Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  Again he swallowed, breaking his thoughts.

  Arrogance, screamed his conscience. Conceited, pigheaded arrogance. You are quoting your aunt again…

  Her breeding might be beneath his own, but she was far from base-born. Her grandfathers were a viscount and an earl. His were a marquess and an earl. He knew of many attachments between people who were farther apart, starting with Mark and Elaine. None provoked censure. At least half of the girls his mother championed had less exalted ancestry. And Penelope’s manners were not coarse. While she lacked the training that would make her comfortable in London drawing rooms, she was intelligent and could easily learn. In fact, a quick-witted, clearheaded woman was a blessing. Hadn’t he decided that weeks ago? He despised widgeons who did nothing but parrot the latest on-dits and prattle of fashion.

  Her independence was a problem, however. Ladies did not oversee estates or raise exotic animals. And they never ran businesses. Yet he could not castigate her for doing just that. She had supported her family – literally and figuratively – for fifteen years. Without her efforts, they would have lost Winter House long ago. He must applaud her for meeting the challenge. If he were honest, that was one of the things he admired about her, for it made her unique. In his twelve years on the town, she was the only woman who had ever held his interest. And how could he castigate her set-downs when he had invited most of them. Despite his pride in judging people to the inch, he had erred badly in her case.

  He snorted. He might as well humble himself totally by admitting that his celebrated perspicacity worked only in the conformable world of the ton. Polite society paid lip service to the rules of propriety while breaking most of them in private. But even misbehavior followed strict guidelines. After living all of his life with this dual standard, he had failed to recognize genuine honesty when he saw it.

  He reeled under a wave of longing for a lifetime of such candor, deliberately recalling the fortnight he had spent at Bridgeport Abbey. Mark and Elaine shared a love that was infinitely precious. It set them apart from their surroundings, creating a world populated only by themselves. At the time he had been envious – and lonely, for he did not enjoy feeling like an outsider in company with his closest friend. Watching the way Terrence and Alice communicated without words, he had reluctantly admitted that they shared the same connection. Now he wanted it for himself.

  Was it possible? Dancing with Penelope had triggered something beyond the desire she always raised. Her eyes had burned into his as if she was reading his innermost secrets. He had repudiated the idea at the time, terrified that it might be true. But perhaps that ultimate closeness grew from the very things he feared – failure, vulnerability, the mortifying admission that she could destroy him with a word…

  What could he do?

  Long fingers raked his hair, tangling in the snarls produced by hours of fitful tossing.

  He could avoid failure by leaving. His customary mask of cold hauteur would cover the pain until he had put her irrevocably behind him. But walking away would close the door on his one chance to find what Mark already enjoyed. Could he endure the agony of a rejection? The ghosts of his Avery ancestors urged him to stay safe, to risk nothing, to escape while he still could. But that would mean enduring loneliness for the rest of his life.

  He scowled. He had repudiated the Avery cowardice even before his father died. Determination had reversed his fortunes, built his reputation, and successfully controlled his family. Yet all those triumphs would be meaningless if he refused the ultimate challenge. He would stay, and he would fight for happiness.

  Again he paced the room. How could he convince Penelope to start over? He could hardly blame her for lashing out at him, considering his incessant provocation. He had any number of crimes for which he must atone. On the other hand, they had enjoyed a congenial day in Exeter and had worked together at the assembly without thought.

  He sighed. He could do nothing to change the past, and his credibility was nonexistent. But he must try. The first step was to talk to her and hope that she had felt the same connection.

  In the meantime, he crawled back into bed, deliberately welcoming the dreams. It was the only way he could hold her in his arms.

  * * * *

  “Are you busy?” asked Terrence from the library doorway.

  Richard glanced up from the estate ledger. His ward seemed more serious than usual, in control of his emotions as he had not been in their earlier confrontations. Even yesterday’s questions about Tallgrove had seemed more of a lark than legitimate interest.

  “What is the problem?” he asked quietly.

  “Me. Many of your criticisms were correct.”

  He raised his brows, but Terrence gave him no chance to comment. “Not about my love for Alice, which is stronger than ever. But I have much to learn before I marry.”

  “Then you will not argue about returning to Oxford.”

  He grinned. “Actually, I will. I ran into Michael Wingrave in town the other day. He already knows far more about estate management than I, though he is fully five years younger. Even Alice knows more, but teaching me what I need to learn will take more time than you can spare.”

  “What do you propose?” He could not decide if Terrence was serious or if this was a new strategy to deflect his objections – whose validity he was already questioning for himself, though he would not admit that just yet. But this explained the boy’s sudden interest in the estate. Michael must have demanded a demonstration of responsibility in exchange for his support.

  “To begin with, I would like a detailed explanation of Scott’s shortcomings as a steward – beyond the criminal activities we discussed yesterday. And instead of returning to Oxford, I would like to spend six months studying estate management with your own steward – or someone like him if another man would serve better.”

  He sat back, stunned. If Terrence was running a rig, he would hardly have suggested removing himself from Alice’s side for several months. The boy was more mature than he had thought, a judgment that fit well with the adroit way he had extricated Alice from Darksmith’s clutches at the assembly. Had the Avery indolence bypassed him, or had his love for Alice inspired him to overcome his inherited tendencies? Perhaps Penelope was correct in claiming that the family curse was no more than profound laziness that could be surmounted. Which meant that he was doing several people a disservice by removing all incentives to see after their own affairs.

  “What exactly did Wingrave say?”

  Terrence repeated their conversation. “It made me furious that so young a cawker would dare criticize a lord,” he admitted at last. “But on reflection, I decided he was right. I had always considered Father to be a reasonable man and expected to live my life in much the same way. But his lack of supervision allowed Scott to rob him blind. I cannot jeopardize my security by leaving my finances to chance. Yet Oxford cannot teach me nearly as much as your steward.”

  “I will consider it, but first we will discuss Tallgrove.” He pulled out ledgers covering the past century.

  “Why so far back?” asked Terrence, but his voice was curious rather than daunted.

  “The Avery family has long been cursed with laziness. Seeing where that leads will be your first lesson, for you must teach your children responsibility. Your great-grandfather was proud enough of winning both a title and an estate through his own efforts that he remained cognizant of its value. When he died, Tallgrove returned a good income and embraced the most progressive techniques of his day.”

  He pointed out entries in the ledger to illustrate the changes the man had ordered, including the replacement of most of his outside staff. “And that is the second lesson. You will defeat laziness only if you have a compelling incentive to better yourself.”

  “I wish I had known him,” said Terrence wistfully. “He must have been a good man.”

  “I believe so, though I know him mostly from the estate records. He checked them regularly, making frequent notations. Your grandfa
ther was less attentive, and your father was worse. He inherited at an early age, but paid little attention to the land.”

  “Very true, but how do you know that?”

  From reading his diary – but he could not mention that. Heat built in his groin as he recalled Gareth’s descriptions of his liaisons. An image of Penelope sprawled naked across the dower house bed rose so vividly before his eyes that he expected Terrence to see her as well. Stifling an oath, he wrenched his thoughts back to the ledger.

  “A good master checks the books regularly,” he said, his voice sounding stilted even to his own ears. “If he does not understand an entry, he marks it so that he can question his steward. A good steward insists that his master sign so that both parties can prove that the examination was done.” He opened books covering the first ten years of Gareth’s tenure as viscount.

  “He signed every month,” noted Terrence.

  “That is true, but there is no hint that he actually looked at anything. Not a single question or comment appears, nor has any entry been corrected. I don’t care how good the steward was, no man can keep records for ten years without making a single mistake. Then there is the estate itself. Not one improvement was made, although much was discovered about better farming methods during that time. Gareth either didn’t know or didn’t care that his steward was ignoring new techniques. Now look at the fifteen years since Scott was hired."

  Terrence rustled pages for some time, allowing Richard’s thoughts to drift to Penelope’s hair. Would it feel silky to the touch, or would it burn his fingers? Probably the latter. Even thinking about it burned his fingers. And more. He realized that he was breathing too fast and forced calm on his body.

  “I see,” Terrence said at last. “The first year is no different, but by the second year, Father was only checking every two or three months. After that there is no hint that he looked at anything.”

  Except his diary. “Exactly. Now compare expenses.”

  Why had he thought of the diary again? his conscience demanded as another lengthy period of page rustling ensued. He was torturing himself to no avail. If he could not exercise more control, he was likely to ravish her when next they met.

  But the castigation proved useless. By the time Terrence spoke, Richard had forgotten the subject under discussion. His hands shook, recalling how she felt. Images of what he wanted to do and how he hoped she would respond suffused him with heat. He moved his chair farther under the desk to mask the painful state of his groin. But it was harder to hide the huskiness that had crept into his voice.

  “I cannot tell in so cursory a glance,” admitted Terrence. “But it would appear that expenses rose faster than could be explained by this endless war.”

  Of course. They were discussing Tallgrove. “Very good. Scott succumbed to temptation. With no supervision and no one to question his decisions, he began padding the expenses – ten pounds here, fifteen there. It would not have amounted to much in the beginning. But stealing was so easy that he set his sights on buying an estate of his own, taking larger and larger amounts. Then he doubled the rents, keeping the difference for himself. When your father died, he knew the game was up and booked passage to America. But I did not immediately take control, so temptation again won. He canceled his passage, staking everything on my staying away for the summer. And his gamble nearly paid off. He doubled his nest egg by stripping Tallgrove of much of its wealth. But he did not anticipate the war that made it impossible to escape. Nor did he expect me to discover his crimes. Perhaps he assumed that I would be the same lazy overlord as Gareth. Entrenched villains often overlook the obvious.”

  “You mean that a new trustee would check the books even if that was not his custom?”

  “Precisely.”

  They spent two hours reviewing the ledgers. Richard thought he would go crazy. His mind was beyond his control, creating new fantasies from every question – Penelope braced against an oak tree, moaning into his ear; Penelope swimming naked in the lake; Penelope beckoning him into the hayloft. Increasingly lurid pictures tormented him. Often he had to scramble to cover slips of the tongue lest he disclose where his thoughts had drifted.

  But Terrence finally closed the book. “I never suspected a thing. Scott has always been the bluff, hearty sort who would give you the shirt off his back if it would ease your way. How could my judgment have been so wrong?”

  “It is difficult to evaluate those one has known since childhood. The important thing is to learn from your father’s mistakes. Always check everything. And never allow your steward to use outdated ideas. The only way to make sure that he is aware of the latest discoveries is to learn about them yourself.”

  “Which returns us to my initial request,” said Terrence smoothly. “May I spend the next few months studying with your steward instead of returning to Oxford? You can hardly claim I am too young. Michael will assume control of Winter House when he is seventeen. Penelope took over at that age.”

  His hand trembled. “She has done well by all reports. I see no reason why it could not be arranged, providing my man is willing. Afterward, if you still feel as strongly, I will not oppose your betrothal. She seems intelligent and sensible.”

  Joy burst across Terrence’s face. “May I tell her that?”

  “There can be no commitment on either side,” he warned. “It is unfair to make a secret agreement that honor will demand you fulfill. You believe that your love will endure, and you may be right. But you both must have the freedom to walk away if you prove to be wrong. And you still have not dealt with your mother.”

  “She can move to the dower house.”

  “That is not enough,” he warned as they put the ledgers away and headed for the stairs. “Unless you soften her antagonism, she will make Alice miserable even if she does not share the manor.”

  “I wish I knew why she is so adamant, for she barely knows Penelope, and has never met Alice.”

  “Her claims are preposterous,” he agreed, drawing surprise from Terrence. “I have disproved every one.” And dug myself into a hole of mistrust in the process. How could he atone? There must be something that would work. And then he could kiss her again…

  “Then you agree that she will make a suitable wife?”

  “Absolutely,” he murmured, mentally threading his fingers through fiery curls and pillaging that passionate mouth.

  “Alice will be thrilled.”

  His thoughts snapped back with a vengeance. What had he agreed to? Now he knew what Penelope had suffered the day she had to backtrack. He sighed. “She is excessively sweet, pure as the driven snow, intelligent, knowledgeable, and thinks you walk on water. But first you must deal with your mother. Her hatred goes beyond misinformation, though I have no clue as to what ails the woman.” But he must learn. For Penelope’s sake as well as Terrence’s.

  “I will talk to her.” Terrence sighed. “But it is not a conversation I expect to enjoy.”

  “Talk to whom?” demanded Lady Avery from the nearby drawing room.

  “There’s no time like the present,” murmured Richard.

  “I suppose not.” But Terrence’s voice sounded as though he faced the scaffold.

  “Spoken like a mature gentleman.” He turned a smile on his aunt. “I have agreed that Terrence should study estate management with my steward this term instead of returning to Oxford,” he announced.

  She frowned. “At least that will get him away from those girls,” she muttered darkly.

  Terrence’s hands fisted, but Richard’s commanding gaze held his tongue. “At the end of that time, I will consent to his betrothal if he remains of like mind,” he stated coldly.

  “I should have known,” sobbed Mathilda. “You are just like every other man, eager to fall into their snares. Why did Gareth not give me a voice in my children’s futures?”

  “How dare you?” growled Terrence. His fingers dug into the back of a chair, their white knuckles stark against its red upholstery. “If he cut you out, it wa
s because he knew your judgment was unsound.”

  “Unsound? Unsound! How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an ungrateful chil—”

  “This is beyond enough,” interrupted Richard as she dissolved into tears. “Madam, I have researched the Wingrave family and can only conclude that your judgment is nonexistent and your sense is worse. I cannot imagine how you came to your unwarranted conclusions, but you do nought but tarnish your own reputation by voicing such calumny. Your characterization is wrong from first to last. Their breeding is equal to your own–”

  “Terrence cannot marry that strumpet,” screamed a white-faced Mathilda. “It is against all the laws of God and man!”

  “What?”

  “She is his sister!”

  “No!” Terrence blanched.

  “She is not,” swore Richard, head spinning as the pieces finally fell into place. “You are wrong, Aunt Mathilda. Uncle Gareth never betrayed you, and certainly not with Alice’s mother.”

  “You cannot hide his sins,” hissed Mathilda, abandoning her weakness to stalk across the room. She yanked a well-worn paper from a drawer in her escritoire. “Look for yourself. Here is the proof that you are blind and deaf about that viper. I found it on Gareth’s desk only two days before Alice’s birth! Laura brags of their affair and gloats that he fathered her coming child.”

  Terrence moaned.

  Richard quickly scanned the page, recognizing the writing even without seeing the signature. I pray our child will be a boy, for Winter House should pass to your son, my love. It is as close as we can ever come to sanctioning our union. Would that we could do so in fact. — L. W.

  He had promised Penelope that he would keep the affair secret, but unless he broke that vow, too many lives would sink into misery – including Alice’s.

  “Gareth did have an affair with Mrs. Wingrave,” he confirmed, ignoring Terrence’s gagging. “With the first Mrs. Wingrave, Lucinda.”