“Close Bellewyck Abbey?”
“Permanently,” Devlin stressed, opting to ignore her unguarded dismay. “Even should His Grace decide to keep the estate open, the position of housekeeper may be deemed too demanding for someone of your tender years. Then again, marriage does bring about a certain degree of, shall we way, worldly wisdom. You are worldly, are you not, Mrs. Tatum?
“I beg your pardon?”
“I meant no insult.” He decided to employ the words she’d used a moment ago—and with just about the same amount of sincerity. “Like you, it is simply my nature to be curious about a great many things. And speaking of curiosities, where is Mr. Tatum?”
“Mr. Tatum?”
“Your husband?” he prompted with a raised brow.
Noting the confusion on her face, Devlin’s heart raced with the possibility her husband no longer existed.
“I see.” Intimating his body a step closer, he watched a rush of color blossom high on the arch of her flawless cheeks. “Did he go soldiering and die?”
“Mr. Randolph, I am not a widow.”
Just as quickly, Devlin’s spirits plummeted. Oh well, it never would have worked. She was a servant under his employ and, subsequently, his protection. And the day would come when this masquerade must end. Still, he wanted to be sure.
“Then your husband is alive?”
She sighed in a manner that conveyed an obvious exasperation with him. “I have no idea what you are talking about. How could I have a husband, living or otherwise, when I have never been married?”
For reasons he did not fully comprehend, Devlin’s heart pounded in his ears. His mouth turned dry, and a rush of masculine interest the likes of which he’d never known shot through his body to settle heavy in his loins. Until another thought hit him hard in the stomach.
“You deceitful little witch.” He ignored the contemptuous narrow-eyed glare she directed at him. “You have deliberately deceived me from the moment I arrived at this estate. Did you or did you not present yourself to me as Mrs. Tatum?”
“I never said I was Mrs. Tatum.” She bolstered both hands defiantly on her slender hips. “I said I was the housekeeper. You assumed I was married.”
Already on the verge of lecturing about honesty, he stopped short. Rubbing the back of his aching neck, he grimaced. “I could have sworn Higginbotham said the housekeeper was named Mrs. Tatum.”
He started to pace then caught her studying him with a peculiar expression. “What is it? You look as if you know something that might explain my confusion. If so, pray enlighten me.”
“Mrs. Tatum was housekeeper here until her death two years ago.” She spoke in a soft, hesitant manner. “Lord Bellewyck refused to hire anyone new after she died, and offered the situation to me. She was—that is to say—Mr. Higginbotham must have thought we were the same person. You see, my name is also Tatum.”
“Was this woman a relation to you?”
Her eyes lowered to blink away sudden tears that glistened like liquid crystals upon thick, black lashes. “She was my—my dearest mother.”
Somewhere in the protected realm of his heart, Devlin felt a stab of pain. He understood too well the ache of losing a parent. The void in his life after the sudden death of his father eight years ago had never gone away.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said with a slight bow. “The death of a parent is difficult at any age, I know.”
The surprise in her eyes made him uncomfortable. Perhaps expressions of sympathy were not addressed between servants? He must remember to conduct himself as befitting a steward, nothing more.
“Yes, well, in any event, you are still quite young to hold such an important position at the estate.”
“His lordship never thought so.”
Devlin eyed her speculatively, and a more disturbing thought came to mind. What kind of relationship did she have with the earl? Despite maintaining his residence in Bath, Bellewyck must have come to his family seat from time to time. Difficult to believe any man could live under the same roof with this female and not want her in his bed.
“You are rather forthcoming where Lord Bellewyck’s good opinion is concerned.”
She lifted her chin at a defiant angle. “I merely wished to convey his lordship never voiced any complaints about my age, or the quality of my work as housekeeper.”
Ah, there it was again. Another reference to Bellewyck and what he thought about her abilities. In light of the estate’s disgraceful condition, and the unknown whereabouts of the earl’s ward, her remarks were not only absurd but exceedingly suspicious.
Approaching her once more, Devlin looked directly into her eyes. “Be that as it may, Miss Tatum, I shall reserve judgment of your housekeeping skills for myself. Now then, how old are you?’
She looked at him with a defensive, if not challenging, expression. “I shall be twenty come December.”
Stepping back, Devlin folded his arms across his chest. Not yet twenty and likely a virgin. This masquerade may prove more a challenge than anticipated, particularly since he now had to fight an absurd attraction to a beautiful servant.
Damn, this is vexing.
Who would have thought it possible the estate’s housekeeper could be nothing short of a temptress? As a rule, housekeepers were unattractive women of no particular consequence and possessed perpetually sour dispositions. They were prudish spinsters or plump widows. Sullen women who spent their lives organizing the homes of their employers because they had no prospects whatsoever for romance or marriage.
“Did Lord Bellewyck arrange for your education?”
“The vicar’s wife was fond of me. Mrs. Snow taught me many things, including how to read and write.”
“And did the vicar’s wife also instruct you in speech and deportment?”
“I taught myself. As a child, I paid particular attention to my elders, especially members of the gentry.”
“Well, if nothing else, that is to your credit. You are quite well spoken—for a servant, that is.”
“You are too kind.”
Devlin’s brow arched at her caustic tone although, for some reason, he wanted to smile at the young woman’s audacity. No one contradicted the Duke of Pemberton or dared question his opinions on any matter, especially women. In truth, unmarried women—especially those of the servant class—rarely looked him in the eye. This woman seemed to make a habit of it. She also had no qualms whatsoever about speaking her mind.
Of course, impertinent servants would never be tolerated amongst his set. And he still had suspicions about her involvement in some manner of treachery at the estate, as well as possibly having had an intimate relationship with his predecessor. For some unexplainable reason, the latter proved a more disturbing notion.
“No more falsehoods, Miss Tatum. Whether or not you remain housekeeper depends upon my good opinion. Do you understand?”
She nodded, continuing to stare unflinchingly back at him.
“Very well, then.” He straightened his disheveled clothing. “Have a hot bath prepared in my chamber straightaway. Henceforth, you will take your meals with me. We will employ that time discussing the estate. The first thing I want to know is the complete background of every person employed at the abbey, and their duties.”
The moment the steward turned his back, Christiana clenched her fists.
Take my meals with him?
A slew of ripe profanity rattled through her brain as she watched the odious man ascend the stairs. With his straight posture, broad shoulders, and long, scandalously clothed legs, he took each step with the precision of a general. He also must have realized she still watched him depart for he issued one final command without even turning his head to see if she’d quit the hall.
“A word of caution, Miss Tatum,” he called. “Do not wander off again. You will show me about the abbey today.”
Christiana bit her tongue, closed her eyes, and slowly counted to ten. The man was an arrogant beast. She recalled all too clearly the moment yesterd
ay morning when she’d first seen him standing behind the others in the Great Room. Bathed in a shaft of sunlight from a high window, he’d first reminded her of a knight in shining armor.
But the momentary enchantment ended when she’d introduced herself as housekeeper. The man had the temerity to laugh at her. It made no difference that she’d been covered in soot. His amusement had been cruel, another reminder how the world beyond Bellewyck Abbey would always see her.
She had hoped he might extend a more gentlemanly manner toward her today, especially after taking special effort with her toilette this morning. Little good it did. He’d found fault with her age and appeared suspicious of her abilities as housekeeper. Even his compliments about her manner of speech had been laced with censure.
Who is this man? A steward, or spy for Pemberton?
He resembled a well-bred London dandy with a penchant for the latest fashion. Yet Mr. Randolph did not have the pasty white complexion one expected from a gentleman who spent idle hours sitting around in gaming clubs on Pall Mall. Quite the contrary, his skin was slightly bronzed, as if he preferred being outdoors.
Remembering what Polly had said last night about the man, she had to agree. The steward appeared the physical embodiment of masculine perfection. Well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he had a face and form that would send any woman’s heart racing.
He had unusual eyes, too. They seemed to change color with his temper. Yesterday, they’d been a blue-gray. Today, they appeared vivid green in color.
He smelled heavenly, too—like fresh morning air and sunlit forests, sandalwood, and something unexplainably male.
His chin was strong, his nose straight—almost patrician—with slightly flared nostrils. Intriguing dimples—that more resembled long, deep creases on each cheek—seemed to indicate the man not only possessed a keen sense of humor, but had a tendency to laugh often. Not that he’d shown anyone at the abbey the consideration of a kind, sincere, friendly smile.
And the only laughter she’d heard was judgmental and rude.
What did it matter? She had no intention of being charmed by Mr. Randolph.
I may not have much, but my virtue is still intact.
Her temper blazed anew. His reference to worldliness had been most telling. Clearly, the man had no qualms about dallying with a woman he knew nothing about and cared for even less.
No doubt, he thought I would jump at the chance to bed down with the likes of him.
A sudden wave of breathlessness washed over her at the notion.
Do not be a fool, she chided herself. He is an arrogant beast and not to be trusted.
She all but marched toward the front door, muttering under her breath. “And if he so much as alludes to absconded silver or missing wards, I shall kick the ever so handsome Mr. Randolph, no matter the consequences.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Shun the inquisitive person,
for he is also a talker.”
~ Horace
(65-8 BC)
Epistles
Torn between disgust and amusement, Devlin crossed his arms and leaned against a wall in the abbey’s ancient gallery. “Not that I am surprised, mind you, but it appears Bellewyck’s artwork has also mysteriously disappeared.”
Miss Tatum walked to the center of the room and turned in profile. Her lips pursed together as if fighting the urge to argue his point. Her restraint proved admirable. The woman had teetered on what seemed a knife blade of losing her temper for most of the day.
“Come now, Miss Tatum,” he continued. “You must agree it is rather odd the estate has nothing of value within its walls—or on them, for that matter.”
She turned to face him, a delicately winged eyebrow arched. “What I find odd is your preoccupation with it.”
Devlin couldn’t help it. He laughed at the woman’s stubborn, unwavering determination to challenge everything he said. More intriguing was her reaction to his amusement.
A vivid pink blush colored delicate, porcelain cheeks, and a coquettish look of transfixed wonder lit her expression. He found it not only endearing, but tempting. If she continued to look at him that way, he’d not be responsible for the consequences.
A moment later, the determined tilt of her rebellious chin returned. And her lips compressed into what could only be described as a mutinous line.
“Now, now, do not take on that disagreeable, black mood,” he said with a lingering smile. “I merely made an observation. We stand in a gallery with not one painting to document the noble lineage of Lord Bellewyck or the history of this estate. Look at the faded shadows from frame dimensions. Once upon a time, a great many works on canvas graced these walls. Some were quite impressive in size.”
“I would not know, Mr. Randolph. I was not here once upon a time.” She proceeded toward another set of gothic-style doors.
Touché. As a rule, he preferred women possessed of a keen wit. And Miss Tatum’s wit far surpassed other women he’d known.
Good God, where did that come from?
Following, he studied the sway of her skirts, inviting yet forbidden at the same time. Miss Tatum possessed some rather enticing dimensions of her own, though they’d been artfully hidden by damnable chimney sweep attire yesterday. An even greater curiosity to him was that despite her character being suspect, and her honesty highly questionable, he enjoyed her company.
All too late, he realized the woman had stopped walking and stood glaring at him. Gruffly clearing his throat, he glanced up at the ceiling.
“I see the roof leaks in this part of the house as well.”
“You are nothing if not observant.”
“I sense a double meaning there.” He employed the winning grin he’d perfected long ago, equal parts tease and seduction. Most women found it irresistible. Miss Tatum wasn’t one of them.
He opted for a more stoic demeanor. “Yes, well, the roof should be repaired as soon as possible—before someone is injured or killed.”
“Mr. Randolph, such repairs would be astronomical in cost.”
Her hands were clasped together in a rigid pose which the young Miss Tatum must consider an expected stance for a responsible, mature housekeeper. On her, he found it quite endearing. Zounds, but he needed to take control of his wayward thoughts.
Devlin walked over to one of many tall windows, and looked out at the expansive emerald grounds. “The Duke of Pemberton takes his obligations seriously, Miss Tatum. Matters not if that obligation is to his title, his properties, his tenants, or the people he employs. I am confident he will find it unconscionable how neglected this estate has been.”
“This estate has not been neglected.”
Devlin turned about, surprised by her sharp tone.
She sighed, a feminine sound which could indicate either impatience with him, or regret about her show of temper. “Mr. Randolph, including myself, three women and four men are employed at this estate. What little profits the brewery made, his lordship confiscated with no thought for necessary repairs to Bellewyck Abbey. Still, we have maintained the house and the brewery to the best of our abilities.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and it should be obvious an estate of this size by rights should employ at least five times its present number.”
“At least,” he concurred. “Pity the earl did away with his tenancies. Apart from the land not being properly farmed, he might have made arrangements with tenants to ensure the upkeep of his estate. Labor in exchange for credit on rents is not uncommon, especially when an estate experiences financial difficulties.”
“In time, you will learn Lord Bellewyck never had any interest in this estate, the village, or its people. Many believe he wanted nothing more than to see Bellewyck Abbey in ruins.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe he hated Bellewyck Abbey and all it represented.”
She spoke calmly, with conviction. There might even be some truth to what she said about his lordshi
p’s lack of regard for his family seat. The pile of debts owed at the time of the man’s death gave a disturbing picture of how poorly he’d managed his affairs.
Had the earl been equally negligent in the care of his ward?
If not, where was documentation about the child?
Someone who knew its fate or present whereabouts?
Devlin quelled the impulse to contact his secretary in London. He’d like nothing better than to initiate a thorough investigation into Bellewyck’s past. Unfortunately, rules of the wager prevented him from corresponding with anyone or even traveling to conduct research. Allowed the assistance of only one servant during this masquerade, he needed someone with a strong constitution. His secretary, the bookish Jacob Filbert could do little in a pinch.
Remembering how his mother’s stalwart coachman had impulsively stormed Louisa Drummond’s bedchamber to find him—all things considered—Nash would make the best ally.
Devlin returned his attention to matters at hand. “Perhaps now would be a good time to explain the duties of each servant, and how long they have been employed.”
“As you like,” she said with a slight nod.
He observed how she clasped her hands together again then rested them upon her apron front. Although her demeanor appeared calm, her posture reminded him of an unyielding marble statue. Indeed, she looked like a stage actor about to make a dramatic recitation—well prepared and well rehearsed.
“You already know that Mrs. Lloyd is our cook,” she continued in a most proper fashion. “She has been at Bellewyck Abbey for almost thirty years. Tom Rooney’s duties are varied. When his lordship was in residence, Tom performed the duties of butler. Most of the time, he maintains the grounds. He was head gardener for many years, and lives in the old gatehouse. Then we have the Darrow family. Gordon Darrow is our cooper. He came to Bellewyck thirteen years ago with his two children, Billy and Polly. Today, he delivers ale to market in Folkestone. His son, Billy, tends what little farm animals we have—a few dairy cows and a number of sheep.”
“Where does the Darrow family reside?”
“The men live in a small cottage on the grange. Polly lives in the abbey with the women.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 6
