Davenport frowned at the toes of his boots, weighing her future in the balance. She studied his expression anxiously, but his thoughts were impossible to divine.
The silence was broken by the entrance of the groom. Alys said, “Yes, Bates?”
“Excuse me, Lady Alys, but I think one of the plow horses has a splint forming.” His question was for her, but his frankly curious gaze was for the new owner.
Alys said impatiently, “Apply a cold water bandage, and I’ll take a look at it later. Is there anything else?”
Bates considered for a moment. “No, ma’am.” Slowly he withdrew.
“Are you consulted about everything that happens at Strickland?” Davenport asked, his eyebrows rising.
“Of course not, that was merely an excuse for him to get a closer look at the new owner. Everyone is perishing of curiosity. After all, you have the power to make or break anyone on the estate.”
Alys was pleased to see that her words took him slightly aback. Good, the more he thought about his new responsibilities, the better. He didn’t look like a man who’d had more than a nodding acquaintance with responsibility in the past.
With a sardonic glint in his eye, he turned the conversation back to her. “Lady Alys? From what noble family do you spring to merit the title?”
“It’s only a nickname. Someone called me Lady Alys, and it stuck.” Under his probing gaze, she added, “Because of my dictatorial tendencies, I imagine.”
He smiled at her explanation. “Lady Alys. It does suit you. Shall I call you that, or do you wish to be Miss Weston?”
“Whatever you prefer, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, doing her level best to sound like an obedient employee even though her stomach was churning. She sipped more whiskey, hoping it would have a soothing effect.
They drank in silence, Davenport frowning to himself, until Alys could stand the suspense no longer and asked, “Well?”
He glanced up. “Well, what?”
Her chin lifted at his deliberate obtuseness. “Are you going to discharge me?”
“I decided before I arrived here to make no changes until I was more familiar with the situation.” He studied her with shuttered eyes. “It will be a confounded nuisance to have a female steward, but everyone seems to hold you in high regard. Since you can do the work, it would be foolish to release you for a reason that is not your fault and which apparently doesn’t hinder your performance.”
Alys released her breath, almost giddy with relief. She really hadn’t expected such an enlightened attitude from a libertine.
Reading her expression, he went on, his heavy brows drawn together. “I will keep you on for the time being, but I want to make two things perfectly clear. First, I intend to take you at your word and treat you like a man, so I don’t want to hear any spinsterish outrage about my crude language and behavior.”
He waited until she gave a nod of acknowledgment, then continued, “Secondly, for the last four years you have been running Strickland, with authority for everyone and everything on the estate, answerable only to a London lawyer who never visited. For all practical purposes, you might have been the owner. Now, however, Strickland is mine. If I tell you to plant orange trees in the water meadow, you will do it. If I want the laborers to cut a Saxon horse into the chalk of the hillside, you will give the orders. If I want to color the sheep pink, you will order the dye.”
He set his tumbler on the desk and leaned forward for emphasis, his dark face stern. “I am quite willing to take advice on estate matters, since your experience is greater than mine. However, once I make a decision, I will expect you to implement it without further questions. Your will is no longer supreme; what authority you have is derived from me. For you, it will be a change for the worse. I don’t expect you to like it, but I do expect you to accept it and behave in a civil and cooperative manner. If you can’t, you had better leave right now.”
Alys stared into his cold aquamarine eyes, and realized that it would be very easy to hate Reginald Davenport. Before today, she hadn’t had time to worry beyond the question of whether he would discharge her out of hand. Now she had survived the first fence, only to discover that the rest of the course would be much harder.
Her new employer had gone to the heart of her dilemma with uncanny perception. For years she had ruled Strickland like a private fiefdom. Because of her position and the fact that she was an enlightened despot, her orders had been accepted, and she was proud of what she had achieved. Now he was saying in unmistakable terms that her reign was over. She was as much an employee as the youngest field hand.
Authority came very naturally to Alys; subservience did not. Unfortunately, she had no real choice. She would never be able to find an equivalent situation anywhere else.
As the silence stretched, he prompted, “Well?”
Swallowing hard to force down her resentment, she said coolly, “I can accept that, Mr. Davenport.”
He smiled with a lazy charm that was a startling contrast to his prior manner. “You can accept it, but you would rather have my guts for garters.” He got to his feet and looked down at her. “I don’t care what you think of me as long as you do your work and don’t sulk. Agreed?”
Alys also stood. After a moment’s hesitation she offered her hand with grudging respect. “Agreed.”
His hand was firm and hard, not soft like many London gentlemen’s. After arranging to meet her early the next morning for a tour of the estate, he took the last six years of account books to the main house to study.
After he left, Alys sank back into her chair with a sigh. She still had a job, at least for the moment. Now she would consider the serious question of whether she could work for Reginald Davenport without murdering him.
Having survived the ordeal by the owner, that night Alys faced interrogation by her wards. She waited until dinner was over before announcing, “Mr. Davenport arrived from London today.”
A chorus of responses overlaid each other. Meredith looked up so quickly that her golden ringlets danced. “Lady Alys,” she said accusingly, “you didn’t tell us!”
Her fifteen-year-old brother Peter asked eagerly, “How long is he going to stay?”
William, at seven the baby of the family, swallowed his pudding in haste and demanded, “Tell me about his horses!”
Alys grinned at her charges. All three of the Spensers were staring at her, bright-eyed with curiosity. Even Attila watched avidly, though in his case the cause was hope for a handout. “I wanted to eat before I told you because I knew there would be no peace afterward. To answer your questions, I don’t know how long he is going to stay, but it looks like he’ll be here for a while. He rode down on a really magnificent black stallion. He has a carriage and some hunters coming. If the hunters are half as fine as the stallion, William will be in horse heaven.”
William, who had his sister’s golden hair and sunny disposition, sighed rapturously. Merry, remembering Alys’s concern, asked, “He doesn’t mind having a female steward?”
Alys hesitated, remembering that dark, sardonic face. “He minded, but he’s willing to overlook my failings in that area, at least for the moment.”
Peter said wistfully, “I’d like to meet him. It’s hard to imagine a real out-and-outer in Dorsetshire.”
Alys regarded him thoughtfully. Unlike his blond and pragmatic siblings, Peter had brown hair and a dreamy, scholarly nature. While his ambition was the church, he tempered that with a lively interest in the doings of the London fashionable world. Like his brother and sister, Peter was remarkably happy and stable considering that he had been orphaned so young, but now he was at an age where he needed a father’s guidance, and Alys couldn’t give him that. It would be all too easy for the boy to hero-worship a man like Strickland’s new owner.
Hoping to reduce Davenport’s glamour, she said dampeningly, “He may be an out-and-outer in London, but he looks like any other country gentleman here.”
Undeterred, Peter said, “He’s a me
mber of the Four-in-Hand Club. They say he’s one of the best boxers in England, that he could have been a professional champion if he wanted to.”
Alys sighed. Her four years as a foster parent had taught her that sometimes it was impossible to derail the direction of youthful thought. Peter was determined to be impressed.
“Is he handsome?” That was from Merry, of course.
Alys eyed the girl with misgivings. Though Meredith handled her young suitors with innate skill, she was no match for a man of the world like Davenport. Alys wished she could keep the two of them apart, but Strickland was too small for that. “No, he’s not especially good-looking, and he’s old enough to be your father.”
She was uncomfortably aware that her words were less than the truth. Davenport was certainly no Adonis, but he had a sexual magnetism that would fascinate as many women as it terrified. Her foster daughter was not the sort to be easily terrified.
Merry propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “He’s going to be lonely in that big house by himself. We should invite him to dinner.”
“He’ll be getting plenty of invitations once the local gentry know he’s in residence. Davenport is a considerable property owner now, and there are enough unmarried daughters in the area to ensure instant social acceptance as long as he doesn’t do anything too outrageous,” Alys said cynically. “Besides, you know perfectly well that it would be inappropriate for us to invite my employer to dinner.”
Merry smiled mischievously. “This is not the normal steward’s household.”
“No,” Alys admitted, “but that doesn’t mean there should be a social relationship between Davenport and us. That would be both improper and uncomfortable.”
Ignoring her guardian as thoroughly as Peter had, Merry said dreamily, “I’ve always wondered what a rake is like.”
“Meredith, such talk is quite unbecoming,” her guardian said with exasperation. “I don’t want Mr. Davenport pestered by any of you. Not about his horses, his sporting activities, or his social life. Do you understand?”
She might as well have saved her breath. In a quiet neighborhood like this one, a dashing stranger was bound to be a focus of speculation and interest. The only silver lining Alys could imagine was that Davenport looked too impatient and self-absorbed to waste time corrupting the boys.
However, Meredith was quite a different story. Her beauty attracted men like wasps to a jam pot. The local swains were respectful enough, but Davenport came from a very different world. Merry handled her local admirers so deftly that she might not realize that she was playing with fire until she was burned. Which meant that Alys was going to have to keep Davenport away from the girl, at the same time satisfying the man with her stewardship.
It didn’t take a prophet to foresee storms on the horizon.
Reggie spent the evening working on the estate account books, spreading them across the library table. It was nearly midnight when he closed the last. He stood and stretched, then picked up his brandy glass and wandered over to the French doors. The gardens that were unkempt by day were lovely in the pale, cool light of a waxing moon. He found the landscape eerily familiar. The old naval captain who had rented the house had made so few changes that Reggie suspected he could go to his old bedroom and find it exactly the same, with books and rocks and other childish treasures.
However, it was a proposition that he didn’t intend to test. He was twitchy enough already. The house was welcoming but haunted, and he couldn’t turn a corner without half expecting to run into a member of his family. Presumably that feeling would pass. It had better, or he would be unable to endure living here.
He drank deeply of the brandy. Strickland might prove unendurable anyhow. What on earth did country people do in the evenings? He would perish of boredom at this rate.
In spite of his misgivings, he had the obscure feeling that he couldn’t go back to his old life. Mentally he had burned his bridges when he came down here. His life was hollow at the core. The only question was what would fill that space.
Apart from brandy, that was.
Taking a branch of candles in hand, he prowled through the ground floor. The music room opened off the drawing room, and the old pianoforte still stood there in lonely grandeur. Placing the candelabrum on the shining mahogany lid, he sat down on the bench and played an experimental chord. The liquid notes hung in the air, marred by several that were sour. He’d have to get the instrument tuned.
His fingers were rusty, unused to musical exercise. How long had it been since he had played? Years. His mother had taught him music on this very instrument. He’d loved the lessons. She had once said that if he continued to learn and practiced hard, he would someday be a superb pianist.
That possibility was one of many that had vanished when he left Strickland. Still, though he took no more lessons, for years he had played when he was in the vicinity of a piano and there was no one around to hear. At some point he had stopped. Three years ago? Five? Before the blackouts had started. Why had he allowed something so important to slip away?
He lifted the lid of the piano bench and took out the piece of music on top. A sonata by Beethoven. Perhaps he had put it there himself almost three decades earlier. Once again, the sea captain had apparently changed nothing.
Ignoring the strangeness of his situation and the off notes, he began to play the sonata. Polishing his musical skills would be one way to fill empty time. Within half an hour, his fingers were beginning to remember what his mind had half forgotten.
When he finished, he lifted the candelabrum and continued on his midnight tour until he came to the morning room. He halted on the threshold. This sunny chamber was one of the most pleasant spots in the house. It had been his mother’s special retreat, but he had never been comfortable here. At night and devoid of his mother’s presence, the room made the hair on his nape prickle. The rest of Strickland’s ghosts were amiable, but not whatever lingered here.
Scoffing at his imagination, he returned to the library and settled into the wing chair that had been his father’s favorite. He was much the height and build of his father, and the chair seemed tailored to his shape. Picking up the brandy he had left, he thought about what he had accomplished today.
Based on her efficiency at making the house habitable, he had offered the position of full-time housekeeper to Mrs. Herald. Since he had not insisted that she live in, she had accepted with alacrity. Mrs. Herald had also recommended several local girls as house and kitchen maids. Reggie assumed they were all related to her, but he didn’t mind nepotism as long as they were competent.
Molly Barlow, a plump, comely widow in her forties as well as Mrs. Herald’s sister-in-law, had proved to be a good plain cook, so he had given her the position permanently. Within the next two days, she and her youngest child would move into the servants’ quarters. Reggie had eyed her with interest, but it would be poor policy to bed his own servants. He’d have to make different arrangements, perhaps in Dorchester
Or he could invite Chessie down for a visit. He chuckled at the thought of what the county would think. Likely some of the men would recognize her, since Chessie ran one of London’s best brothels. Having her at Strickland would certainly eliminate any risk that he would be acceptable to the womenfolk of the local gentry.
Amusement faded, and he ran his hand tiredly through his dark hair as his thoughts circled around to his improbable steward. He wasn’t really worried about burning Lady Alys’s tender ears with his language. The real danger was that he would be unable to keep his hands off the blasted woman. While Reggie found a broad range of females attractive, tall women with long legs and richly feminine figures could turn him into a softheaded imbecile. Garbed as she was this afternoon, the legs had been immediately obvious. The figure had been equally alluring.
Under other circumstances she might have been a real find, but during their conversation, he had revised his initial impression. She might not be shy, but she was certainly a vi
rgin. Beneath her unconventional dress and occupation, there lurked the rigid soul of a governess. She had been quite unable to repress her furious disapproval of him. Not that Reggie blamed her. If he had ruled here for years, he would be equally furious at being displaced. In her case anger was supplemented by contempt for the kind of man the new owner was.
It would be much simpler to get rid of the woman, but he was reluctant to turn her out. She had reached her present position only through a lucky chance, and she was unlikely to find another such post. Which would be both unfair and unfortunate, because his review of the accounts had showed that the woman had a talent for her work that bordered on genius.
Reggie had always had a knack for figures, and had deciphered an intriguing story from the account books. The previous steward had been fired by the Wargrave business manager for embezzlement. When Miss Weston took over, there had been an immediate jump in income simply through honest record keeping.
Then the story became really interesting. The income had increased for the first two years under Lady Alys, but the profits had been canceled by heavy capital investment. In the last two years, the improvements had paid off with a sharp rise in income. Many of the expenditures were clear from the books. However, there were some cryptic entries that he intended to ask about.
He refilled his brandy glass. Then he settled back in his chair again, thinking of that magnificent female body, and how it was wasted on a dedicated spinster. If she had been as young as her appearance suggested, there might have been some hope of teaching her what she was missing, but since she had reached the advanced age of thirty in a state of militant virginity, her attitude was unlikely to change.
Reggie sighed and rested his head against the chair back. He didn’t doubt his ability to control his base instincts when he was sober, but if she paraded that beautiful body in front of him when he was half foxed, he might behave very badly indeed. And really, he didn’t need any more reasons to despise himself.
The Rake Page 5
