Yet a larger, more pressing worry settled in her breast as she scrubbed at the windows in the parlor. If Rafe Danvers had made a bargain with her mother for the sale of Greyson Park, who was to say that Hedley’s inheritance was safe? Likely, her mother had entered into a contract, knowing that the property wasn’t hers to sell, effectively stealing money from him. Therefore, he might have legal means to remove Hedley from her home.
She breathed hard against the glass. In all her life, she’d never possessed anything of her own. Now, even though it was so new, the thought of losing Greyson Park and returning to a life of locked attics and invisibility frightened her beyond imagining. While she may have learned to pick locks in order to escape—and to become invisible in order to roam about in a semblance of freedom—who was to say that would always be the case?
“I will not go back,” she said to Boris, who’d wandered back over to Greyson Park a week ago and never left. He lounged in front of the fire in the parlor, with his chin resting on his paws. “If Rafe plans to run me out of the one thing that has ever been mine, then I must come up with a plan of my own.”
Boris perked his ears but otherwise made no comment.
Hedley went back to rubbing the windowpanes in tiny circles and tried not to worry.
This week, she’d kept herself distracted with work. So far, she’d gone through the lower-level rooms, cleaning each in turn—removing the sheet coverings, dragging out rugs and the smaller chairs for airing. With the large pieces of upholstered furniture, she did her best with a beater. The tasks were tiring and time-consuming. So much so that she’d imagined Rafe Danvers would never have entered her thoughts.
She’d been wrong.
No matter how terribly their encounter had gone, she’d been left feeling the same way she had over six years ago when he’d spoken to her in the garden: visible. Being the object of his scrutiny was . . . indescribable. He’d made her heart beat faster, among other things. Things like, when she’d placed her arms behind her back and his perusal had shifted, she’d felt the tightening of her breasts. She’d wanted to press her hands over them to make it stop. But in his presence, she’d endured it instead.
She wondered—when Rafe returned from London with his news about Greyson Park—would he notice her again?
She should be more concerned about the news, of course. He was bound to be angry when faced with the truth of her inheritance. Even Mother had been angry, in her own coldly silent way. Although, Hedley had grown used to her scorn. What she didn’t want was Rafe’s.
“Woof.” Interrupting her worrisome musings, Boris rose to his feet, his head aimed toward the hall. In the same moment, the latch on the front door clicked, followed by the squeak of a hinge.
Hedley started. Had Rafe returned?
“Miss Sinclair?” the familiar voice asked. Familiar, but not Rafe’s.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” Boris went on full alert and moved to stand between her and the door to the parlor.
“Hush, Boris,” she scolded firmly but with a gentle pat for his defense of her. For good measure, however, she bent and secured the beast to her side. “Mr. Tims. I am in the parlor with a friend from down the lane.”
The older man peered around the corner, removing his bowler from his bald head. His thick, bushy gray eyebrows lifted in question. Uncannily, those brows resembled rolled clumps of dust, similar to what she’d found beneath the sofa. “Is that a dog or a horse?”
Boris growled.
“Mr. Tims is caretaker of Greyson Park.” This explanation seemed to soothe the dog, even though she was certain he couldn’t have understood her. Yet tilting his head, he gave her hand a lick. To Mr. Tims, she said, “He is a veritable beast but gentle. He has made a good companion this week.”
Shoulders hunched, the caretaker shuffled into the room but kept a wary eye on Boris. “I imagine his companionship has nearly cleaned out your stores in the cellar. You’ve a soft heart, but you must think about your future here.”
“I am,” she said, attempting to reassure him. She wouldn’t bother telling him that all she’d been able to think of was her future here at Greyson Park. Without a single farthing from her mother, Hedley didn’t know how long the stores would last. And with spring’s late arrival, she wasn’t certain when she could begin to plant a vegetable garden. As for meat, Boris had already supplied her with two small but tasty pheasants.
Why spread her worry? Surely he had enough to think about with the rheumatism he often mentioned. “How was your trip to Grimsby?” she asked instead. “Are your grandchildren much changed since you’d last seen them?”
While she’d never met Mr. Tims’s family, hearing him speak of them with such affection had made her feel as if she knew them.
“Aye.” He smiled, and those dusty eyebrows drew apart, the tail ends bracketing either side of his eyes. “Polly’s growing into a beauty like her mother, and Walt—that scamp—is itching to climb aboard his father’s fishing boat. Soon enough . . . too soon, he’ll take his place beside his da.”
For a moment, he simply stood there in the archway, his gaze far off to sea. Then, reaching inside a pocket flap on his trousers, he withdrew a red kerchief and blew his nose soundly.
Boris backed up a step, his ears perked. Hedley nearly laughed at the way the dog looked helplessly up at her. The honking geese at Sinclair House—the same ones that had supplied Mother and Ursa with pillow stuffing—didn’t hold a candle to Mr. Tims.
“Eh. Maudlin thoughts are the curse of an old man,” the caretaker grumbled, stowing his kerchief. “I came by to tell you that I have news.”
“From Grimsby?”
“No. I stopped by Sinclair House before I arrived.” He hesitated just long enough to fill her with dread. “Your sister and her husband have returned.”
Distractedly, Hedley wondered if her eyes were as helpless-looking as Boris’s had been a moment ago. She drew in a breath to help settle the jump in her nerves. “I’m certain Mother will be glad for the visit. Ursa and Mr. Cole must have left the colonies the moment word of Grandfather’s death reached them.” Or even before . . . Surely if one accounted for word to reach them and then time for their journey, it stood to reason that they’d set off before his death. Trembling now, she wondered at the reason.
Mr. Tims released a series of tsks as he shook his head. “I overheard them talking about your inheritance.”
Suddenly, all the strength left Hedley’s body. She sat down. On the floor. Next to Boris, who laid his head on her knee. “Why would Ursa be talking about Greyson Park?”
This place had never interested Ursa. She’d been only too happy to leave it behind and let it rot. While Hedley didn’t know exactly how the property had been removed from her sister’s dowry, she knew that Ursa’s name no longer appeared on the deed to Greyson Park.
“From what I gather, that husband of your sister’s, that Mr. Cole, knew a fellow whose family hailed from Lincolnshire.” Mr. Tims’s expression turned thoughtful. “Apparently, a few hundred years back or so, the family who used to own this land were goldsmiths. Over time, it was sold off in marriage, but the rumor of treasure here in this very house lingers.”
“Treasure? Here?” Impossible. She shook her head, even as the weight of foreboding settled over her.
A raspy cough escaped him as he shook his head. “When I heard it, I nearly gave myself away by laughing. To think that Greyson Park, under my own care these past few years, is full of treasure.”
Over the years, this estate had been under the care of many men who’d been discarded by the Sinclair family. Mr. Tims had worked as the family gardener since shortly after Hedley was born. He used to live in a cottage near Sinclair House and had worked from dawn to dusk each day because Hedley’s mother refused to hire additional laborers. Then, when age diminished his ability to maintain the land to Mother’s satisfaction, she’d sent him here to live in the old gatehouse.
The gatehouse at Greyson Park served the purpose of an
almshouse, leaving the main house essentially untended. Even Mr. Tims had admitted that his rheumatism forced him to avoid the stairs.
Accounting for all of that, it was possible that a treasure could exist, and it had been left under the noses of all who’d been assigned to oversee Greyson Park.
Sickening dread churned within Hedley. Ursa would have come to the same conclusion. If she’d traveled all the way from the former colonies in search of treasure at Greyson Park, nothing would stop her from getting everything she wanted.
Yet Ursa hadn’t wanted Greyson Park before . . . No, it had been Rafe Danvers. Peculiarly, he still wanted it, even in its current state. Which raised the question—had Rafe known about this supposed treasure all along?
CHAPTER FOUR
Later that afternoon, Rafe stood inside Hawthorne Manor near London and handed his brother-in-law a scotch.
Oliver Goswick, Viscount Rathburn, didn’t even see him. He was too busy pressing his ear to the door, eyes wide in something akin to terror. “Did you hear that? I think Emma called for me.”
They had always been the best of friends, even before the tragic fire that had claimed Rathburn’s father and brought him into the bosom of the Danvers clan. Now, since Rathburn’s marriage to Rafe’s sister last spring, they were true brothers.
“Drink,” Rafe said, pushing the glass into Rathburn’s hand. His own was unsteady, but he kept that fact hidden by staying in motion.
Rafe’s little sister was upstairs, giving birth to her first child. When he’d heard her cry out an hour ago, the instinct to protect her from harm had had him mounting the stairs in tandem with Rathburn . . .
Until the fierce Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had stopped them both at the top. “Come one step closer,” she’d warned, “and I’ll throttle you both with my cane.”
Rathburn had stood tall against his grandmother, but his voice was weak. “She needs me.”
The dowager’s glower had softened and she’d laid a hand over Rathburn’s arm. “Emma is strong. Be brave for her.”
Then, for good measure, the old dragon had ordered the head butler to lock them in the study.
Now, here they were—Rathburn, Weatherstone, Rafe, and his father—trapped in the study together.
Cuthbert Danvers crossed the room and clutched both Rafe and Rathburn by the shoulders. Above a vibrant paisley cravat, he offered a grin, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. “These things take time, boys. Why, I remember, that Celestine spent the better part of two days in her chamber for you, Rafe. Longest hours of my life. But worth it.” He patted Rafe’s cheek.
“I destroyed six ledgers the day Penelope had our son,” Ethan Weatherstone said from behind them. Rising from the chair near the hearth, he smiled as if pleased by the memory. For a man who preferred order in his life above all things, this was a startling confession. “Nearly tore the door from the hinges to get to her”—he adjusted his cravat—“but I imagine that’s to be expected.”
The image of Weatherstone turning into a man possessed caused Rafe to grin. Their acquaintance had begun in school when a bullying prefect had taunted Weatherstone about his perfectly numbered columns in his perfectly ordered ledgers. Both Rafe and Rathburn had come to Weatherstone’s defense, and ever since they’d remained close. Weatherstone had also stood by the Danverses during their disgrace. That loyalty meant the world to Rafe.
“I tore a canvas to shreds with my bare hands, waiting for Emma to be born,” Cuthbert Danvers admitted, as if this were the perfect opportunity to confess to madness. Then he turned to Rathburn. “Oliver, your father took a sledgehammer to an old Crofter’s cottage and brought it to the ground the day you were born. He would have been so proud to stand here with you today.”
Rathburn clutched his shoulder and nodded. “I—”
The shrill sound of a baby’s cry interrupted him. Turning toward the door, he pushed the untouched glass of scotch back at Rafe, barely giving him the chance to grab it. Then, like a man possessed, he rammed his shoulder through the seam in the doors, splintering the wood where the lock once held.
Rafe stared after his friend as he ran up the stairs.
It took a moment to realize that his father was gripping Rafe by the arm, holding him back. “She’s Oliver’s responsibility now,” his father said quietly.
Rafe knew that, of course. He’d known for quite some time that Rathburn was the best of men. Like Weatherstone, the entire Goswick family had stood beside the Danverses when they’d been cut off from society. Only the best man would have done for his sister.
“You’ve always been our family’s steadfast shield,” his father quipped, ruffling his hair. “It would do my heart good to see you with a family of your own.”
The words were like a vinegary dose of reality. He swallowed down the pungent brew, reminded of how close he’d once been. Until Ursa Sinclair, and her whole family, had played him for a fool.
“Not until Greyson Park is mine.” And likely not even then. The entire ordeal had soured him on the idea of marriage.
His father withdrew the pipe from his teeth and pointed at him with it. “That house has been out of our family for over a hundred years, sold off in a marriage bargain. These things happen.”
But Greyson Park was more than just a house. The treasure it held could restore the Danvers name in society. Not that the ton mattered to Rafe, but he was still looking to protect his family. He wanted the best for them. Emma had a perfect life with Rathburn. Now, his parents were long overdue for theirs.
“Dear me!” a feminine voice exclaimed. “Did Rathburn break through the door?”
Looking out into the hall and up to the top of the stairs, Rafe saw two of Emma’s closest friends—Merribeth and Delaney—begin their descent.
“Aye. He did,” Rafe said.
Merribeth arched a dark eyebrow and shook her head. “Then I am glad I told Simon to spend the day at Tattersall’s. I wouldn’t want him to get any ideas,” she said with one hand on the rail and the other over her gently rounded belly.
“And I am glad Griffin is with him,” Delaney added, glowing brightly beneath a fall of auburn hair. “That way we can simply tell our husbands how patient Rathburn was and to live by his example.” Both women laughed as they crossed the hall to the study.
“How is Emma?” Rafe was still tempted to mount the stairs.
Merribeth beamed. “She is positively resplendent.”
“But tired,” Delaney said, looking first to Rafe’s father and then to him. “And your grandson—and your nephew—has all ten of his fingers and ten of his toes.”
“And a healthy set of lungs,” Merribeth added.
“Grandson,” Cuthbert Danvers said, clutching Rafe’s shoulder again and giving it a squeeze.
“Nephew,” Rafe breathed. A mixture of familial pride and something he would almost describe as a bittersweet yearning filled him. But the latter was more likely the effects of fine scotch on an empty stomach.
“Penelope should be down directly,” Delaney said to Weatherstone. She walked into the room and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs. “She wanted to retrieve your son from the nursery.”
Merribeth sat across from her and sighed. “In the meantime, the new grandmothers and great-grandmother are cooing over the baby while Rathburn and Emma have a moment alone together.”
“A son. That reminds me,” Weatherstone said, withdrawing a small ledger from inside his coat. “Danvers, I believe you and I have won the wager. Both Croft and Knightswold claimed the child would be a girl.”
“You wagered on your own sister’s child?” Merribeth gasped.
Rafe looked to Weatherstone, wondering if he was missing the significance. His friend closed the ledger and tucked it away with a shrug. What else was a man to do when presented with fifty-fifty chance of winning?
“Men will wager on absolutely anything,” Delaney said, as Penelope Weatherstone sauntered to the study, bouncing a handsome lad on her hip. A maidservant f
ollowed with a tray of tea.
While the women were distracted with pouring, and Weatherstone with his wife and son, Rafe’s father shook his head and poked him with the tip of his pipe. “I’ve recently heard of another wager, though I sincerely hope I’ve been misinformed.”
It was foolish to believe the wager between Everhart, Montwood, and himself would remain a secret. Rafe and his father stepped into the hall for a more private conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was cast a pall over their merry party. “In my own defense, I know I cannot lose.”
“I’m certain that not even Weatherstone could calculate how many times men have turned that phrase . . . ”
Making an attempt at levity, Rafe offered, “Some of them were bound to be right.”
“Not many, I’d gather.” There was an unmistakable edge to his father’s voice. “I assume that this is a continuation of your quest for Greyson Park?”
“I made an offer, and it was accepted.” There was no point in denying it. “The only problem is that, apparently, when I paid a good-faith sum and signed a contract, I was not aware that the estate had been settled upon a different Sinclair as an inheritance.”
“A different Sinclair?”
Rafe was still disgusted with himself for being so blinded by victory. After so many years of waiting, why hadn’t he taken the necessary precautions of having his own solicitor oversee the contract? “The younger daughter inherited the property.”
“I wasn’t aware there was another daughter.” His father looked wary, as if the possibility of having two women like Ursa Sinclair on this earth was two too many. And he would be right.
“Neither was I. Although, I had met her on a prior occasion,” Rafe added, the memory sparking anew.
Hedley’s hair had been braided that day, in a thick golden plait that nearly reached the fingertips she’d kept clasped behind her back. With her green shawl and brown dress, she’d nearly blended in to the garden shrubs and trees around her. But when she’d turned at the sound of his voice and that startled gaze had alighted on him, he’d realized his mistake—she hadn’t blended in at all.
The Devilish Mr. Danvers Page 4
