal, I’m sure.’ Genevra replied in shaky tones, but Ashe noted she was slow to rise.

  ‘Stay here, I’ll see to the horse,’ Ashe ordered. The sooner the situation was stabilised, the safer they’d be. Fortunately, the horse had had the good sense to remain still after the initial excitement of the accident passed.

  ‘Steady there, old girl,’ Ashe called out softly, taking the horse by the harness.

  From the horse’s head he could survey the ruin. The back wheel had come off. It lay shattered in the road not far from the remains of the gig. They wouldn’t be using the gig again. Ashe quickly freed the horse from the traces and led the mare away from the wreckage.

  ‘I’ve got transportation!’ he called down to Genevra, trying to make light of the situation. She smiled up at him and managed to get to her feet. ‘Can you take the horse while I look at the gig?’

  There was no reason the wheel should have come off and he wanted a better look at the hub and axle before it got dark. Ashe bent down for a closer look. He found the culprit immediately. The wheel had been loosened. It had simply rolled right off the axle itself.

  ‘Neva,’ he called out, ‘did you ever take the gig out or my aunts?’ It would be interesting to know when the gig was last driven and what kind of regular maintenance it was given.

  She nodded. ‘We used the gig for the summer and autumn fairs. We drove it quite a lot. But we haven’t had it out since December.’

  ‘No troubles with it?’ Ashe stepped back from the wreck.

  ‘None. What is it?’

  ‘The wheel came off.’ In itself that wasn’t uncommon. But it was a rather bizarre occurrence for a vehicle that had been driven regularly without mishap and then lain unused for only two months. It was hardly long enough for the equipage to go to rack and ruin. Wheels simply didn’t come off carriages without a little help.

  It made one wonder what kind of help might have hastened the wheel’s departure from its axle and Ashe didn’t like the speculations he came up with or what they might mean.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Genevra didn’t like the look in Ashe’s eye one bit when they arrived back at Bedevere. The stare he gave her when she slid off the back of the horse and announced she’d be returning to Seaton Hall was proprietary and unyielding.

  ‘I think you should stay,’ Ashe said tersely. He’d been silent most of the way home, speaking only to enquire if she was all right. ‘I want to speak with our groom and then you and I need to have an overdue discussion.’ She didn’t like the sound of that any more than she’d liked the look.

  ‘I think I should go.’ Staying would mean another night at Bedevere, which might lead to another night with Ashe. While there were appealing aspects to such a prospect, that had definitely not been part of the bargain she’d made with herself last night. Last night had been a moment’s pleasure, a curiosity satisfied, but not to be repeated.

  ‘Go inside and freshen up. I’ll be along shortly. Try not to alarm my aunts.’

  He was deliberately ignoring her request. Genevra’s temper over the high-handed treatment rose. ‘I will not be dismissed in such a manner,’ she countered.

  Ashe’s eyes glinted dangerously, green coals waiting to ignite, his voice a low growl of authority. ‘Yes, you will, temporarily. If you want to cut up at me, you can do so in the estate office in a half-hour.’

  There would be no winning this. Genevra drew a deep breath to still her temper. She would temporarily cede the field. But she’d be waiting.

  *

  Ashe was prompt, early even. He was the one waiting for her in the office. Sitting behind the big polished desk, he looked every inch the peer’s son. Even though time had been short, Genevra noticed he’d managed to change into clean attire.

  Looking at him, one would not guess he’d been in a carriage accident a scant two hours ago. She hoped she looked as well put together. There’d been time only to change her dress and re-pin her hair.

  ‘Was your talk with the groom satisfactory?’ Genevra took the seat on the visitor’s side of the desk, feeling very much the supplicant come to beg crumbs from his lordship’s largesse. She would not be intimidated by the big desk and the handsome man sitting behind it. For heaven’s sake, she was a businesswoman. But all her mental protestations could not deny the flutter in her stomach when she looked at Ashe Bedevere.

  ‘Somewhat,’ he replied enigmatically. His tones were cool, exuding authority.

  He was going to be stubborn, she just knew it.

  ‘I don’t think the wheel was an accident, Genevra.’ Oh, this was serious. He wasn’t calling her Neva. She braced for the storm that was sure to come.

  ‘The groom said the gig was in good shape when he harnessed the horse. The groom confirmed what you’d told me, that you had used the gig quite regularly and it had not been sitting idle. The groom also said no one had been near it this morning except himself. Which makes sense...’ here Ashe paused with a chuckle of derisive laughter ‘...since we no longer employ a full complement of grooms.’

  Genevra furrowed her brow. ‘All that seems to support the wheel was an accident, which, I might remind you, is the exact opposite of what you postulated moments ago.’

  ‘You Americans are too impatient. Let me finish.’ Ashe waved a long, elegant hand. ‘What it means is that someone tampered with the wheel while we were in the village. The gig was out of view during part of our visit. It would have been easy enough to do. There would have been no one around, everyone was gathered with us.’

  ‘All right.’ Genevra folded her hands in her lap. ‘If that’s true, why would someone do it?’ She thought Ashe was seeing villains where there weren’t any.

  His conclusion was somewhat extreme.

  Ashe fixed her with one of his hard stares. ‘You’re the one with a jilted suitor and fifty-one per cent controlling interest in an estate. Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘Henry? You think Henry did this?’ Genevra said in disbelief. ‘He was at a business meeting all day. I doubt he knows the mechanics of a carriage wheel to begin with. Your cousin’s a book man. He’s hardly the type to get his hands dirty.’

  ‘He’s the type to pay someone to do it for him,’ Ashe said succinctly. ‘I don’t think Henry did it himself, but I think he is likely behind it.’

  Genevra shook her head. ‘You’re seeing the worst because you don’t like him.’

  It was absurd really.

  ‘Sometimes our eyes deceive us.’ Ashe’s long fingers fiddled with a paperweight, tracing the lines of cut glass. ‘Forget about Henry’s golden good looks and that boyish smile of his. Think about the facts, Genevra. You saw how angry he was when Marsbury read the will. He’d clearly expected more. He’s tried to get more by proposing marriage to you. You’ve refused him and effectively scotched his last avenue to gaining nominal control of the estate—’

  ‘You’re spinning out of whole cloth, now, Ashe,’ Genevra interrupted. This was silly. ‘Why would he go to all that trouble for an estate that will not be his once Alex dies? Whatever he gains will only be temporary. You’ll be the earl eventually.’

  ‘Unless I die first,’ Ashe drawled. ‘Henry needs Alex alive. Whether Alex lives or dies, Henry can still wield control. Right now, it’s better if Alex lives. As long as I’m ali
ve, Alex is safe. Henry doesn’t want to risk me inheriting because his control of the estate, meagre as it is, goes away.’

  Genevra’s quick mind grasped the implications. ‘But if you’re dead, Alex isn’t as useful to Henry.’

  ‘No, then Alex becomes expendable. He becomes more of an obstacle, the only obstacle that prevents Henry from having complete control and the title, too.’

  Ashe got up and pulled open a drawer in one of the glass-fronted bookcases lining the wall. He pulled out rolled paper and spread it on the desktop, holding it down on each end with paperweights.

  ‘Come have a look, Genevra, and get your first lesson in English inheritance law.’ Genevra rose and stood next to him, studying the lines he traced with his long finger.

  ‘Here’s my father, Richard Thomas. He has two sisters, Lavinia and Mary.

  Lavinia never had any children. Mary, Henry’s mother, made a disappointing marriage to local gentry, Steven Bennington. They both died several years ago, leaving Henry a small property. That leaves my father’s line. He’s the earl. He marries, he has two sons, all seems well.’ Ashe’s hand traced the lines leading to his name and Alex’s. ‘But now Alex is mentally incapable and there’s just me.

  Henry is next in line as the next male of the family line as the only nephew of my father.’ Ashe shot her a wry look. ‘As you can see, it’s a fabulous game of live and let die.’

  ‘It doesn’t convince me Henry’s a murderer. It just convinces me that primogeniture is complicated,’ Genevra argued.

  ‘A man’s life hinges on its protocols from the moment he’s born.’ Ashe rolled the parchment up and put it away. ‘What a man can and can’t be is tied up with his birth order.’ There was great hurt, a gaping chasm behind Ashe’s comment.

  For a moment, the authoritative aristocrat gave way to the enigmatic man she’d glimpsed beneath his urbane surface.