“That is wonderful news.” He shifted, then winced.
She stepped toward the bed. “Are you all right?”
“Just a twinge. It happens when I move too quickly. You would be surprised how easy it is to forget that my leg is little more than a log attached to the knee.”
The image of him having an actual log instead of a leg came to mind and, with his smile still casting magic, she felt a smile quirk her own lips. She cleared her throat in an attempt to hide it. “I imagine that is quite cumbersome.”
“Very much so,” he said, looking at the lump beneath the covers as though his leg were a foreign object. “It was wonderful to be upright today, but it has made the ache a bit more extreme tonight.”
“You must be careful not to overdo it,” Lady Sabrina chided, then wanted to roll her eyes at herself. Did she have to take the power position in every conversation?
“Yet it would be foolish to underdo things, would it not?” He did not wait for an answer and looked at her quickly with that disarming intensity again and just a hint of a smile as though waiting for her to permit a fuller one.
To test the theory, she smiled, and his full smile burst forth.
Gracious.
“Do you play chess, Lady Sabrina?”
The change of subject surprised her. “Chess?”
He nodded. “Now that my brain does not feel as though it is nigh unto exploding, I feel a bit . . . restless. I remember liking chess a great deal when I was younger. There is a stone board at Falconridge—I hope it is still there—and my sister and I would wager all manner of things upon the game.” He put up a hand. “I do not mean to imply a wager now; that is behind me.” He lowered his hand and watched her expectantly.
“You want to play chess? With . . . me?”
“Unless you are either very good or very poor,” he amended. “I am an average player and would not like to be too easily bested or make you feel inferior by beating you too soundly.”
Goodness, he was charming—so much so that it was difficult to see the man from Tuesday within this man before her now.
He is a drunkard and a carouser, she told herself but then had to amend it. He had been a drunkard and a carouser. But he could also be thoughtful and funny. And a poet.
Circumstances could change a person if they chose to let them be the inciting incident of change.
“I have not played chess in some time,” Sabrina finally admitted. “But there is a set here in the house somewhere. It used to be in the billiard room, which I’ve since turned into a second parlor. I could have it fetched. Perhaps we could play tomorrow evening.”
His face fell, and she swallowed the instant desire to bring the smile back. “If you are looking for distraction at present, I can offer any number of books. What are your interests?”
“Well, to present my interests have not done me much credit. Books, I believe, are primarily focused upon things such as learning and improvement, which, as you know, has not been an area in which I have excelled.”
She could not help but laugh, though the sound felt strange coming from her throat. In this room. Amid this company. “You are so very unfamiliar with books?”
“So very unfamiliar, I am afraid. I did read from the New Testament a few days ago, however. The language is too difficult to read all at once, I decided, and thought it would be best if I took time to mull over what I read.”
She watched him carefully. Was this another attempt at manipulating her? Presenting himself as pious so she might lower her defenses? She would proceed with caution just in case. “I find reading a small amount of the Bible each day is the best way to become familiar with its stories and teachings. Perhaps you could do the same.”
“That is good advice,” he said with a nod and what sounded like true sincerity.
“The household’s library includes an array of books on such topics as land management, agriculture, and animal husbandry. And history, primarily Grecian—the late Mr. Carlisle, my father-in-law, had a great penchant for all things Greek.”
“Those topics sound exhausting,” Mr. Stillman said.
She could not hold back her smile. “There are also a few novels.” She meant the suggestion as a joke—men did not read novels—but to her surprise, Mr. Stillman’s eyes brightened.
“Have you something like Gulliver’s Travels? I liked that one when I was in school.”
“I do not believe so.”
He lay back on the pillows. “Pity,” he said.
“Indeed,” she said. “Would you like me to make a list of what titles we have available so you might choose one to your liking?”
“That would only be effective if I had some idea of what I’m looking for, and I’m afraid I do not.”
“What about . . . poetry?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Therese told you.”
“She showed me,” Sabrina clarified, tracing the curl of the footboard with her finger to avoid his gaze.
“It was not very good, but I did get the syllables right, or at least I think I did. It was supposed to be a haiku.”
“You nearly got the syllables right,” she confirmed. “And managed to incorporate the reference to a season, which many modern poets pass over. When did you first begin to write poetry?”
He smiled mischievously. “When all boys learn to write poetry—upon noticing the loveliness of girls for the first time and wanting to impress them.” He shrugged self-consciously. “My literature teacher at the time loved poetry, practically crammed it down our throats, but I must admit—though you must promise not to tell any of my former schoolmates—that I grew to like it quite a bit. Then, of course, I grew older and wiser and knew it was folly to care for poetry, so I gave it up. Mostly. With my mind so much clearer than it has been for some time, however, it overtook my more practical thoughts, and I remembered that I have no will of my own when it comes to meter and rhyme and tempo.”
He let out a dramatic sigh but did not laugh, which led Sabrina to believe he was being honest about his relationship to poetry yet stating it in a way that she could take it as a joke if she chose to. Many a truth was hidden in jest with Mr. Stillman, apparently. Though not well hidden—he was being surprisingly candid.
“There is a solid collection of Shakespeare in our library here,” she offered.
He crinkled his nose.
“Donne?”
He brightened. “I do quite like Donne.”
“I shall have Therese bring you a volume, then.” His later work, she decided, after he’d joined the clergy. Some of his early work was rather scandalous, and Mr. Stillman did not need any more of that.
“That would be much appreciated,” Mr. Stillman added. “Though a man cannot live on poetry alone. Do you think the chessboard could be found tomorrow? I think Donne can manage to keep me from madness if I have chess with you to look forward to.”
With you, she repeated in her mind. “I shall see that it is found as soon as possible. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?” She could have slapped herself—her offering to help him!
“Just having the chance to find accord with you has quite satisfied me. The only thing that could improve upon it would be a glass of warm milk.” He smiled in such a way that the rake showed straight through.
She heard herself offer to tell Therese he was ready for his nightcap, then picked up the spent roses on her way out of the room. She paused in the hallway, holding the vase to her chest and reviewing the exchange. Even with all the associations she had enjoyed this week in London, none had left her feeling quite as light as this one.
Mr. Stillman is a dangerous man, she told herself, shaking her head. A woman best be on her guard.
He had managed to overcome one vice through Lord Damion’s generosity and a second due to being unable to get his hands on a bottle. That left just one of his former vices for him to indulge in, and she would as soon swim across the channel as be the woman to fall in his way of becoming a better man.
Joshua located the chess set in one of the storage rooms at the top of the house. Made of mahogany and alder squares, the board fastened to a pedestal, making it into a small table. The matching chess pieces were individually wrapped in felt and stored in a latched cherrywood box.
Sabrina inspected the set, imagining Richard’s parents playing the game in the evening, though she’d never seen them do so. They had both been in poor health by the time Richard and Sabrina had married; she’d later learned they had practically begged Richard to find a wife before they died. Of course, they had wanted a grandchild from that union, but that was not to be.
Sabrina would never understand how such kind and devoted parents had produced such a cruel son. The best she could determine was that he’d been mistreated in his early school years and, over time, learned to be the bully instead of the victim. He’d also become a gambler and a drunk, which only fueled his baser traits. Saving young men on a similar course was in part an attempt to save them from becoming like Richard themselves.
“Please have this taken to Mr. Stillman’s room,” Sabrina said, stepping back from the chessboard.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She fetched her wide-brimmed straw hat, the one with a tear in the center where she’d stepped on it a few years earlier, then found the leather gloves, clippers, and basket she used for tending Hortencia’s roses. For the next three hours, she weeded, pruned, and inspected each shrub, taking immense pleasure in seeing how each one was flourishing while also planning out the things she needed to do before her trip.
That night after supper—chicken with wild mushrooms and new potatoes in garlic sauce—Sabrina made her way to Mr. Stillman’s room, irritated by the nervous bubbling in her stomach. Until now, she had been the benefactress and he the patient. Playing chess with him could invite a change in their relationship, and she wasn’t sure how to manage that.
He was not someone of high society, where she knew what topics of discussion were expected. And yet he was not an employee either, someone whom she could manage with demanding graciousness. Then she realized the other reason for her trepidation—beyond status and position, Mr. Stillman was a man. A handsome one, as Therese had pointed out, and a vulnerable one.
She knew more about him than he thought—or rather Lord Damion did—and it gave her the upper hand. Yet when he smiled at her and his eyes pinned her in place, she felt herself tempted to be submissive. It was not a comfortable feeling. Since gaining her independence, Sabrina had become strong and powerful, apt to take the lead when necessary, and confident in her capabilities. She would need to watch herself in his company and make sure she kept her place within their dynamic.
Mr. Stillman brightened when she came into the room, but it took several minutes for Sabrina to feel as comfortable. Joshua had placed the chessboard next to the bed so the edge overlapped the mattress enough for Mr. Stillman to move his pieces easily.
Sabrina introduced politics as the first topic of conversation because it was a comfortable one for her. It was soon apparent that Mr. Stillman was terribly ignorant of the power dynamics of London. The discussion ended with her lecturing him on his civic responsibility to be mindful of the laws that governed the country in which he lived. He smiled politely and promised her he would improve his education of such things. She felt sheepish at her tone and focused on moving her bishop three spaces.
“So,” Mr. Stillman said, studying the board for a few silent seconds. “Therese tells me you shall be sailing for Naples in a few weeks. That is extraordinary. Have you been there before?”
“No,” she said simply.
“But you have traveled to other destinations, have you not?”
Therese was talking too much. “I usually travel when Parliament is out of session.”
Mr. Stillman moved a pawn.
She took it with her knight.
He frowned and studied the board more closely. “Where else have you traveled?”
It was a casual question, a conversational one, and so she answered, explaining her other trips to Edinburgh and Southern France and how she’d spend months there each time. He asked questions, and she answered, which eased her comfort level until she remembered she had wanted to be cautious with him and not reveal too much.
“What remarkable experiences you have had,” Mr. Stillman said. “I have never traveled. Meant to take the Grand Tour after I finished school but came to London instead and, well, never left.”
“Perhaps one day you will have your chance.”
“Hmm,” he said noncommittally.
She made her move, and he took her rook. She should have seen that potential move before she left herself open for it.
After another minute of silence, Mr. Stillman cleared his throat. “Would it be improper for me to ask you some advice, Lady Sabrina?”
She looked at him, something she’d been trying to avoid. “Advice?”
“You are a businesswoman, are you not? Mr. Ward told me you inherited your husband’s estate and business ventures and now manage them in his place—and with better success than he did, if it is not too bold for me to say so.”
Was it too bold? Most of society did not speak much of her business interests, which made it seem as though they were unaware, but if Mr. Ward—who did not move in her circles—knew, then others must as well. She rather liked the idea that her success was not completely unknown.
“It is not too bold, and yes, I have been lucky in my success.”
“It takes more than luck to be successful, Lady Sabrina. You need not be modest about it with me. I need to make some decisions regarding my holdings, and, as I have avoided being very studious, I am not sure where to start.” He looked up at her. “Does it make you uncomfortable for me to ask your opinion on these matters?”
His tone was sincere, and she shook her head. Such topics were more comfortable to her than more personal ones. “It does not make me uncomfortable if you do not mind advice from a woman.”
Mr. Stillman laughed. “Obviously I do not mind or I would not have asked.”
She braced herself for him to add an aside such as, “You are all I have available” or “I’m sure you know something that might be helpful for my situation.” But he didn’t.
Instead he cleared his throat and shifted his position. “Upon my father’s death, I inherited the Stillman family estate—Falconridge, in Norfolkshire.”
He went on to explain everything Lord Damion already knew about the size of the land—how much was farmed and how much was used as pasture—and the number of tenants. He told her of the portions he’d sold off and the portion he was considering to sell. He confessed that his man of business felt the sale would affect the profits so dramatically that the remaining estate would no longer be able to support itself.
She listened without showing her surprise at how much he was revealing. To her, a virtual stranger, and a woman, no less. She never had the chance to talk business with anyone but Mr. Gordon. Most women did not know such details, and most men would never lower themselves to discussing them with a woman.
“It sounds as though selling off that parcel is ill-advised,” she said, before explaining the profitability quotient of estates reliant on farming, to which he listened attentively.
“The further complication,” he said after he had clarified some of her explanations, “is that I owe a substantial amount of money to the lender who rescued me from the original debt I owed to the man who left me in this condition.” He gestured to his broken leg and shook his head. “Saying all of this out loud makes me physically ill regarding my disgraceful behavior.”
As though to atone for his decisions, he moved his bishop directly in the path of her remaining rook. She had no choice but to take it, as he’d known she would. It seemed to make him feel better.
“I have one year to pay this new debt in full, and after thinking over the situation,
I believe the best thing I can do is sell the estate.”
Sabrina tried to hide her surprise. “In its entirety?”
He nodded. “I tried to sell it a year ago and was told it would likely sell for near eight thousand pounds, but I did not need that much. I sold off the first parcel, certain it would restore my situation, which I have told you did not happen. Selling it now would allow me to pay off Lor—the new lender—and have funds enough to invest in . . . something, which, in time, might prove restorative. It is how to manage the investment of the profits from the sale that I would like your advice on. Where would be the best place for me to begin learning about the markets and such? My uncle made his fortune in India some decades ago. Do you think I should take my money there?”
Sabrina feared she would have a headache from the effort it was taking to keep from showing her shock and dismay at his ideas. She spoke in careful, measured words. “India is certainly an option, but as I am sure your uncle has told you, fortunes are not as easily made now as they have been in the past. As trade routes improve, there are more and more people competing for the imports, and a man often has to compromise on his prices.”
He looked at her, somewhat forlorn, which was adorable. “I didn’t realize that. What would you recommend?”
“Well, I would first recommend being less hasty in selling off your holdings. If you keep the parcel you are looking to sell and find a way to improve the profits, then you should do everything you can to keep the estate. Nothing increases in value over time like land does.” Their very country was founded on the economics of land ownership, and for one of the lucky few who owned land, to give it up was almost unheard of.
“I can’t raise the money I would need in time otherwise,” Mr. Stillman said, which Sabrina knew was true. “If I don’t raise the money within a year, then I have agreed to sell the property for five hundred pounds to this lender to resolve the debt. It is more reasonable for me to sell the estate myself in order to increase my profits, and I am eager to have a clear way ahead of me without owing anything to anyone.”
Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency) Page 15