Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  “And Allie is barely seventeen, but he wishes to wed her.”

  “That irresponsible fribble? What happened to her sense?”

  “Calf-love,” she said dryly.

  “I’ll—”

  “Come back here, Michael,” she interrupted as he headed for the door. “Much as you would like to be, you are not her guardian. But I have no intention of giving her to anyone who will not cherish her as she deserves.”

  “Of course not.” He dropped back into his chair. “You turned him down, then?”

  “He has not made a formal request, but I told Allie that no decision was possible until he finishes school. The idea should die on its own long before then.”

  Michael frowned. “But what if it doesn’t? Carrington seems to be taking it seriously.”

  “He has already refused his own permission.” She paused to consider how he must have done it. Odious toad! He hadn’t the least idea of how to deal with young people and lacked even the rudiments of diplomacy. “Of course his manner undoubtedly set Terrence’s back up enough to make him cling to his plans.”

  “You sound as though you know him.”

  She snorted. “He paid me a visit yesterday.” She described the encounter, leaving out only her own hasty vow to support the match.

  “So he believes Lady Avery,” he commented when she finished.

  “Obviously, which does not say much for his intelligence. But you see why I believe we must accept Allie’s infatuation and do no more than postpone a decision. Two powerful opponents might encourage them to do something rash.”

  “Like eloping? Scotland is too far away.”

  “But even the attempt would ruin her. And you have forgotten Guernsey. They require no license and no banns. A boat from Exeter can be there in hours.”

  “Good God! It is too close to France to be safe.”

  “Exactly. So we do not want to give them ideas.”

  Michael sighed in resignation. “As usual, you have everything under control. I only hope I can be as wise when I am in charge. Should I renew my acquaintance with Terrence? I’ve not seen him in years. Perhaps I can discover how deeply his attachment runs.”

  She hesitated. Michael knew nothing of Lord Avery’s attempts to acquire Winter House, for he had been away at school most of the time. But he had no need to learn of them now unless she could prove that Terrence was continuing his father’s schemes. "That might work very well.”

  Michael departed, leaving her to her mending and her thoughts.

  * * * *

  “You wished to see me, my lord?” asked Scott from the library doorway.

  Richard had already decided to give the steward enough rope to hang himself. And he was curious how the man would explain such glaring discrepancies. “After going over the books, I have a number of questions.” He motioned the steward to a chair and pulled out the current ledger.

  “That is to be expected,” murmured Scott. “Understanding the complexities of estate management requires years of study. But there is no need for a gentleman to dirty his hands with the day-to-day operations. That is my job.”

  “True, but a trustee has a responsibility to oversee the property left in his care. I noticed that the hornbeam was badly overcut,” he began mildly. “How did that come about?”

  “Lord Avery needed cash.” Scott shrugged. “He ordered a second harvest despite my protest. I doubt he grasped the effect it must have on future production.”

  “Did he explain why the income was necessary?” The tale was ridiculous to anyone familiar with Gareth’s investments. Avery had substantial sums in Consols and would surely have sold a few shares rather than jeopardize his regular income if he found himself in need of money. Besides, the cuttings were less than three months old.”

  “Something about a debt of honor.”

  “Ah. So he was a gamester. That would account for his laxity and quick fixes. But why did he not press you to improve production? It is the first step a gamester takes, yet you have not tried any of the methods that Coke has shown to be so effective.”

  “You are young, my lord, and have little experience with crops and herds. No gentleman can, for the pursuits of your class fill your days.”

  “You know so much about my class?” he asked in a voice his friends would have recognized as a danger signal.

  Scott did not notice. “Enough. Only ignorance can explain such a misstatement. Do not fall victim to Coke’s madness,” he begged. “While it is true that he has increased yields through his tampering with sound agricultural practice, he will soon face disaster. Even the most fertile soil can support only a fixed amount of growth. By extracting more now, Coke and his deluded followers will face years of failure – just as Tallgrove faces from overcutting its timber. One cannot tamper with the limitations laid down by God. You need look no farther than Miss Wingrave. The ignorant chit took Coke’s preachings to heart, doubling her corn yields for several years. But now she is paying the price. Her last two harvests were grossly inferior. Stick with proven methods is my motto. My father and grandfather were stewards of great estates. They learned much about the land, coaxing continuous crops from fields that others declared were unsuitable for cultivation, and maintaining steady production through good years and bad. I have done the same here.”

  Richard frowned. Unseasonably cool weather the past two summers had reduced production nationwide. Even Tallgrove yields were down, though they were so low under normal circumstances that the difference did not amount to much. “Yet the corn under your care appears sickly,” he observed.

  “Not at all. Every soil imparts a unique blend of color, shape, and size to its crops. Tallgrove’s corn always looks the same and produces the same. I will get a full harvest.”

  “I noticed a kiln just past Carson’s farm.”

  “That is more proof of Miss Wingrave’s insanity,” snorted Scott. “People who leave females in charge of a man’s business should be hung. Wingrave was the worst of the lot. He let his daughter run the estate for nearly a decade before he died and then left her in charge until his heir comes of age. The lad won’t have an inheritance left by the time she is done. The chit started that idiotic pottery two years ago – to counter the sudden reduction in yields, I suspect. But it only confuses her tenants. How can they keep their minds on their work when she demands they help in the pottery?”

  “She has tenants?” He had not expected her holdings to be so extensive. It did not jibe with his aunt’s description of her run-down farm.

  “Only two. One of the wives helps run the pottery – another sign of her stupidity, for tenants cannot handle such responsibilities. But Miss Wingrave has done worse than that, working in the fields like a man. And those damned birds! Scaring people half to death with their infernal noise, and threatening everyone’s peace of mind. I don’t know what she hopes to gain by it. Good English sheep would make better use of that pasture. It is no wonder that her estate is on the brink of ruin.”

  Richard refused to comment, pursing his lips for some time. Scott was proving to be just the ignorant, old-fashioned fool he had expected. And stupid. While tenants were often reluctant to try new ideas, they were just as capable of understanding them as the more educated classes. And how did the man expect anyone to believe that his depredations had been ordered by his master when no record appeared in the books?

  What he had not expected to discover was that Miss Wingrave was following the path that would give her the greatest chance of improving her estate – except for the ostriches.

  “There are several entries that puzzle me,” he said, pulling the ledger around so both could see it. “Let us start with this one.”

  “Carson’s barn,” said Scott with a sigh. “That is a continuing problem. We have to patch it at least once a year.”

  “I have seen it. Patching seems a waste of money. The entire roof needs replacing.”

  “Agreed, but the estate cannot afford it.”

  “Yet the am
ount you pay each year for repairs is nearly twice what I spent only last month reroofing an even larger barn at Carrington Castle.”

  Scott flinched. His face remained affable, but wary calculation now filled his eyes. “The difference in station, my lord. Men will do anything to create a connection to a marquess. Undoubtedly your roofer offered you a special rate to get the job. The cachet of doing your work would increase his other business and permit him to raise his fees. Have you never considered how your exalted status affects those around you? Even when you refrain from exercising your power, it exerts its influence. Unfortunately, those of lesser consequence have no such opportunities.”

  Fustian! If anything, tradesmen increased their fees on the grounds that his coffers were full enough to stand the nonsense. He turned a page. “Is the same true for the repairs to Briscol’s cottage? According to this, one wall was replaced, yet all walls appeared equally derelict.”

  “It was the dividing wall between the main room and the bedchamber,” said Scott with a shrug. “Perhaps it was not apparent in the poor light. Briscol rarely uses more than one candle, and the cottage is so old there is little other illumination.”

  “Yes, I noted that it contained but one tiny window.” He penciled in a notation and turned to another page. “Where are the rest of the sheep pastured?”

  “Rest?” Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Unless there is an unreported break in the wall, they should all be on Breed’s Hill.”

  “I noted no break, but the hillside holds barely half the total recorded last month.” His voice turned hard. “I will not tolerate sloppy bookkeeping, Scott. Whatever my uncle’s shortcomings, I am in charge now, and I will expect you to take a great deal more care. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, my lord,” agreed an ashen Scott.

  “Meet me in the stable tomorrow morning. We will survey the estate.”

  He watched the steward bow himself out. Obsequious fool! Did he really believe that anyone would be taken in by his explanations? Uncle Gareth must have given him carte blanche to do as he would. And he had. It would take time to discover all his defalcations, but they would undoubtedly amount to a sizable sum.

  By nightfall, he had listed the obvious thefts. He spent the morning riding the estate and listening to more of Scott’s slippery lies before arresting him for embezzlement and turning him over to the constable. Records in the steward’s cottage revealed accounts containing nearly thirty thousand pounds, the deed to a tobacco plantation in Virginia, and plans to emigrate that had been postponed when those impertinent Americans had declared war on England, canceling all shipping.

  Sighing, he turned his attention to the future. Conversations with Carson convinced him that the farmer was both knowledgeable and astute. The man’s oldest son was capable of taking over the farm, so he offered the steward’s job to the father. He ordered basic repairs to buildings and cottages, then installed Briscol as the new groundskeeper. Once the old cottage was replaced, he would bring in new tenants.

  But the flurry of activity did nothing to drive thoughts of the Wingrave sisters from his mind. Carson respected Miss Wingrave’s abilities and had nothing but praise for her character. Except for the birds, she was managing her brother’s inheritance much as he would have done. Yet the way she exploited Terrence’s youth reeked of an unscrupulous fortune hunter. Perhaps she was playing a deeper game than he had first thought.

  * * * *

  Alice knocked on the bookroom door. “You won’t believe what Ozzie was just doing,” she announced, face lighting with laughter.

  “What now?” demanded Penelope.

  “He and Cleo managed to tie their necks into a knot.”

  “Stupid bird,” she muttered.

  “They got untangled,” Alice hastily assured her.

  “That’s not what I meant. Twisting their necks together is part of their courtship dance. They strut and pose, displaying their plumes and flirting – much like young people at an assembly. But they must have the seasons mixed up again. If Cleo lays eggs now, they will never hatch. Though Ozzie broods the clutch at night, she only shades them – for a good six weeks. It will be far too cold by then.”

  “I suppose confusion is inevitable. Uncle Oscar told us how different Africa is. Will he ever return to see us?”

  “I doubt it. He must be approaching sixty, and his last letter confirmed that he is suffering badly from gout.”

  Alice sighed. “He is only fifty-five, but twenty years abroad aged him. Do you remember his last visit?”

  “How could I not? He gave you two ostrich chicks, and now look where we are now.” She tried to sound disgruntled, but a chuckle broke out. “A more unexpected souvenir of his travels I cannot imagine.”

  “And his coachman!” Alice collapsed in giggles.

  “The look on the man’s face when he opened the carriage door to find the upholstery in ribbons was priceless,” she agreed.

  “What did he expect after carting six birds around all day?” She shook her head. “For a man who spent two years hunting ostriches, Uncle Oscar is remarkably softhearted. Imagine rescuing a clutch of fifteen newly hatched chicks because he killed their parents – especially since he was scheduled to sail back to England the next morning!”

  She laughed. “He spun that story for your benefit, Allie, but it is not strictly true. He collected eggs as well as feathers on his hunts, but the local market was glutted at the time. So he brought them home, hoping to sell them in England. They were two days at sea before he discovered his problem.”

  “Good heavens! No wonder they accept people so readily. They must think Oscar is their mother.” She laughed.

  “Poor chicks. And he knew nothing about caring for them. Only six survived the voyage.”

  “Do you think he intended them for me?”

  “Oscar has always had a soft spot for you, and your mother before you, but he brought other gifts for us, you might recall. If he had not wanted to try raising the creatures himself, he would have killed them on board. I suspect he left Ozzie and Cleo here out of desperation. They were already two feet tall with voracious appetites and the speed of a racehorse. I don’t think he could face three more days cooped up with them. The other four were more docile – or perhaps they were already sickening. None lived a month after he got home.”

  Alice sighed. “Why have I never seen Ozzie’s courtship dance?”

  “He only does it before mating.” She shook her head. “If he and Cleo are setting another clutch, Michael had better renew the sand on the knoll. I hope Ozzie will let me take some of the eggs again. Mrs. Phillips was ecstatic about the shells last time.”

  “She certainly created some unusual artwork with them. Lady Alderleigh still gets raves over hers. I never thought to see Alder Court painted on an ostrich egg.”

  “Nor I. Mrs. Phillips has already shown me some new ideas. The shell is so thick, she plans to carve into it and make inlaid designs. She already has orders for three and interest from several others. We can probably charge double for the eggs.”

  “Will the younger ostriches ever start producing?”

  “Eventually. Remember, Cleo didn’t lay her first clutch until age five. The lone survivor was Fluff, but she is only three. I wonder what Ozzie will do as the younger males mature,” she added to herself.

  But Alice heard. “Will there be trouble?”

  “I’ve no idea, but you know we can’t keep multiple bulls or rams together. Males of any species can be jealous, territorial, and ridiculously combative.” Flashing gray eyes returned to mind.

  “You mean we might have to kill them?” Alice blanched.

  “I hope not. White feathers bring in more than brown. But enough of speculation. If Ozzie is courting, we will have to postpone the feather harvest.”

  Alice nodded and left her to her thoughts.

  Chapter Seven

  “What are you supposed to be?” murmured Richard, frowning at a badly overgrown topiary be
ast. “A squirrel perhaps? Or is that curl an elephant’s trunk?” He studied the shrub intently, but even such deliberate silliness could not rid his mind of flashing blue eyes.

  “Damnation!” He could not get the irritating wench out of his head. Pictures distracted him at the oddest moments, images of her many guises – voluptuous, disdainful, seductive, furious. His body yearned for more contact, oblivious to the mind that knew her faults. She was rapidly becoming more than an annoyance – but only because she looked so much like that other Penelope, he reminded himself sharply. If she had resembled Lady Jersey or Princess Esterhazy or even Lady Bridgeport, he would not be in this fix. Damn Penelope Rissen for leaving him susceptible to blue-eyed redheads!

  He had left Yorkshire within an hour of learning her true feelings. It had taken three months on another remote estate to wall off the pain, but he had returned to London a wiser man. Women soon learned that their wiles were useless. He could detect the selfish motives beneath even the most subtle schemes, and he made no pretense about despising both the plots and the plotters.

  For ten years he had protected himself from harm. But Miss Wingrave had breached the wall around his core, allowing pain and fury to escape – and an unbridled lust more potent than anything he had ever encountered. And so he must fight and win the battle again if he ever hoped to resume his peaceful existence.

  The first step was to engross his mind in something else – like Terrence. They had just spent another hour together, but he was no nearer making the cub see reason than he had been that first day.

  Terrence had all the instincts of a gentleman, wanting to take charge of Tallgrove Manor, improve its productivity, arrange a good match for Millicent, and secure his own succession – all admirable goals. But he had no inkling of how to accomplish any of them.

  Only a few questions confirmed that he knew absolutely nothing about estate management, agriculture, or the economic realities of a country that had been at war since the lad was born. Nor did he seem receptive to learning, deflecting suggestions with statements like, “That’s the steward’s job.” But before Richard could point out that stewards needed knowledgeable supervision, Terrence had turned the topic to Millicent’s come-out.