Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

  The man never missed an opportunity to mock her.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said wryly, “I’ll join you.” She pulled two handkerchiefs from her pocket. “One for Stephen’s hands,” she said, giving them to him, “and one for Justin’s.”

  “What about me?” West asked. “Don’t you want my hands to be clean?”

  Phoebe fished another handkerchief from her bodice and gave it to him.

  “You’re like a magician,” he said.

  She grinned and returned to Nanny, who was tidying the interior of the pram. “We’ll go back to the house now,” Phoebe said briskly. “Don’t fuss when you see the boys: they’re both filthy but they’ve had a splendid time. Did you happen to see where the cat went?”

  “She’s under the pram, milady.”

  Phoebe crouched to look beneath the vehicle and saw a pair of amber eyes gleaming in the shadows. The cat crept from beneath the pram with the toy horse in her mouth and came to drop it in her lap.

  Phoebe was amused and a bit touched by the cat’s obvious pride in the offering. The toy was no longer recognizable, the leather shredded and most of the stuffing removed. “Thank you, my dear. How very thoughtful.” After tucking the toy in her pocket, she picked up the cat. For the first time, there were no needling claws as the creature settled in her arms. “I suppose we’ll have to keep you until we leave Hampshire. But you’re still not a house cat, and you can’t go to Essex with us. My plans are fixed . . . and nothing will alter them.”

  Chapter 17

  “There’s nothing wicked about you, except your kisses.”

  Ever since Phoebe’s astonishing whisper in his ear, West had been in a most peculiar state. Happy. Miserable. Off balance, fidgety, hungry, hot. He woke repeatedly in the middle of the night, his blood clamoring for morning.

  It reminded him of the days when he used to drink himself into a stupor and regain consciousness in a dark room, bewildered and groggy. Not knowing the day, the time, or even where he was. Remembering nothing, not even the pleasures of gross self-indulgence that had put him there.

  He sat at the long table in the oak-lined study, with stacks of ledgers and document folios in front of him. It was one of his favorite rooms in the house, a compact rectangular space lined with bookshelves. The floor was thickly carpeted, the air agreeably scented of vellum, parchment and ink. Daylight poured through a large window filled with a multitude of glittering antique panes, each no bigger than his hand.

  Usually he was happy to be sitting here. He liked doing the accounting; it helped him understand how the estate was doing in every aspect. But at the moment his usual interest in the world around him—people, land, livestock, the house, the weather, even food—had narrowed down to Phoebe.

  He needed to be either right next to her or very far away from her. Anything in between was torture. Knowing she was in the same house or somewhere on the estate, somewhere reachable, made every cell in his body ache to find her.

  When West had seen her so unexpectedly yesterday morning, he’d been jolted with an intense feeling of happiness, pleasurable on the surface but painful several layers down. She had been so beautiful there by the stream, as flowerlike as the wild irises on the banks.

  Of all the mistakes in his life, and God knew there had been many, the worst had been kissing her. He would never recover from it. He could still feel her head in his hands, and the softness of her lips against his. Twenty years from now, his fingers would still be able to shape the exact curves of her skull. Every sweet kiss she’d given had been like a promise, one hesitant leap of faith after another. He’d forced himself to be careful, gentle, when he was dying to crush and devour her. It had felt as if his body had been made for no other purpose than to pleasure her, his mouth to stroke her, his hardness to fill her.

  As for what Phoebe might think or feel, West had no illusion that his desire was reciprocated. Not fully, anyway. If there was one thing he was good at, it was gauging the level of a woman’s interest in him. There was liking and attraction on her side, but it didn’t come close to matching his. Thank God. She had enough problems as it was—she didn’t need to add him to the list.

  “Here are the latest banking and investment statements,” came his brother’s voice. Devon walked into the room with a document folio and dropped it on the table in front of him with a smart thwack. “So far, Winterborne’s advice has paid off well, especially concerning the railway shares and commodities.” He pulled a chair back and sat with his legs stretched out before him. Contemplating the tips of his polished shoes, he commented, “The only blot on the portfolio, as usual, is the Norfolk estate. Still losing money.”

  A house and land in Norfolk had been among the various properties Devon had inherited along with the title. Unfortunately, the past three earls had neglected the maintenance of the estate, as they had done with everything else. Most of the fertile fields had gone to rough grass, and the elegant Georgian country house had been closed and abandoned. “There are only five tenant families left,” Devon continued, “and we’re paying more in annual taxes than we’re taking in. We could sell the property, since it’s not entailed. Or . . . you could do something with it.”

  West glanced at him quizzically. “What the devil would I do with it?”

  “You could make it your home. The house is in good condition, and the land is suited for the kind of experimental farm you said you’d like to start someday. You could attract new tenants to bring in revenue. If you want it, it’s yours.”

  A smile came to West’s face. He would never cease to be grateful for his brother’s generosity. Perhaps if Devon had been raised as a privileged heir, he would have behaved like an entitled jackass. Instead, he was unsparing with praise and rewards, recompensing West handsomely for his contributions to the estate’s success.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” West asked lightly.

  “Never.” Devon’s gaze was warm and steady. For years, all they’d had was each other—their bond was unbreakable. “But it occurs to me that you may want your own life someday. The privacy of your own house. A wife and children.”

  “As much as I appreciate the gift of your tax liability . . .” West began dryly.

  “I’ll assume the tax burden until you start to turn a profit. Even after you hire an assistant manager to undertake your work here, you would continue earning a percentage of gross income in lieu of management fees. Obviously, we’ll still need as much oversight as you can spare—”

  “Devon. You don’t owe me that.”

  “I owe you my life, in the most literal sense.” Devon paused, his voice softening. “I want your life to be no less full than mine. You should have your own family.”

  West shook his head. “The day I decide to marry will be long in coming.”

  “What about Lady Clare?”

  “I might have an affair with her in five or ten years,” West said, “after her next husband starts to bore her. For now, however, she’s not seasoned enough for my taste.”

  “Every time she enters the room, we can all hear your heart beating.”

  West felt his color heighten. “Bugger off.”

  Devon wore an expression of concern blended with a touch of exasperation. It was the same older-brother look he’d given West whenever he’d been caught bullying or cheating back in their school days. “For our entire lives, West, I’ve always taken your side. You’ve nothing to lose by telling me the truth.”

  Folding his arms on the table, West rested his chin on them and glowered at the bookshelves. “I think I’m in love with her. Either that, or I have a stomach disease with a side effect of uncontrollable sweating. But there’s no doubt about one thing: I have no business marrying and reproducing. Somehow, you’ve managed to rise above our upbringing. You’re a good husband, and by some miracle you’re a good father. I won’t tempt fate by trying to follow suit.”

  “What’s stopping you? The fact that you used to be a rake?”

  “You were a ra
ke. I was a wreck. Two years of moderately decent behavior doesn’t wipe away an entire personal history.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “It will. Imagine Justin a few years from now, meeting another boy whose family was ruined because I once had an affair with his mother. Or when someone tells him about a formal party at which I turned up too drunk to walk straight. Or the charming fact that I was booted out of Oxford because I set fire to my room. Or how about this? Imagine the moment I have to tell him that his father hated me to his dying day for bullying him at boarding school.”

  “If his mother forgave you, don’t you think he’ll be able to?”

  “Forgiveness be damned. It doesn’t make any of it go away.”

  “I think you’re missing the point of forgiveness.”

  Lifting his head, West said bleakly, “We have to stop talking about this; Phoebe will be here soon to look at the farm account ledgers.” He sorely regretted inviting her. It had been a stupid impulse.

  Sighing, Devon stood. “Before I leave, let me share a piece of hard-won wisdom about women.”

  “God, must you?”

  “It’s not all about what you want. It’s also about what she wants. No matter what your intentions, most women don’t like it when you make their decisions for them.”

  Phoebe came to the door of the study, which had been left partially ajar, and knocked on the doorjamb. It reminded her of when she’d walked into West’s bedroom and found him half naked, and she felt a pang of nerves.

  “Lady Clare.” West appeared at the threshold, looking polished and handsome in a dark suit of clothes and a conservative striped necktie. His hair was neatly brushed back and his face clean-shaven. One would never suspect what was beneath all those civilized layers, Phoebe thought, and blushed because she knew there were stitches above his left hip, and a bruise left by a sheep’s hoof on his right forearm, and a tan line below the waist, and a hairy chest that intrigued her more every time she thought about it.

  After welcoming her into the study, West seated her at a table piled with books.

  “What a refreshing change to see you fully dressed,” Phoebe said lightly.

  West turned and leaned back against the table, smiling down at her. “Are we going to start by flirting?”

  “I wasn’t flirting.”

  “Let’s not deceive ourselves, madam: your allusion to my clothing and my previous lack thereof was definitely flirting.”

  Phoebe laughed. There was something different in his manner with her today, friendliness accompanied by a slight distance. She was relieved; it would make everything easier. “It was accidental flirting,” she said.

  “It could happen to anyone,” he allowed graciously.

  As Phoebe’s gaze moved to a towering stack of ledgers, she winced. “My goodness.”

  “We keep a separate book for every department of the estate. Household, crops, dairy and poultry, livestock, pay list, inventory, and so forth.” West gave her a questioning glance. “That’s not how they do it at the Clare estate?”

  “I’ve never looked inside the Clare account books,” Phoebe admitted. “Only the household ledger, which the housekeeper and I used to oversee together. Edward Larson has handled the rest of the bookkeeping ever since Henry’s health declined.”

  “Why didn’t you have an estate manager handle it?”

  “He was quite old and wanted to retire. It was a great relief when Edward offered to step in and manage things. Henry trusted him completely.”

  “They were first cousins?”

  “Yes, but they were more like brothers. Henry didn’t like to mix with people outside of his family or mine. He preferred to keep his world small and safe.”

  West’s head tilted slightly, the light sliding over the rich chocolate luster of his hair. “And therefore, so was yours,” he said in a neutral tone.

  “I didn’t mind.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “As much as I like the pace of life in the country, I’d go mad if I didn’t occasionally visit friends in London and enjoy more sophisticated amusements than can be found here.”

  “There are things I miss about London,” Phoebe said. “But now I’m obliged to stay away, especially during the Season. As a widow and the mother of an heir presumptive, I’ll be the target of every fortune hunter in England.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I promise never to propose to you.”

  “Thank you,” Phoebe said with a laugh.

  Turning businesslike, West pulled a broad ledger from a stack and set it in front of her.

  “When do you move to Essex?”

  “In a fortnight.”

  “Once you’re settled, ask for the general account books. One of them will contain yearly statements of the estate’s profits and losses. You’ll want to look at the past four or five years to—why are you frowning? It’s too soon to be frowning.”

  Phoebe picked up a stray pencil and fiddled with it, tapping the blunt end against the edge of the ledger. “It’s the idea of asking Edward for the account books. I know it will upset him. He’ll take it as a sign that I don’t trust him.”

  “It has nothing to do with trust. He should encourage your involvement.”

  “Most men wouldn’t have that attitude.”

  “Any man with common sense would. No one will watch over Justin and Stephen’s interests better than their mother.”

  “Thank you. I happen to agree.” Her mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, Edward won’t approve, and neither will Henry’s mother. In fact, no one connected to the Clare estate will like it.” Phoebe didn’t realize she was clenching the pencil in a death grip until West gently extricated it from her fist.

  “I know how intimidating it is to have to learn all this,” he said. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve already faced.” His warm hand slid over hers. “You have a backbone of steel. You went through months of hell looking after a small child, a dying husband and an entire household, with unholy patience. You missed meals and went without sleep, but you never forgot to read Justin a bedtime story and tuck him in at night. When you let yourself cry or fall apart, it was only in private, for a few minutes, and then you washed your face, put your broken heart back together, and went out with a cheerful expression and a half-dozen handkerchiefs in your pockets. And you did all of it while feeling queasy most of the time because you were expecting another child. You never failed the people who needed you. You’re not going to fail them now.”

  Shocked down to her soul, Phoebe could only manage a whisper. “Who told you all that?”

  “No one.” The smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Phoebe . . . anyone who knows you, even a little, would know those things about you.”

  “Peruvian guano,” Phoebe read aloud from a list of expenditures. “You spent one hundred pounds on imported bat droppings?”

  West grinned. “I would have bought more, had it been available.”

  They had spent hours in the study, but the time seemed to have flown by. West had answered Phoebe’s questions in detail, without condescension. He had opened ledgers, spread maps of the estate and the tenant farms on the floor, and pulled books with titles such as Agricultural Chemistry and Drainage Operations of Arable Land from the shelves. Phoebe had expected it to be a dull session of tallying long columns of numbers and filling out forms. However, as it turned out, estate accounting was about far more than numbers. It was about people, animals, food, weather, science, markets . . . it was about the future. And the man explaining it to her was so articulate and keen on the subject, he could even make bookkeeping methods interesting.

  The conversation was interrupted as a footman brought a tray of sandwiches and refreshments from the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” Phoebe said, accepting the glass of chilled wine West handed to her. “Are we allowed to drink wine while accounting?”

  “I assure you, there’s no way to face the inventory and valuation ledger without it.” He l
ifted his glass in a toast. “God speed the plow.”

  “Is that a farmer’s toast?”

  “It’s the farmer’s toast.”

  “God speed the plow,” Phoebe echoed, and took a sip of the tart, refreshing vintage. After the footman had left, closing the door behind him, she returned her attention to the list of fertilizers in front of her. “Why Peruvian guano?” she asked. “Don’t British bats produce enough of it?”

  “One would think so. However, Peruvian guano contains the most nitrogen, which is what clay soil needs.” West turned a few pages and pointed to a column. “Look at these wheat yields.”

  “What do those numbers mean?”

  “All totaled, that one hundred pounds of Peruvian guano helped us to grow nine hundred extra bushels of wheat.”

  Phoebe was electrified by the information. “I want all the Clare tenants to have that fertilizer.”

  West laughed at her enthusiasm. “Nitrogen won’t work for every farm. Each plot of land has different soil and drainage issues. That’s why an estate or land manager meets with each leaseholder at least twice a year to discuss the specifics of their situations.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe’s excitement dwindled rapidly, and she took refuge in a deep swallow of wine.

  West stared at her alertly. “Larson doesn’t meet with them regularly?”

  Phoebe replied without keeping her gaze glued to the page in front of her. “The Larsons believe it’s better not to become too familiar with their tenants. They say it encourages them to make too many demands, and ask for favors, and become lax in paying rent. According to Edward, tenant uprisings like the recent ones in Ireland could easily happen here. Some landowners have even been murdered by their own leaseholders.”

  “In every one of those cases,” West said darkly, “the landowner was notorious for having abused and mistreated his tenants.” He was silent for a moment. “So . . . Larson communicates with the tenants through a middleman?”

  Phoebe nodded. “He sends an estate bailiff to collect rents, and if they—”