“Ah, yes, Polly.” Just the mention of the loud, insolent blonde maid gave Devlin a headache. “And what, pray tell, are her duties?”
“She has many duties, primarily the laundry and kitchen garden.”
“Which brings us to you, I believe.”
“Yes.” Miss Tatum raised her chin ever so slightly. “In addition to the customary duties one expects of a housekeeper, I clean the guest chambers as necessary. Prior to your arrival, those rooms were closed. I also maintain the estate’s accounts and work closely with Jasper Collins down in the brewery.”
“I see,” Devlin replied. “And this Jasper Collins?”
“Jasper is our brewer. He has been at Bellewyck Abbey all his life. His family managed the brewery operation for generations. Advanced years and poor health now prevent him from coming up to the house. He lives at the brewery.”
“The women live alone in the house?”
“Yes.”
Having no man in the house seemed reckless to his way of thinking. If danger were to present itself, no man would be close enough to protect the women. A competent butler or footman should reside in the house. At the very least, Nash could act as butler until a more qualified person might be retained.
Recalling what his housekeeper just said, he crooked a brow at her. “I was under the impression Polly cleaned my bedchamber.”
At least that’s whom he’d assumed had rifled through his belongings, going so far as to damage the top of his new traveling desk. Had the wench not been so hasty she would have noticed he’d left it unlocked. Thank God his signet ring had been concealed in a specially made pocket inside his boot.
“I beg to differ, Mr. Randolph. Polly cleaned the duke’s bedchamber.”
Devlin bit back a smile. Miss Tatum’s quick mind intrigued him. Women of beauty rarely had anything between their ears—as if God deemed it fair to slight them in some way. To find beauty and intelligence in a servant woman seemed nothing short of miraculous.
“My dear, Miss Tatum, I am inordinately pleased you recognize Pemberton’s authority. He is indeed the new owner of Bellewyck Abbey, and everything here belongs to him.”
“Not everything,” she murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I do not belong to him.”
Take aback by her odd response, he said, “Yes, well, that goes without saying, but I presume His Grace can rely upon your loyalty.”
“I am exceedingly loyal to this estate.” She took a few steps toward him, her expression one of keen interest. Less the rehearsed statue, more the curious mortal. “What about your loyalty, Mr. Randolph? Does it rest with the estate or the Duke of Pemberton?”
“I consider them one and the same.”
“Not necessarily. There may be times when a person must choose between doing what is right and what someone orders them to do. I cannot help but wonder—would you obey the duke without question? Even should Pemberton ask you to do something you find personally disagreeable, perhaps even reprehensible?”
Devlin blinked. Were they speaking the same language? Why did women with any measure of intelligence try to impress men by spouting convoluted scenarios and hypothetical situations?
“I suppose there are limits concerning duty to one’s employer, Miss Tatum—especially in such an instance where one’s sense of honor might be compromised.”
“One’s sense of honor.” She spoke slowly, quietly, as if testing the words on her tongue. In her enchanting eyes, he saw a certain degree of respect, perhaps even an element of admiration. The thought made him wholly uncomfortable.
“Back to the bedchamber I am using with the benevolent permission of His Grace. Did you clean it?”
“I was a bit preoccupied when you arrived.”
Remembering their first meeting, he suppressed a grin. It had been a mistake not to advise the servants of his impending arrival. The controlled fury in Miss Tatum’s disposition had been something he’d never forget. Of course, he now understood the reason for her upset. No woman would ever consider making the acquaintance of a gentleman when not at her best. His two sisters had taught him that much.
“Was there a problem with how Polly cleaned the duke’s bedchamber?”
Devlin chuckled. “My dear Miss Tatum, for the sake of conversation, mightn’t we refer to it henceforth as my chamber?” She smirked at the suggestion, prompting him to laugh. “Why does it bother you so much that I am permitted to use the duke’s bedchamber?”
“Because it simply is not done,” she argued. “Stewards do not occupy their employer’s private rooms. ‘Tis most improper. You should have refused the privilege.”
He studied her thoughtfully. Did she consider it improper he used the bedchamber or because a man now lived in the house who could better watch her activities?
“I find it rather ironic you are concerned with propriety, Miss Tatum. Your mannish attire and colorful language upon my arrival could hardly be deemed proper for a woman, let alone a housekeeper.”
She paled, and he noticed a slight quivering of her chin.
Well, that was a bloody mistake.
He’d meant to tease and coax her into a smile, but somehow the words came out of his mouth as condemnation.
“Forgive me. You have carried a great weight upon your shoulders since your mother’s passing. I commend you for taking it upon yourself to clean the chimney yesterday. I doubt many women would be courageous enough to attempt such a necessary yet dangerous task, especially knowing they could have delegated the chore to another.”
Tears spiked her long lashes. Dear God, if anything made him feel cast adrift in a sea of uncertainty, a woman’s tears did the job.
He offered his handkerchief. “You care a great deal for the people employed here, do you not?”
“Yes.”
There followed a moment of silence as they looked at one another.
What was this aching attraction he felt for her? And why, with the doubts and concerns he had about the estate and its people, was he thinking about taking her into his arms and kissing her soundly? For God’s sake, the woman was a servant in his home. He couldn’t involve himself with her, especially in light of the suspicions about everyone and everything at the estate.
“Tell me about your father,” he asked, changing the subject.
She returned his handkerchief. “I do not remember my father.”
Devlin watched her turn away, her manner once more composed, aloof. The ensuing silence proved so awkward he thought only to break it by enquiring about the one person they’d not discussed.
“Then tell me about Sarah.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, an expression of unguarded surprise upon her face. “Sarah?”
“The young girl who wished the Duke of Pemberton a slow and painful death?”
The trace of a smile curved the secret corners of her mouth. “You must forgive Sarah’s impulsive remark, Mr. Randolph. She can be a bit dramatic, but would never harm anyone or anything.”
“I am relieved to hear that.” Taking pains not to frighten Miss Tatum, he took a few steps toward her. “Yesterday, you mentioned she had duties. Is she a servant here as well?”
His housekeeper shook her head. “Sarah is Mrs. Lloyd’s granddaughter. She came to the abbey after her parents died. She helps Bertie from time-to-time in the kitchen, but we try to give Sarah an enjoyable, carefree childhood. In truth, she is more like a little sister to me.”
“To you?”
“And Polly and Billy Darrow, of course.”
“Of course.” His thoughts whirled with a sudden possibility. “When did Sarah’s parents die?”
Miss Tatum’s eyes took on a faraway glint. “She was two years old at the time, so almost ten years now.”
A rush of excitement assailed Devlin. The earl’s Will had been dated ten years ago; the very document that mentioned a ward. In little more than twenty-four hours he’d learned the truth. It made perfect sense. Miss Tatum admitted sh
e cared for the people employed at the estate. And there was no denying the tender emotion in her expression at the mention of young Sarah. The close-knit servants were likely fearful Sarah might be removed from their midst—most astute of them, in fact.
“Come now, Miss Tatum.” He closed the distance separating them. “No need to deny the truth any longer. Sarah is Lord Bellewyck’s ward, is she not?”
Such a look of contemptuous hatred came to Miss Tatum’s face he felt the need to protect his nether region in some way. By thunder, her temper had flashed like lightning.
“You are very skilled at placating people to get what you want, Mr. Randolph. I almost believed you a man of conscience, honor and integrity—someone who might truly care for this estate and its people. In truth, you are a slithering snake waiting for just the right moment to strike. Tell me, do you intend to interrogate everyone like this?”
“If I must.” He bit back the urge to defend his actions.
“I see,” she said with a curt nod. “Well, since you have repeatedly commented upon Mr. Higginbotham and his recent visit to the abbey, you already know he questioned everyone about the estate and this mysterious ward. I daresay the subject has become redundant and tedious.”
Devlin clenched his jaw. Redundant and tedious?
“Be that as it may,”—he reined in his outrage at her cold indifference—“the Duke of Pemberton requested I look into the matter. You see, His Grace does not believe Lord Bellewyck made false claims about having a ward. And where a child’s welfare is concerned, learning about that child takes precedence over anything else I am here to do.”
“There is no child.”
“I believe there is.”
He stared at her, and she at him—a test of wills.
“Have you nothing more to say about the matter, Miss Tatum?”
“No.”
“Very well, but I give you fair warning. I cannot, nay I will not, let the matter rest until I am confident about the truth. One way or another. No doubt, you will find my pressing on about this particular subject even more redundant and tedious in the days to come.”
“Mr. Randolph,” she said with a grievous sigh. “I am quite sure I have no control over what you intend to say or do in the days to come. We told Mr. Higginbotham the truth. The same truth I have told you. Whether or not you choose to believe us is entirely up to you.”
The woman sounded so adamant and confident in her statement perhaps she’d spoken the truth. What if the servants were innocent of theft or other crimes? What if the Earl of Bellewyck had lied about having a ward?
A wave of frustration swept over him. Swearing under his breath, he returned to stand before the window. How could he permit himself to be swayed because of an absurd attraction he felt to a servant woman he knew nothing about?
By God, there was no earthly reason why Bellewyck would claim a ward that didn’t exist. A child did exist. A missing child who remained his responsibility until its fate could be determined by the Lord Chancellor. Even now, its life could be in grave jeopardy.
Arms folded across his chest, Devlin considered his next course of action. Seduce the housekeeper? It would prove no hardship to bed the woman. Then again, the day would come when his identity must be revealed. As Duke of Pemberton, he neither needed nor wanted a scandalous entanglement with a servant.
The fact of the matter—and one that deserved further consideration—was that his housekeeper seemed most interested in what the Duke of Pemberton intended to do with the estate. No doubt, the servants were also concerned for their situations.
Could he use Miss Tatum’s feelings for the abbey and its people as a means to win her confidence and trust? Say what she will about his placating people to get what he wanted, it had never been known to fail—especially with women.
“The Duke of Pemberton is rumored to have an appreciation of fine architecture.” He kept his gaze focused on the sprawling grounds outside the window. “It might prove an intriguing challenge for His Grace to restore Bellewyck Abbey into some semblance of its former glory.”
“You have a great deal of faith in both the Duke of Pemberton and his pocketbook.”
The sound of her slightly husky voice drifted over him like a honeyed caress. He swallowed hard, desperate to quell a rising, impudent desire. Now that he’d decided not to seduce the young woman, he could think of little else.
She came to stand beside him, so close their bodies almost brushed against one another. With but the slightest effort on his part he could turn and . . .
Devlin closed his eyes, determined to think of anything but the unruly lust possessing his body. He shifted his stance. Even now, a pulsating, burgeoning arousal tented his trousers. It would not do for Miss Tatum to see how she affected him.
Perhaps he should behave in a more churlish manner toward her. If they were constantly at odds, treating one another with barely restrained animosity, he might better conduct himself in a gentlemanly manner. And find the missing ward. It seemed the only logical alternative at this crucial point, especially since his libido was spiraling out of control.
Opening his eyes, he took a deep, steadying breath and attempted to ignore her delicate scent—to no avail. A strange fever possessed him. His heart drummed with lustful need, so swift and loud it sounded ready to jump out of his chest. His breathing, ragged, heavy, waged its own desperate struggle to deny a virulent passion. Even his palms were sweating.
What the devil is wrong with me?
He turned his head, intending to employ his most intimidating glare, the same look that had sent any number of individuals running from his presence in the past. Unfortunately, the afternoon light streaming in through warbled glazing of thick window panes illuminated her face with a warm, golden glow.
He saw no blemish upon her pale skin, not even a freckle.
Put simply, she dazzled him.
Even worse, he now saw her breathless desire…for him.
The moment grew intense with intimacy. One could be strong when a woman didn’t seek or welcome a man’s advances. But when she looked at him with such a seductive expression, breathless—trembling with obvious passion—it proved nigh on impossible to resist.
Good God, this is madness.
Had the woman bewitched him? What manner of man forgot a missing child? Or, that a strong likelihood existed the servants at this estate, including the beguiling housekeeper, were guilty of theft, deceit, and perhaps more sinister deeds.
“Mr. Randolph?”
Looking out the window again—anywhere but at her—Devlin latched onto the gist of their conversation. “Repairs to the roof are essential, Miss Tatum. I do not anticipate the expense to be a financial hardship for His Grace.”
“You know him so well?”
Ah, there it was. She hadn’t come to stand beside him because she felt the same strange connection between their souls. She hadn’t spoken in that soft, provocatively breathless tone because she quivered with desire for him. Nay, she wanted to seduce him into revealing information about Pemberton.
He snorted with disgust for thinking this young woman might be innocent in any form or fashion. She was nothing—nothing but a servant of little consequence with no breeding or family. He’d be wise to stop thinking of her as anything beyond that.
Steeling his resolve, Devlin considered how best to proceed. One way or another he would have the truth from the servants at Bellewyck Abbey, beginning with Miss Tatum.
Just then, a movement in the distance caught his eye. A coach led by four high-stepping bays approached the abbey. And it was imperative he greet the driver alone.
“Pray excuse me, Miss Tatum. It appears my luggage has arrived.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Though thy enemy seem a mouse,
yet watch him like a lion.”
~ Proverb
Hands clasped behind his back, the steward waited on the crushed shell drive, his posture erect as the magnificent chocolate brown coach rolled to a st
op. Taking a step closer to the mullioned window, Christiana watched as Mr. Randolph stood ready to greet the occupants of the elegant carriage.
“That coach delivers more than luggage.”
She tensed to see if the Duke of Pemberton had decided to visit Bellewyck Abbey after all. Then again, perhaps Mr. Randolph was married and his wife had come to join him? Odd the thought he might have a wife seemed more disturbing than coming face-to-face with the rich and powerful Pemberton.
Beneath her gaze, the coachman doffed his hat and approached Mr. Randolph, making no attempt to open the carriage door. It seemed quite obvious the two men knew one another and that whatever the steward said, the driver found of keen interest.
Devlin made a cursory glance to the gallery windows. A figure quickly moved back out of view. She’d been spying on him, just as he’d suspected.
“Remember my instructions, Nash.” Devlin returned his attention to the coachman. “My identity must not be revealed unless I give you leave to do so. I am simply Mr. Randolph, a steward hired by the Duke of Pemberton.”
“As you wish, Your Grace—I mean, Mr. Randolph, sir.”
Upon re-entering the house, Devlin masked his surprise when Miss Tatum stepped out of the shadows into the Great Hall. The woman must have raced down the stairs. There could be no other explanation for her timely arrival. Noting Nash’s interest in the striking beauty, Devlin murmured, “Housekeeper.”
“Miss Tatum,” he called. “Permit me to introduce Nash, newly arrived from London with my luggage.”
“Welcome to Bellewyck Abbey, Nash.” With her perfected housekeeper posture, Miss Tatum smiled at the coachman.
“Thank you, Miss Tatum.” Hat in hand, Nash grinned like a simpleton shot by Cupid’s arrow.
Devlin could little help but notice Miss Tatum had chosen to all but ignore his presence, preferring to bask in the adoring attention of the coachman.
“Might I enquire who owns that beautiful carriage, Nash?”
“It, uh . . .” Nash stammered.
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 7
