“Thank you ... Jason,” she said in her low sweet voice. “I hope your business prospered. We missed you.”
He looked down at her measuringly, pleased to see how steadily she met his eye. She seemed much more relaxed than when he had left, and there was a glow about her that was new.
He would have been delighted at how well she was adjusting to the idea of becoming his wife—had it not been for the unreadable green eyes watching from across the room.
After Caroline and George had a chance to break their fasts, Jason said, “My aunt, Lady Edgeware, has written that she would like to host a ball here in your honor. She will be arriving in the next few days. If you are agreeable to the idea, perhaps you can work out the plans with her. It would give you a chance to become better acquainted.”
Caroline nodded in agreement. He was happy to see she didn’t shrink from the proposal as she might have a month earlier; Wildehaven definitely agreed with her.
“My mother and sister Gina should be ending their visit in Lincolnshire soon. I trust I may invite them, along with my father? I am sure Gideon Fallsworthy will be escorting them.”
“Of course they are welcome to stay. My aunt will be inviting the local gentry. She grew up here and knows them well. I am sure they are all agog to meet you.”
She hesitated. “There is a man working at Wargrave Park, a former Army officer. He has little acquaintance in the neighborhood. May I invite him also?”
Jason waved his hand expansively. “Whomever you like. The sooner you become comfortable as a hostess, the better. This has been a bachelor establishment for too long. I am looking forward to seeing my home come to life again.”
* * * *
The former Army officer was busy increasing his acquaintance in the neighborhood, though not amongst those who might be invited to Wildehaven. This morning’s ride had taken him by the tenant farms.
Since farmers were of necessity early risers, he had taken the opportunity to talk with several of them. One or two had looked at him sharply; he was beginning to doubt Chelmsford’s bland assurances that no one would recognize him as a Davenport. As yet, no one had voiced any suspicions.
The tenants seemed a reliable lot, though they all spoke of improvements needed to maintain their productivity. Some had invested their own money and time cobbling together repairs or improvements. He wished he knew more about agriculture; he felt sadly unqualified to run the estate.
His riding brought him near the village of Wargrave. On impulse he stopped by the parish church. Like everything else in the village, it was built of warm gray Cotswold stone. The square Norman tower appeared to date from the thirteenth century, and parts of the main sanctuary seemed even older.
He walked in slowly, savoring the sense of peace. He had been raised in no fixed religion. His parents had taken him to various churches wherever they lived, but they had emphasized the beauty of architecture and music as much as any creed. Since he gave equal weight to the feelings he had when alone in the woods, he thought he qualified as a pagan quite as much as a Christian.
He was pleased to see the size and quality of the organ at the rear of the church; doubtless it was another example of the late countess’s musical generosity.
As he moved toward the chancel, a small figure unexpectedly straightened before him. She had been arranging flowers by the communion rail. As she turned, he halted, arrested by the proud hawk face. She must have been past seventy, but her back was gun rod erect and there was a fierce beauty about her. She had the look of an angel who had been cast from heaven, purified by fire, and reborn with her steely pride intact.
They looked at each other in silence for a few moments. “You would be the Army captain staying up at Wargrave Park,” she said, her voice firm despite her years.
Richard smiled slightly. “I assume it would be useless to deny it.”
A faint flicker of amusement answered him. “Entirely useless. If you have had any experience of villages, you will know why.”
“My experience of English villages is not great, but I imagine any small isolated group of people is much the same. You would be amazed at the gossip of a company of soldiers.”
Her look of amusement deepened. “I doubt it. Very little amazes me at my age.”
She studied him carefully. “You look familiar, but then, almost everyone does. That and failing vision are other consequences of age. I am Lady Helen Chandler, the vicar’s wife. Would you care to sit for a bit? Or is consecrated ground uncomfortable to a military man?”
He sat down on the front pew and she settled near him. “Not in the least. I have no more on my conscience than the average nonmilitary man. Possibly less. I’ve had few opportunities for vice lately.”
Her unexpected laugh had a rusty sound, as if seldom used. “You won’t find many opportunities here. The fleshpots of London can offer a good deal more.”
He looked at her keenly. “Is Wargrave so devoid of passion and scandal, then?”
She sobered. “No, we have our full share of human crimes and secrets here. But seldom will anyone talk of them.” She added cynically, “That is the principal difference between a village and the fashionable world. Here we are more likely to be ashamed of our sins.”
He wondered if she had lived here thirty years earlier, when Julius Davenport had left in a storm of scandal, but she didn’t seem the sort to unearth old skeletons without a reason. “What other facts have the rumor mills provided about me?”
“Precious little, actually. It is known you were a captain of the Ninety-fifth Rifles, and assumed that you acquired that romantic limp at Waterloo. You are said to be gentlemanly, and have been given the run of the great house. You observe much, say little, and have not been working over hard on your inventory. Your clothes are well-tailored but with the emphasis on comfort rather than fashion.”
Richard burst into laughter. “I wish we had your intelligence-gathering talents in Spain! I hadn’t realized my limp was romantic. I tend to think of it as a confounded nuisance.”
“Very likely it is.” She paused in thought for a moment, then added gruffly, “The village cobbler, Simmons, is no fashionable boot maker like Hoby, but he’s a dab hand at special boots for walking problems. His boy injured his leg in a bad fall, and Simmons has him fixed up so well there is hardly a trace of a limp.” She didn’t look at Richard, as if expecting him to be angry at her presumption in referring to his injury.
“I’m sure your husband’s parishioners are glad to have you sort them out,” he said, amused and a little discomfited at her remark.
She gave another rusty chuckle. “I’m sure some of them are praying for my rapid deliverance from this vale of tears to the care of Saint Peter. The vicar is in charge of their souls, but I take a much keener interest in their worldly doings.”
He had no trouble believing either statement. He vaguely assumed that vicars’ wives should be mild and discreet. Lady Helen did not seem heavily endowed with either of those rather boring virtues.
She added, “They are bound to be disappointed. I still have a great deal of atonement to do before I am ready to move on.” He wondered at the sins she was making amends for. It was doubtful that she would waste her guilt on the trivial.
They were interrupted by the entrance of the vicar. Silver-haired and frail, he had the luminous face of a man who spent much of his life on a higher plane and remembered his mundane duties only in passing. His voice was soft, but had the carrying quality developed by decades worth of sermons. “Ah, there you are, my love. Are you finished with the flowers so we can have a cup of tea?” As his eyes adjusted to the dark church interior, he saw Richard and blinked doubtfully. “Do I know you, sir?”
Richard rose and offered his hand. “No, Reverend Chandler, but I am having the pleasure of meeting your wife.”
The vicar beamed as he shook hands. “Isn’t Lady Helen splendid? The Lord sent her to take care of me in my old age. I can’t think what I have done to deserve two wonde
rful wives in one lifetime, but I give thanks every day for my good fortune.”
Since the good priest did not seem the sort to have had his two wives simultaneously, her ladyship must have come late to the vicarage. That fact and her aristocratic title would explain the lack of docility.
The stern face softened as she looked at her husband. The sweetness of faith he radiated must be a balm to her acerbic nature. “This is Captain Dalton, my dear. He is staying at the great house. Perhaps we can persuade him to join us for tea.”
The vicar turned to him hopefully. “Would you like some tea, Captain? And perhaps a tour of the church first? We have some splendid old things here.”
Richard smiled at him warmly. It would have been too cruel to deprive the old gentleman of the pleasure of showing off his beloved church. And the more he learned about Wargrave, the better he would be able to make the decision that must come soon.
The tour included memorials to sundry deceased Davenports. It felt strange to see the impassive stone face of Lord Hugh, dead in the Holy Land during the second Crusade; the brass plaque of Giles Davenport with his three wives and numerous children next to him; the stone inscription to Eleanor Davenport, beloved wife and mother.
For all Richard’s desire to remain detached, he felt a pull to learn more about his ancestors. Like it or not, their blood flowed in his veins and gave him an anchor he had lacked since his parents’ deaths.
As the tour continued, he made interested comments to Reverend Chandler and filed his feelings away for later examination. After an amiable tea he rode slowly back to War-grave Park, absently whistling “To Be a Farmer’s Boy” as he pondered what he had learned.
The Chandlers’ conversation had added to his understanding of the local situation, and even the perennial ache in his right leg was forgotten as he weighed the potential good he could do as the local lord against the heavy burdens.
He had been a good officer but never really developed a taste for military discipline. If he accepted the title, he would be losing his cherished new civilian freedom.
The head of this miniature kingdom called Wargrave would be trapped by more restrictions than the youngest stableboy. There would be serious lessons to learn about agriculture, law, and finance; a seat in the House of Lords, with lawmaking responsibility for the whole country.
Toadeaters and other such parasites would seek him out to further their own interests. Would he ever again be free to wander as he chose, without being constrained by well-meaning dependents? To argue philosophy or politics without deferential agreement?
It had been easy to identify young noblemen in the Army. They were treated differently by those around him. He hated the idea of being perceived as an earl rather than a man.
Richard tried to be objective about the compensations. His life would not lack for purpose, even if freedom were in short supply. The estate might take years to return to full productivity, but even now there was more income than he’d ever dreamed of.
He sighed. That was an unconvincing advantage since money meant very little to him. A simple village cottage would be luxury to him after these last years. He felt no great need for anything more.
But he was deeply drawn to those lovely green hills with their morning mists and hidden brooks. He didn’t know if it was an ancestral call of the blood or his desire for their peace. Either way, he could imagine a life among them.
And now there was a new factor, one that could make all the difference in the world to his future
He was still trying to balance comfort against captivity when he reached the stableyard, where a minor war seemed to be in progress. A sporting curricle and a trunk-filled carriage were pulled up in front of the rear entrance to the house and an imperious voice was yelling, “For God’s sake, you imbeciles, that is wine you are unloading, not bricks! Gently!”
The crash of breaking bottles was followed by an explosion of curses that would have done credit to a master sergeant. Richard pulled in Rakehell and listened with deep appreciation. If his ears didn’t betray him, Cousin Reginald had arrived.
As he rode around the wagon he found Reggie howling at two bemused-looking Wargrave servants as a superior valet and a bored groom watched. Clearly they had come with his cousin and considered themselves above menial labor.
Reggie’s face was a good match for the claret wine spreading across the cobbled yard. “You cowhanded loobies! I’ll have your jobs for this! I’ll—”
His tirade broke off as he saw that his audience had increased. He looked at Richard suspiciously and said, “I’ve seen you before.” His eyes narrowed. “It was at the lawyer’s office. You were wearing a captain’s uniform. Ninety-fifth Rifles. What are you doing here? Did he set you to spy on me?”
Richard answered mildly, “If Mr. Chelmsford knew you were coming here, it’s more than he told me. Do you keep him informed of your movements?”
“Of course not!” Reggie snapped. “I didn’t know I was coming myself until yesterday. Who are you, anyway?”
The captain bowed slightly from his horseback height. “Richard Dalton. When you saw me, the lawyer and I were discussing my coming here to inventory the estate in preparation for winding up the trust. While you and Mr. Chelmsford appear”—he paused delicately— “incompatible, I’m sure that you must acknowledge his conscientious care of the property.”
“He’s said to be honest enough,” Reggie said grudgingly. “Will you come down from that horse? I’m getting a sore neck from talking to you.”
Richard obligingly dismounted and turned to lead the stallion to the stable. His cousin’s voice stopped him. “You can subtract these two yokels from the inventory. They’ll be leaving today.”
Richard turned to face him. “Since you have no authority to dismiss them, they’ll be staying. I’ve found them to be competent workers.”
He spared a glance for the miscreants. Not only were they looking entirely unashamed of their clumsiness, one of them actually winked at him as he said mournfully, “It whar a sad accident, Captain Dalton.”
“What do you mean, I have no authority? I’m the next earl and I own this rock pile, and everyone in it!”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard that freeborn Englishmen could be owned. And while you may be Lord Wargrave soon, for the time being Mr. Chelmsford is in charge and here I am his deputy.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I am not welcome in my own ancestral home?” Reggie’s face was turning an interesting shade of puce that clashed seriously with his burgundy-colored coat.
“Not at all,” Richard said gently. “I understand that you have not been allowed within its doors for some years, and I am sure that you are anxious to become reacquainted with the household. Doubtless it is an excellent place in which to avoid creditors.”
Reggie gave a short bark of laughter at the words. “Perhaps you are not such a gapeseed as you appear. I’ll admit the bailiffs had something to do with my desire to summer in Gloucestershire. Brighton would have been preferable, but the plaguey bill collectors always look there first. By the time they run me down, my luck will have changed.”
“Perhaps. If you will excuse me, I need to rub my horse down.”
“Gentlemen don’t rub their horses down,” Reggie said flatly.
“Gentlemen might not. But soldiers do. A bad habit I picked up on the Peninsula,” Richard said as he headed toward the stable.
“Is that where you were crippled?”
Reggie’s raised voice reached Richard clearly. He turned to face his cousin and said in his quietest tone, “No, that was Waterloo.”
Reginald paused suddenly. He was in a vile mood, his head aching from too much Blue Ruin the night before and his temper frayed from the longest spell of ill luck with the cards he’d ever had. He had been quite ready to pick a quarrel with this nonentity, years his junior and half a head shorter. But when Dalton turned and looked at him in that cool way, he felt a disinclination to continue his baiting. �
�They say it was quite a battle,” he said inanely.
“It was indeed.” Richard waited a moment to see if his cousin had anything to add, then continued to the stables. He had a feeling that if Reginald Davenport inherited, half the servants on the estate would be off to find new jobs. The man had a talent for unpleasantness.
* * * *
Richard’s opinion of his rakish cousin moderated a bit over the luncheon that was served. Lacking clear direction to the contrary, the servants had laid the table for two and called them at the same time.
Reggie was in a better mood, possibly from the discovery mat the Wargrave cellars harbored some excellent claret to replace the case that was broken. He made no attempt to provoke, and his cynical comments were slyly amusing.
Peaceable as always, the captain listened and answered noncommittally. Privately he thought Reginald would have been a better man if he had been born with less money or more responsibility. His natural gifts were frittered away in drink and gaming while he lived on his luck and his expectations.
Mentally Richard thanked his father for raising him away from Wargrave’s long shadow. Better to know you were poor than to hope you might someday become rich by someone else’s death.
The meal was just finishing when Caroline hurried into the dining room. “Somers said you were in here. I...” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
She made an enchanting picture as she caught her breath. Her cheeks flushed a pale rose that matched her dress and a nimbus of glossy dark blond curls framed her face.
The men stood at her entrance. “Well, well, well,” drawled Reggie. “Life in the country has more attractions than I remembered. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Reginald Davenport, very much at your service.” He made an elegant leg that would have been a credit to any courtier.
Richard completed the introduction. “This is Miss Hanscombe. She is staying at Wildehaven.”
Reggie’s mouth tightened, his pale blue eyes becoming overlaid with something darker. His voice retained its unctuous note as he said, “Then you would be Radford’s fiancée. May I offer you my congratulations? He must have been very difficult to catch.”
The Diabolical Baron Page 15
