by Allison Lane
“I told you he came from Yorkshire,” sputtered Millicent, irritated at the inquisition.
“It is a large county.”
“Very,” agreed Darksmith. “But a beautiful one, whose rolling hills and quiet moors are nothing like the inhospitable wilderness that looms like a curse over Devon. Ours are green and refreshing, the perfect antidote to a weary soul. You would thrive there, my sweet,” he said to Millicent with a seductive smile. “One feels a zest for life that cannot be found in other parts of the country and an exhilarating vitality one can only savor. I cannot describe it, but must allow you to discover it for yourself.”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Millicent with a sigh.
“You live near Fountains Abbey, then?” Richard asked.
“A few miles south, though I was not born there, moving in with my aunt when I was orphaned at age seven.” Millicent laid a sympathetic hand on his, removing it only after Richard glared. “But the abbey is a remarkable place, its soaring ruins lifting the soul until one expects to come face-to-face with God Himself. One can spend hours contemplating the nature of the universe or man’s relationship with heaven. A more humbling location I cannot imagine. Are you familiar with it, my lord?”
“By repute only,” he lied, for he owned an estate only five miles away. Both his estate and Fountains Abbey were in the West Riding. But he did not wish to discuss his own property, for it was there that Penelope Rissen had nearly trapped him into marriage. His last visit to the abbey had been in her company. “I hear it is good sheep country.”
“Acceptable.” Darksmith shifted slightly in his chair. “We have always done well. Our breeds are different from those you run here, of course. The harsher winters require sturdier animals. But the principles are the same.”
“Indeed. How did you meet my uncle? Yorkshire is not a place he normally frequented.”
“At a fair. We were bidding against each other for a ram. Unfortunately a third gentleman was willing to pay more than either of us, but we fell to talking. When he learned of the claim against my uncle’s estate and my family’s connections to this area, he invited me to visit.”
The answer was glib – and wholly unbelievable. He could not have known Gareth well if he thought this fabrication would work. After all, Gareth was the man who had paid so little attention to his estate that Scott had been able to embezzle thousands with impunity. “Your problem must have arisen long ago, then,” he commented. “How is it that you have been unable to resolve it?”
“Long indeed. It has been fully six months since the first claims. I sent to Exeter for copies of the transfer, but fire had destroyed the records. It was not until I met Lord Avery that I decided to investigate for myself. He insisted that secondary sources must exist that would mention the sale.”
“If only Papa had not died, you could have stayed here,” said Millicent on a sigh. “He would have been horrified to see you in that awful inn.”
“Your sympathy touches me, my dear,” replied Darksmith soothingly. “But you must not think that the inn is neglecting me. It is true that the food is less abundant than I prefer, and the meat overcooked, but meeting you compensates for any hardships. Had I known what beauty awaited me in Devon, I would have come long since merely to gaze upon your exquisite face. Even the frustrations of your father’s untimely death fade when I bask in the pleasure of your company.”
“Have you been able to find the references you seek?” asked Richard, interrupting what looked to be a lengthy accolade.
Something dark flashed through Darksmith’s eyes. “Not yet. The information can only be found in the seller’s estate records. Lord Avery had hoped to examine them himself. I have little hope of doing so.”
“Surely they would not prevent you from searching!” exclaimed Millicent.
“You forget that they claim the sale to be false,”" he said gently. “And they are reclusive, barring the doors to all but their few friends. I had hoped that one of those friends would assist me, though I have not yet found one who is willing. But I will persevere.”
“Who is contesting your claims?”
“No one you are likely to know, my lord. And there is nothing you can do to help. This is my own affair.”
“Possibly, but with Lord Avery’s death, I would have expected you to move closer to Exeter,” he said, employing a bored sarcasm calculated to set Darksmith’s back up.
“There are other sources of information here,” he stated. “And once I met Miss Avery, I could not bring myself to move on. Surely fortune smiled upon me that day. To raise my eyes from the road and perceive such loveliness is an experience I will never forget.”
Terrence joined them. “Sorry to be late. Is there any tea left?”
“Of course,” said Millicent. She poured for her brother and offered him a choice of cakes and biscuits. At least her handling of the teapot was correct. “Have you met Mr. Darksmith? He is staying in the village. Mortimer, my brother.”
Terrence’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t I see you skulking in the woods yesterday?”
“Possibly, though I would hardly call a walk in the Devon air skulking. I wander this way quite often, as would anyone susceptible to beautiful ladies,” he added with another smile for Millicent.
That smile brought a frown to Terrence’s face. Turning away, he retired to the far corner of the room and stared out the window.
“Forgive him, Mortimer,” begged Millicent. “I cannot imagine what can have overset him so.”
“It is nothing, my dear,” he replied promptly, patting her hand while casting a furtive glance at Richard to assess his reaction.
Conversation continued. Richard tried to pin down the man’s parentage, but could get no answers. Darksmith used a deprecating smile to declare that his own background was far too insignificant to be familiar to the Marquess of Carrington, while continuing his effusive compliments of Millicent, who was clearly infatuated. But there was no evidence that Darksmith returned her regard. Nor did it appear that he was using her to counter boredom. But that was no cause for rejoicing. The mere fact that she had been sneaking off to meet him was enough to compromise her reputation. That Darksmith had not already seduced the obviously willing Millicent was of further concern. What was his game? He was clearly cultivating her, yet he seemed to have no designs on her virtue.
The question remained unanswered when their visitor took his leave.
“Is he not the nicest man?” exclaimed Millicent, her face aglow with excitement. She had risen to bid Darksmith farewell and now danced about the drawing room as if her feet had wings.
“Perfectly polite,” agreed Richard quietly. “And now that you are no longer in deep mourning, you should meet him often as you make calls about the neighborhood. A respectable gentleman will be welcomed in all the best houses. But you must watch your own behavior carefully lest you sully your reputation. Never leave the house unaccompanied. Society condemns such hoydenish tricks. What would Mr. Darksmith think of a girl who was not received by her own neighbors?”
“But who would ever know?”
“Enough, Millicent. All it takes is one lady observing a lapse in decorum. She would write to a friend who would confide in another, and before the cat could lick its ear, you would be at the center of a scandal without ever having set foot in town.” He stared at her long enough to make sure she understood, then headed for the library.
* * * *
Terrence watched in fury as Carrington departed the drawing room. He had remained silent since turning his back, but every minute had increased his tension. Why had the marquess accepted the odious Darksmith after repudiating the angelic Alice? Their caller was a blatant blackguard whose intentions were dishonorable at best. Yet Carrington had treated him as a favored guest. He had not even forbidden Millie to see the fellow. It wasn’t fair.
“Where did you meet your oily friend?” he demanded, not allowing her to leave the room.
“What do you mean by oily?” she
snapped. “Mortimer is the kindest, most understanding gentleman of my acquaintance.”
“He is a hypocrite who lies through his teeth every time he opens his mouth. You can see it in his face – the sly calculation, the greed, the exhilaration at tempting fate. If you cannot recognize it, then you have no judgment.”
“He loves me.”
“Hah!” Terrence stared in amazement. “Your attics are to let. He must be all of thirty. No man of thirty falls in love with a girl of sixteen whose manners are so lacking that she arranges secret trysts.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know very well that you have been sneaking off. I did not think that you were stupid enough to fall into the hands of a smarmy trickster, or I would have said something earlier. It has to stop.”
“Why do you hate him so? He has done nothing to harm you.”
“He is leading my only sister down the road to ruin,” he countered. “That is reason enough. Trust me on this, Millie. I have seen many gentlemen woo females. Some genuinely cared. Most merely wanted a quick tumble. The eyes always reflect their owner’s goal, despite the false smiles and lying flattery. Darksmith’s eyes speak to me. He wants something from you, but it is not marriage.”
“Hateful boy!” she shouted. “What can you know of life? Your words are nought but conceited boasting, as empty as yon fireplace.” She flung a theatrical arm toward the yawning hole that would not hold flame until winter returned. “How dare you command me to give up my dearest friend? Even Lord Carrington – who knows far more about the world than you – has not demanded such a sacrifice. I won’t do it. He is the only one who cares about me, who understands me, who supports me through this odious farce an unfeeling world demands I endure. Who else am I to talk to? Mama does nothing but weep and wail over the death of a man she spurned every day of our lives. You might as well have stayed in school for all we see of you. No one calls, and I am not allowed out. Can you blame me for enjoying the friendship that fate has provided in my hour of need? Mortimer salvaged my sanity. For that reason alone I love him dearly. Leave me! Go see that fubsy-faced farm wench you have been dangling after. You have no right to condemn me for doing less than what you do every day, and you certainly have no right to question my judgment when your own is so lacking.”
Glaring in fury, she stomped out of the room, leaving an open-mouthed Terrence behind.
“Your excellent understanding of men is balanced by a deplorable ignorance of women,” commented Richard from the doorway.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He glowered at his guardian, still burning with fury over the man’s inequity.
“Did you enjoy being told that the object of your infatuation was a scheming wench who wanted only your title and money?”
“How dare you—”
“Be quiet,” Richard interrupted him grimly. “One can usually deal with a gentleman by discussing a problem calmly and rationally. Women are trickier – something you will learn once you’ve been on the town for a while. You have put her back up and hardened her resolve, assuring that she will accept the truth about Darksmith with even greater reluctance. Thus my job is now even more difficult. I will thank you not to meddle again.”
“We are talking about my sister,” he objected hotly. “My family. My responsibility. How dare you invite that odious snake into my home?”
“I dare because I am in charge of this home and the people in it. I must discover the man’s weakness and exploit it. He is no gentleman – you judged him very well. I doubt he can even claim gentle breeding from the wrong side of the blanket, but it will be easier to expose him in genteel surroundings, and Millicent will accept his scheming more easily if she observes it for herself. You have a long way to go before you are worldly enough to plan such a campaign. Leave it to me, and set your own affairs in order. Perhaps this demonstration of how badly you mishandled a female will convince you that you have also misjudged Miss Wingrave.
As silently as he had appeared, he was gone.
Chapter Ten
“I have the report on the Wingraves, my lord.” Cawdry laid a sheaf of papers on his employer’s desk.
“Is Terrence being duped?”
“No, sir.”
Richard frowned, motioning Cawdry to a chair. “Explain.”
“Lord Avery’s characterization is correct. Lady Avery, on the other hand, has waged a baseless campaign against the Wingraves for seventeen years despite being repeatedly told that her claims are false. She ignores facts and cuts anyone who tries to correct her misconceptions. Her intransigence has eroded her reputation, inviting ridicule from her neighbors. Yet her vitriol continues.”
“Why?”
“No one knows. The Wingraves were already here when she married Lord Avery. In the beginning she treated them no differently than other untitled landowners. Her attacks began quite suddenly about five years later, but even the most determined gossips have not discovered why.
Richard paced the library in silence while he considered Cawdry’s words. Your judgment has dry rot… Sucking in a deep breath, he resumed his seat.
“Tell me about the Wingraves.”
“The Honorable Lucinda Winterbottom married the Honorable Walter Wingrave in—”
“They were both honorables?” he interrupted. Terrence had claimed that Mrs. Wingrave was the daughter of a baronet.
“Mr. Wingrave was the fourth son of the seventh Earl of Marleigh. I doubt you knew him, for the Marleighs have always lacked the resources to visit London, and his health was poor for several years before his death. Walter grew up on his father’s estate in the Midlands, eschewing both the military and government to enter the church. He was installed as curate to a parish in Hampshire whose living was under the auspice of Viscount Winterbottom, another impoverished lord who never goes to town. The viscount’s youngest daughter Lucinda formed an attachment to the new curate, but they had no hope of marriage, for neither had the means to support even a cottage existence. Lord Winterbottom tried to find her an acceptable suitor, but with no dowry, the only offer he got was from an aging lecher. To the man’s credit, he turned it down. A year later, Lucinda inherited Winter House from her great-uncle and immediately married Mr. Wingrave. Walter gave up the church and moved here to administer the estate.”
“So what gave my aunt the idea that the Wingraves were descended from merchants?”
“I do not know,” admitted Cawdry. “I have uncovered no one connected with trade. The great-uncle was another Winterbottom. The viscounts have always chosen brides of impeccable breeding despite their own lack of fortune. But to return to the Wingraves, Lucinda produced one daughter, Penelope. Over the next four years, she suffered a stillborn son and a miscarriage, ultimately falling victim to influenza. Walter remarried when Penelope was nine. His second wife was Laura Higgins, the oldest daughter of Sir Oswald Higgins.”
“Another gentleman I do not know.” But here was the baronet.
“Many families avoid London, my lord. He lives secluded in Somerset, as much from inclination as from lack of funds. That marriage produced Alice and Michael, but Laura did not survive the second birth. I have spoken with villagers, tenants, and the local gentry. All agree that Mr. Wingrave was exceedingly attached to his second wife, falling into a serious decline after her death. No one saw him for over a year. Twelve-year-old Penelope took over running the house and raising her half siblings. It was quite a job for a girl who was still a child herself – even then they had few servants – but she managed.”
“Any connections to trade on the Higgins side?”
“None, though one of Laura’s uncles was an adventurer, traveling to China, India, and Africa. He is no nabob, but he managed to stave off starvation.”
“What happened to Mr. Wingrave?”
“When Penelope was seventeen, he was diagnosed with a wasting sickness. That was when he relinquished control of the estate, caring about nothing from then until his death two years ago. His will ap
pointed Penelope guardian and trustee.”
“There cannot be much there. The house is in tatters.”
“Their finances are precarious, but not hopelessly so. Laura Wingrave was extravagant, forcing Walter to mortgage Winter House. But Penelope is an astute manager. The estate is solvent. Its productivity has steadily improved, for she puts every spare shilling back into the land. And she has never missed a mortgage payment. The bankers are satisfied with the arrangement. Sir Francis Pelham offers effusive praise, though I suspect he harbors a tendre for the lady. But others also admire her, with the sole exception of your aunt.”
Richard frowned. Cawdry was a painstaking investigator who always produced accurate reports, so he could no longer reject the truth. But Cawdry could not know the state of a person’s mind. Miss Wingrave might have better ancestry than he had believed. She might have worked miracles in improving her brother’s legacy. But her very determination would force her to grab every chance for security – and Alice would be her most valuable asset. A woman performing a man’s job was dangerous, for women eschewed the code of honor that governed gentlemen’s lives.
But he could not lower himself to her level. Her plotting did not excuse his own mistakes. He had known since she left him by the stream that he must apologize, despite what publicly admitting errors could do to his image. Cawdry’s report made it even more imperative – and more difficult. He would have to confess faulty judgment as well as blatant lechery. His temperature rose at the remembered feel of her pressed against his length, raising an uncomfortable mixture of excitement, shame, and disgust at himself. He had always left lust to society’s rakehells, preferring discreet liaisons with well-paid courtesans.
“What about those damnable ostriches?”
Cawdry chuckled. “Eccentric, aren’t they? People shake their heads over the birds, but they have grown accustomed to them. They actually belong to Alice – a gift from the adventuring uncle – but it was Penelope who figured out how to keep them alive. They make a tidy sum from selling the plumage, which allows Michael to attend Eton. One adult bird produces about the same income as half a dozen sheep.”
