by Allison Lane
“What happened?” asked Terrence, sounding interested despite himself.
“A last-minute change of plans kept me from going into town one day, so I walked out to inspect the progress of some repair work. As I approached the stream that separated our estates, I heard her talking to one of her sisters on the bridge. But before I could call a greeting, she spoke my name. They say that eavesdroppers never hear good about themselves, and that is true. But I cannot repine. That conversation may have damaged my pride, but it saved me from a lifetime of misery. She despised me, for who could like anyone so dull, cold, and humorless. She prayed she could bring me up to scratch soon because she could not maintain the pretense much longer. Her father had demanded that she attach me. Marriage to a wealthy lord was the only way to keep him out of debtor’s prison, so she had agreed. But she was already planning her revenge. She would ruin him the moment her sisters were safely wed, and she expected them to be suitably grateful for her sacrifice. Her only compensation would be a title and the opportunity to live in London, though she doubted whether it would be enough. But with luck, she would provide the necessary heir soon so that she need never endure me again.”
“Dear Lord!” gasped Terrence. “What a witch!”
“Precisely.”
“But Alice is nothing like that.”
“How do you know? The Wingrave’s are impoverished. One look at the manor tells you that. Even those in desperate financial straits keep at least one room for show, yet their drawing room is the shabbiest I have ever seen. You cannot trust a woman’s manner, for girls begin to learn deceit in the cradle and have perfected the art by the time they join the world.”
“I refuse to believe that everyone fits the same mold,” swore Terrence, clenching his fists. “I know many women who are truthful – as do you, if you would only admit it. Your experience with a scheming jade did more than teach you prudence. It left you so cynical that you cannot recognize goodness when you do see it.”
“Think about it,” he urged, stifling the image of Bridgeport’s wife, Elaine. She seemed to care deeply for her husband. But she had done her share of scheming in her younger days, and he was convinced that she still hid secrets despite Mark’s denials. “But whichever of us is right, this is not a good time to consider marriage. You will not even finish school for another year. And you must learn to go on in London society. Only after sowing all your wild oats and acquiring a modicum of town bronze should you consider your future.”
“You never sowed any wild oats, from what I’ve heard.”
“I had no choice,” he countered. “But that is precisely why you should. Once you take on responsibilities, you can never regain your carefree youth.”
“Then why did you support Reggie’s betrothal? He is only a few months older than me, hasn’t a thought in his head beyond clothes, and wouldn’t know what to do if he found himself closeted with the most willing courtesan.”
Richard sighed, wishing Terrence was as malleable as Reggie had been. “It is true that I agreed to approach his father for him – you must realize that the final decision was not mine, for I am not his guardian. The circumstances are nothing alike, however. Reggie had finished school and had been in town during the Season.”
“A month at most,” murmured Terrence.
“True. But Reggie is an empty-headed cub who is incapable of sound judgment. Despite her public image, his betrothed is an intelligent, strong-willed girl who will keep him out of trouble.”
“But you must know that Reggie falls in and out of love almost weekly. How can you countenance tying him to someone he must rapidly come to resent?”
“You have never met Miss Throckmorton,” he reminded his ward, realizing too late that he parroted Terrence’s earlier argument. “Reggie’s situation is not at all like your own. You are far more intelligent than our mutual cousin, but you lack experience of the world. Turn your intelligence to considering facts. Miss Wingrave’s behavior is suspect at best. Her sister’s is worse. You have not yet finished school and have no experience with females.”
“It is true that I have never been in love before,” admitted Terrence. “But I have had plenty of experience with women.”
“Very well. I concede that you surpass our cousin in that regard. He looks upon females in almost chivalric ways. But whatever insights your encounters have provided hardly apply to this situation. And one must question Alice’s training when her guardian allows her to roam the countryside unescorted.”
“Only as far as the village. But where is the harm in that? Millicent does the same. And Alice is not roaming, as you phrase it. She is generally working.”
“Another proof that they are indigent. How can you expect a woman who plays at being both steward and guardian to teach anyone how to be a lady?”
“You left out trustee for her brother’s inheritance and manager of a pottery,” said Terrence impudently.
“Her father must have been mad. No woman is capable of such positions.”
“Why don’t you reserve judgment until you know her?”
“Enough! You are too young to consider settling down.”
“Too young?” Incredulity filled the room. “Too young to manage one small property and one wife? I am nearly one-and-twenty, my lord. You will correct me if I err, but weren’t you barely fifteen when you inherited the marquessate, eleven estates, and control of the whole bloody family?”
“Seven titles, eight estates, ten other properties, two plantations in the Indies, and a few thousand dependents,” he said wearily. “Plus a guardian who was incapable of managing his own life, let alone mine. How do you think I know how draining responsibility is? You cannot begin to imagine the headaches, Terrence. Finish school and enjoy your freedom like others of your station.”
“I have no intention of returning to the university next term,” announced the boy firmly. "I have enough classical education to fulfill my birthright as a gentleman. It is time to assume control of Tallgrove Manor. Alice would be of great assistance.”
He was stunned. “We will consider the question of school at another time. This is no time to think of marriage. You are still in deep mourning.”
“For another week only.”
“But your mother will not emerge from it for three months, nor will you be free of all restrictions until then. You cannot wish to distress her by flouting convention. Such disrespect will worsen her own grief.”
“Fustian! Mother cared not a whit for Father. She merely loves scenes. Her histrionics garner solicitude from people like you.”
“Show a little respect,” he snapped, shocked at the words. But he forced control over his temper. “This discussion is not over, but we would both benefit from a period of contemplation. Perhaps I have been hasty in my judgment. Or perhaps you have been taken in by lies. We shall let the matter rest for the moment. Time will soon disclose which of us is correct. Remember that patience is the mark of a mature gentleman. Do not do anything that will precipitate a crisis, for the one undisputable fact is that I will control your allowance for a long time to come.”
Terrence’s fists again clenched, but he managed a civil farewell.
Richard poured another glass of brandy and exhaled in an enormous sigh. Misguided youth. Naïve. Immature. Irresponsible. The lad had the bit between his teeth and was trying with all his might to run with it. Could his own superb horsemanship control this most mettlesome beast?
The Wingraves. His thoughts always returned to them. Were they really as well-bred as Terrence claimed? Penelope’s voice resounded in his head. I dare you … coward … dishonor resides in your family… But his aunt would never make up tales. She must have gotten her facts somewhere.
He sipped his wine, finally deciding that he could believe none of them. Only an independent investigation would provide reliable answers. It was something he normally did before making any decision, but nothing was proceeding normally in this case. Aunt Mathilda and Terrence had pressed him into taki
ng an immediate stand, and he still believed he was right. But his position would be stronger when he could recite chapter and verse of the Wingrave scheming.
He rang for his secretary.
“Cawdry, I want a complete history of the Wingrave household, including breeding back at least four generations, character and reputation of every family member, and an accurate picture of their finances.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And be sure to check every rumor about the place, no matter how far-fetched. I want to know the authors of any falsehoods.”
Chapter Six
Richard spent the rest of the afternoon going over the estate ledgers. Tallgrove Manor occupied one of Devon’s most fertile valleys, yet its income did not reflect its salubrious location. And though most landowners were suffering a decline in profits – the endless war against Napoleon reduced markets and raised prices – the steadily falling revenue from Tallgrove could only reflect poor management. Whether from disinterest or the Avery incompetence, Gareth had exerted little control over his inheritance.
It was all of a piece. Every so often, the Averys produced an anomaly. He was one, his determination and abilities standing in stark contrast to the usual family character. Gareth’s grandfather had been another, winning a title for heroism at Culloden, the final battle against the Young Pretender. He had acquired an estate on the verge of dereliction and built it into one of the most prosperous in the area. But his descendants had allowed Tallgrove to slide back into mediocrity.
Not that Gareth had ignored his inheritance. Maintenance records revealed continuing repairs to buildings and fences, a new bull, an expanded orchard, and more. But the steward was planting the same crops in the same fields as he had done every season since his arrival fifteen years earlier. There were no expenditures for equipment or supplies that would indicate Tallgrove embraced agricultural reform. Not only was the steward hidebound, but his methods were old-fashioned even for his own youth.
He stifled a surge of guilt for not coming sooner. He should know by now that attending to matters personally was the only way to assure that things got done right. No one else had his grasp of detail. Bringing Tallgrove up to snuff would be a bigger job than he had expected.
Another restless night and a breakfast of cold eggs and undercooked kidneys left him surly. In no mood for company, he avoided the steward’s office, preferring to survey the estate on his own.
Conditions were every bit as bad as he had feared. One corner of the dower house roof leaked. He made a note to tour the building later, then pressed on to the hornbeam grove.
“Idiot!” he muttered.
Wood had been harvested at a rate that new growth could not sustain. Instead of the tenth that would have matured this season, fully half of the trees had been cut back to their pollarded trunks. And three quarters of the oaks that normally shaded the hornbeam had disappeared. All production must immediately cease. It would be five years before regular harvesting could resume. The same was true of the hazel. He frowned. The cutting was very recent, as shown by the lack of regrowth or weathering in the cuts. But the books listed no large sale of timber.
His horse stumbled. The ground was riddled with holes, evidence of an extensive rabbit population. The groundskeeper was another who had grown lazy, or worse, from lax oversight.
A lane led to the first tenant farm. “Good morning, sir,” he called to the oldest of the men making repairs on the rotting fence that enclosed the pigsty.
The farmer took in the quality of his mount and the cut of his clothes before tugging his forelock. “My lord.”
“You are Mr. Carson?”
“I be, my lord.”
Dismounting, he turned Jet over to Carson’s son and introduced himself. Carson showed him around the farm, his taciturn voice saying little beyond the necessary. From a nearby rise, he was able to display the bulk of his fields.
“What crop rotation plan do you use?” He frowned at the response. “How about repairs? I notice that the barn roof appears to be leaking.”
“True, my lord. We have patched it several times, but the whole needs replacing. Mr. Scott promised to do what he can, but t’will be no money for at least two years. Times be bad, what with the war and all.”
“Not that bad. What else needs work?” Though he had not yet met the steward, already he loathed him.
“My lads and I can manage here, but t’would be a blessing if you could help poor Briscol. His cottage is in sad repair.”
“I will look at it,” he promised, impressed by Carson’s awareness of others despite having a full complement of his own problems.
Briscol’s cottage looked eager to topple in the next breeze. As did his barn. The Briscol farm was the smallest of the tenant holdings. To make matters worse, the farmer had no sons to help him, so he incurred the additional cost of hiring laborers. But he was not one to complain. Times were bad for everyone. He wasn’t starving – or so he claimed. His lanky frame seemed almost skeletal.
Four tenant farms later, Richard was ready to explode. Carson’s had been in the best condition due to intelligence, a hard-working family, and the implementation of modern methods despite opposition from Scott. Circling back to the manor’s own fields, he snorted in disgust. The corn was thin and sickly, evidence of depleted soil. Orchards were little better.
A raucous screech startled Jet into plunging to one side. Too surprised to react quickly, Richard nearly came unseated. He had barely brought the horse under control when another screech arched over the six-foot hedgerow that separated this portion of Tallgrove from Winter House land. A mottled gray-brown pole protruded two feet above it, but it looked like no tree he had ever seen. Not until it turned did he realize that it was a thick neck ending in a wickedly powerful beak and enormous dark eyes fringed by ridiculously long, black lashes.
Another shriek assaulted his ears.
“What the devil are you?” His aunt had said something about birds, but he had never seen such a neck.
Trotting along the hedgerow, he headed for the lane where a gate would provide a better view. It took a moment to realize that the head was still next to him, moving at the same speed as his horse. He pushed Jet to a canter. The head remained at his side, only ten feet away. Urging Jet to a full gallop, he watched in shock as the head picked up speed, easily beating him to the corner. Another shriek rent the air, this one clearly triumphant.
By the time he turned into the lane, a shorter neck had joined the first. It emitted a low gurgling sound and cocked its head as if puzzled over the newcomer.
“Easy, boy,” he soothed Jet, who was growing warier by the moment. Both birds turned at the sound. “You seem inquisitive,” he addressed them. “Let us see what sort of beasts you are.” He already had a fair idea, having read several traveler’s tales. But his mind had trouble accepting the possibility.
“Dear Lord!” Pulling to a halt opposite the gate, he stared. Jet likewise stared before turning a reproachful eye on his rider and sidling nervously.
“Ostriches, by God!” he breathed.
The big male hissed, swelling up to display long white wing and tail feathers. The rest of his body was black. Powerful legs ended in clawed feet. Another hiss from atop the incongruously bare neck completed a picture of defensive antagonism.
“I won’t hurt you, fellow,” he murmured soothingly.
The beast hissed.
The shorter bird was all brown. After seeing countless feathered hats, he knew that her plumage faded to nearly gray at its soft edges. Half a dozen juveniles crowded around the gate thrusting their heads through the bars to stare in blatant curiosity, their feathers mottled brown and beige with stripes on their fuzzy necks.
“That wretched female is raising ostriches! The woman belongs in Bedlam. What will happen when they escape?”
He shivered, recalling the speed of that big male. A bird that could outrun a horse had to be dangerous. Where had she gotten it anyway? And why? Something must be d
one before people got hurt – or were scared witless.
But what could one expect? This was precisely the trouble that must inevitably arise from allowing females into positions for which they were not suited. Parliament should expressly forbid any woman from assuming a post as a guardian or trustee. The responsibility was bound to destroy what little sense they had.
Turning aside, he headed for home, pursued by another avian shriek, that note of triumph again clear.
* * * *
“Lord Carrington’s secretary is asking questions about us in town.” Michael glared from the drawing room doorway.
“Sit down,” ordered Penelope, setting aside the socks she had been darning. “Considering the way Terrence has been dangling after Allie, an investigation is inevitable.” Had Carrington accepted her challenge to discover the truth for himself? She doubted it. At best he was looking for new rumors to support his charges.
“Surely he is not serious about her!” exclaimed a shocked Michael. “The cub is only twenty.”
