It certainly isn’t to dally with a servant, no matter how beautiful I find her.
Without another word, he abruptly walked away. His boots sounded a hasty tattoo to the library. There, he slammed the heavy oak door, securing its iron latch—more to keep himself in than to prevent anyone else from entering.
Once seated behind the barrier of his desk, Devlin realized a war now waged between his mind and body, between reason and desire. And it would challenge every bit of self-control he possessed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“No sooner met, but they looked,
no sooner looked, but they loved,
no sooner loved, but they sighed,
no sooner sighed, but they
asked one another the reason.”
~ Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
As You Like It
Standing in the open doorway of the laundry house, Christiana watched the library windows where Mr. Randolph had been sequestered all morning. Although the shutters were open, she hadn’t seen any movement. He must be seated at the desk.
“How long do ye think to hide from him?” asked Polly.
Christiana looked over her shoulder at her friend. “I am thinking, not hiding.”
With a delicate snort, Polly continued to hang the steward’s freshly laundered and starched cravats on a rack before the fire. “Well, could ye think ‘bout gettin’ the man to stop wearin’ these blasted neck cloths? He goes through them six a day.”
Christiana crossed the room and examined a cravat. “He claims they are not properly starched. He cannot tie them. They are too limp, or some such nonsense.”
“Limp is it?” Polly anchored her hands on her hips. “Not starched properly? A bit demandin’ for a steward.”
“He is indeed,” Christiana murmured.
Polly returned to her work, a slight smile working about her mouth. “So, why are ye hidin’ from him?”
“I told you—”
“I know what ye told me,” interrupted the maid. “And I know what I see. Pretend all ye want, but I know different. I might even be able to help. I have a sight more experience with men.”
Christiana arched a dubious brow.
“Well, p’rhaps not a sight,” Polly said with a giggle. “But some.”
“Just because you let Freddie Tompkins steal a kiss at his sister’s wedding does not make you a woman of the world, Polly.” With a soft laugh, Christiana walked back to the doorway, turning her attention once more toward the unseen steward.
A moment later, a clearly exasperated Polly—her doll-like face flushed a vivid pink—stood before Christiana. “Tell me what happened.”
“If you must know, we had an argument.”
“What kind of argument?”
“He wanted to see the estate accounts for the past ten years. Then, the first thing the horrid man did was start making snide comments about Harvest Home. I lost my temper.”
“Ye lost yer temper ‘bout Harvest Home?”
“Well, what gives him the right to judge everything we do?” Christiana shot a stormy glare toward the library. “And he laughed at me. In truth, he makes a habit of it.”
“Mind ye, I have no likin’ for the man bein’ here, but the duke sent him. There is nothin’ to be done. If ye ask me, he likely feels insulted knowin’ a woman was doin’ his job before he came here. And a right fine job, too.”
“Have you gone daft, Polly? The estate is in ruins. I know not what the monks put in the mortar to hold the stones together, but ‘tis all that keeps the walls from falling down about our heads.”
Polly blew a fat, bouncing curl out of her eyes. “What old house does not have some aches and pains? This abbey will be standin’ when all of us are dust. A few repairs are all ‘tis needed to set the place to rights. Did ye not tell me yer Mr. Randolph said the duke has enough blunt to fix everythin’?”
“He is not my Mr. Randolph,” Christiana insisted. “And when Pemberton learns all that needs to be repaired, he will close the house. Or, build a grand, new manor in its stead. ‘Tis what the rich do these days.”
“I see nothin’ wrong with that. I would fancy workin’ in a grand, new house.”
Christiana started to respond then stopped mid-breath. If Pemberton closed the abbey, renovations wouldn’t take place. The passageways and underground tunnels would never be discovered. She could come and go as she pleased. If necessary, she could even live in the Shadow Walk.
“Now what are ye thinkin’?”
“Suppose I could persuade Mr. Randolph to tell the duke that the manor is unsafe and should be closed?” Christiana tapped a finger against her lips. “How could I be sure Pemberton would not close the brewery as well? A meager livelihood is better than no livelihood at all.”
Polly grinned. “I know a way ye could have Mr. Randolph eatin’ from yer fingertips.”
Rolling her eyes heavenward, Christiana shook her head.
“Listen to me.” Polly’s eyes rounded like bright green buttons on a man’s waistcoat. “He fancies ye. With a smile here and a wink there ye could win the man’s heart, and mayhap his loyalty from the duke. Or, do ye not find Mr. Randolph a fine lookin’ man?”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Christiana studied the distance now separating her from the abbey. If only she could be sure the man was just a steward, not a spy. It would mean the difference between night and day, between fear and trust.
“Even so, I have seen his face when ye enter a room. And when he does not know where ye are.” Polly patted her damp brow with the hem of her apron then fanned her face. “Truth be told, the man has been like a hound with a thorn in his paw since ye took to avoidin’ him these past few days. Why not take yer meals with him like he asked?”
Christiana tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart at Polly’s words. She looked down at the clean, but faded gray gown that hugged the womanly shape she often forgot she possessed. Turning over a palm, she rubbed a thumb across calluses earned by scaling chimneys as a child and rocky cliffs as a smuggler.
“If ye ask me, Mr. Randolph is half in love with ye already.”
“Do not confuse lust with love, Polly. Mr. Randolph made it quite clear to me that he does not want to be here. He had no choice in the matter. I daresay he would embrace the first opportunity to leave.”
Polly studied her with a knowing look. “Ye’re afraid of what ye feel for him.”
Feeling her face heat with embarrassment, Christiana covered her cheeks with her hands. She could deny it, but her friend would see through the lie.
“It makes no sense. Polly.” She lowered her hands and offered a feeble smile. “I barely know him. Most of the time, I do not even like him. And yet I know that is because I do not want to like him, or be nice to him. I look at him and cannot forget Pemberton sent him here. So, yes, I am hiding. I hide because when I see him, I must deceive him. I hide because I am afraid of the way he makes me feel, and how badly he could hurt me…hurt all of us. I hide to guard the truth, and myself.”
Polly took hold of Christiana’s hands and squeezed them. “As brave as ye are, as brave as ye have always been, how can ye be afraid to fall in love?”
“Look at what I am. If Mr. Randolph knew the truth about me, he would turn away in disgust. You saw his reaction when he learned a filthy chimney sweep was housekeeper.”
“I know that hurt,” Polly sympathized. “But, to be honest, there was not a speck on ye not covered in soot. Think instead how he acted when he saw what ye really look like. And when he learns how beautiful ye are inside yer heart and soul, the man will be beside himself, wantin’ ye with him always.”
Christiana shook her head, determined not to waste another moment dwelling on things she cannot change—or dreams that would not come true. “It will never come to that, because the more I fall under his spell, the more I must resist.”
“But what if he is the one?” Polly asked.
“The man is handsome, educated, and refined
. He could easily win the affections of a titled lady or some spoiled young heiress. Besides which, he has been given a fine situation from the Duke of Pemberton. As for that, I cannot help but feel there is more to his connection to the duke than we know. He sleeps in the duke’s bed. He uses the duke’s carriage. Either Pemberton is the most generous nobleman alive or there is another reason.”
“What other reason?”
“Mr. Randolph could be the by-blow of someone important, possibly an acquaintance of Pemberton. He could have been sent here to learn about running an estate. Perhaps offered the challenge of making this one thrive again. Or, he might have squandered away his inheritance and this position is some type of punishment.”
Christiana rested the side of her head against the cool doorframe. In the distance, sunlight reflected off the library windows. “He is also too curious about the ward. He claims Pemberton asked him to find it. His loyalty to the man is unyielding. For Heaven’s sake, he might even be related to the duke.”
Polly inhaled sharply. “If Randolph is a relation to Pemberton—”
“He came here to spy on us. So tell me, Polly. How can I possibly fall in love with a man I cannot trust?”
“What will ye do?”
“Keep my appointment with Blackjack at The Green Dragon. I must know if he has learned anything about our mysterious steward.”
Staring at a decade’s worth of ledgers, Devlin had the overwhelming desire to toss the lot of them into the fire, and wash his hands of Bellewyck Abbey once and for all. He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. After almost a week, he’d not found one piece of evidence proving anything criminal or corrupt at the estate.
“The answer is no doubt staring me in the face,” he said, dimly aware he’d been talking to himself all day. “First sign of madness,” he added with a derisive snicker.
He tried to focus again on the estate’s books, but gave up in quick measure and got to his feet. Hands on hips, he paced the confines of the library. “Those damn books are perfect.”
He glanced back at the pile of ledgers.
By God, they’re too perfect.
Devlin narrowed his gaze and returned to his seat at the desk. This time, he approached his task from a new perspective. He compared entries made ten years ago with the most recent records. Here and there in the older books an error had been noted—a simple human mistake. A word spelled incorrectly. A sum entered in error, then corrected. But the more recent books—in fact, all those prepared by the lovely Miss Tatum—were entirely without blemish.
Leaning back in his chair, Devlin sought his own counsel once more. “Miss Tatum’s fine hand first appears in the accounts five years ago. Rather odd since she was not housekeeper until her mother’s death two years ago.”
Thumbing through each book, he looked for the name Tatum under household staff. At any given time he saw only one Tatum listed. And up until two years ago, it had been prefaced by the given name, Reliance.
“Her mother,” he mused aloud. The woman’s name stopped being recorded upon her death. Recent entries list the housekeeper’s name simply as C. Tatum.
“Question,” Devlin said aloud. “Why would Mrs. Tatum’s daughter handle the estate’s accounts when not employed by the estate—and all but fourteen years of age? And by who’s authority?”
Even if it were simply a matter of Miss Tatum beginning an unsalaried apprentice five years ago—perhaps in exchange for room and board—he found it doubtful she’d been so gifted in mathematics she never erred—not once—in five years time.
“Bloody hell, conclusion leaping is too easy.”
It could very well be possible a female possessed an impressive aptitude for mathematics. Granted, no female he’d ever known. Then again, what if the books for the past five years were not what they appear to be? What if the numbers had been deliberately contrived to hide theft or embezzlement?
With a sudden flash of insight, he whispered, “A false set of books.”
He knifed a hand through his hair. Blast, but he didn’t want to believe Miss Tatum guilty of such intentional criminal duplicity. Still, he had to look at the facts. The woman’s behavior was exceedingly suspicious. Her manner too guarded. More importantly, no one else had been responsible for the estate’s accounts.
He recollected what Higginbotham reported the earl’s last words had been.
‘Death will not silence me.’
Yet, if the earl suspected Miss Tatum or anyone else guilty of theft at his estate, why did he not punish the lot of them when still alive? Why wait until he was on his deathbed to seek justice?
Rubbing the edge of his forefinger against his bottom lip, Devlin stared at the various ledgers until his gaze caught sight of something else. He removed the vellum document from beneath a stack of papers. Bellewyck’s Will.
Standing, he resumed pacing the room, continuing his one-sided conversation aloud. “What if the servants were aware of some scandal involving the earl? Some secret such as the fact his lordship’s ward had died under mysterious circumstances. Thus explaining why the servants now claim the ward never existed. Was their vow of silence given in exchange for license to steal from the estate while the earl lived? Is this simply a matter of blackmail?”
A knock sounded upon the library door, interrupting his theorizing.
“Come,” Devlin said.
Nash stood before him, hat in hand. “Sir, you might want to come down to the stables just now.”
“Has something happened to Luther?”
“No, ‘tis only that Miss Tatum is going riding. The rub is—her clothing is most odd, and she seems a bit anxious to flee before you find out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Common sense
is not so common.”
~ Voltaire
(1694-1778)
Zounds!
Dressed like a boy—again.
Arms folded across his chest, Devlin leaned against the stable door, and watched his housekeeper adjust the girth of her saddle with impressive proficiency. Her concentration so intense, she never noticed his presence until mounted upon her pathetic horse—astride. Even then he had to step in front of the woman to block her exit.
“What the devil are you doing?”
She gasped with obvious surprise then stared fixedly at his attire in a most disapproving manner. Granted, he’d abandoned his coat and cravat hours ago in the library, but his appearance was still presentable in white shirtsleeves, crimson waistcoat, and black pantaloons. Her absurd state of dress was nothing short of shocking.
“Did you hear me?” he continued. “What the devil are you doing?”
“What the devil are you doing?”
Clenching his jaw, Devlin narrowed his eyes. “Get off that horse.”
“I will not.”
Devlin promptly took hold of the mare’s bridle and held the horse in place. “Do not argue with me, Miss Tatum. I demand to know what you are about. Rest assured, I am prepared to stand here all day until you tell me.”
“Not that I care how long you stand there, but I have an appointment in the village.”
Determined to restrain his temper, he inhaled slowly, deeply. “For someone who places such importance on propriety, you must know how scandalous it is for a woman to ride unaccompanied—let alone astride. Need I remind you, as a servant of the Duke of Pemberton, you represent him wherever you go?”
“I beg your pardon, but Bellewyck does not have a ladies saddle. Now, if you would be so kind as to release my mare, I am in a bit of a hurry.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “What of your duties?”
“There is nothing for me to do here until after dinner.”
“Do you go to meet a lover?”
“That is none of your concern.”
Devlin watched in frustration when she turned her face away. He would have been blind not to notice the way her lips trembled. Is she going to cry?
He ge
ntled his voice. “I realize you have been avoiding me, Miss Tatum. I assume the reason is because of what happened in the hall.”
Awkwardness made Devlin flounder a moment, searching for the proper words to make reparation. His overtures in the hall had been unconscionable; his only defense that he’d been driven by an almost uncontrollable lust—not that he’d ever admit such to her.
“Permit me to tender my sincere apologies,” he continued. “My behavior was unseemly. It will not happen again. Indeed, it must not happen again, ever.”
She looked at him then, violet eyes resembling radiant amethysts. The woman had no idea how lovely she was, or the feelings she so effortlessly conjured within him.
“In truth, I pray for the day when I am able to resume my former life in London.” Under his breath, he added, “Or at least find a willing wench in the village.”
Obviously having heard his last remark, her gaze squinted as if analyzing an insect under glass. “Mr. Randolph, I command you release Blossom at once.”
He wanted to laugh. Dressed like a boy, mounted astride the most pathetic looking animal he’d ever seen, and she issued orders at him like a queen. No matter her attire, his housekeeper had the ability to captivate his attention like a temptress.
The thought of returning to the library and those damnable ledgers seemed an agony.
“Would you perchance permit me to accompany you?”
“I prefer you did not.”
“Reconsider.” He flashed his most effective grin. “Take pity upon a poor soul. I have been shut away all morning in the library with the accounts. It is a fine day, and I would very much enjoy your company—as well as a bit of fresh air. Besides which, I have been meaning to stop in at The Green Dragon. A man can only drink so much ale, and I hope to purchase some port or brandy, if they have it.”
She eyed him with a wary expression. No doubt she believed him intent on finding a wench in the village. How ironic. From the moment he saw her the morning after his arrival, no other woman had entered his thoughts, waking or sleeping.
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 9
