Miss Colbrook did indeed look a great deal like her mother. Both were striking women, with the same large eyes, dramatically arched brows, coppery hair, and full mouths. But Victoria’s face was softer, round in contrast to her daughter’s high cheekbones and proud chin.
In the portrait Victoria looked happy, sitting beside her second husband. Likely it was a wedding portrait. According to Lady Carlton, the marriage had soured after only a few months. Apparently, Victoria had never been happy at Wareton, and her despondency led to her decline and eventual death.
“Why was your mother so unhappy here?” he asked.
Miss Colbrook’s eyes widened and she blinked, clearly startled by his blunt question.
“Because,” she said, “she quickly realized she’d been married only for her fortune.”
She glanced at the portrait and pain flashed in her eyes. Then she clasped her hands together and stared up at him again, her face composed.
“You asked for my help with the accounts,” she said. Then she turned and retreated from the storeroom.
Adrian followed her back to the study, her last words about her mother repeating in his head.
Did Miss Colbrook fear a miserable marriage like her mother’s? Was that why she remained unmarried?
A short time later Adrian watched as Miss Colbrook sat across from him in the study, hunched over a ledger, frowning in concentration while she rapidly scanned and flipped pages. Every so often she paused to tuck a strand of auburn hair back behind her ear.
Over a dozen leather-bound books lay scattered atop the table between them, some new, some cracked and faded with thread unraveling from the spines. Half a dozen additional ledgers that he’d brought from Eastgate were stacked in front of him.
“I know it is here somewhere,” she muttered without looking up. Again, a lock of hair slipped down, obscuring one sea-blue eye.
“Here it is.” She lifted her head and pushed the book across the table.
He caught the scent of her perfume. Roses. Soft as it was, he’d noticed the aroma lingered in a room for a time after she’d gone—
“This page,” she added, pointing to the ledger.
He frowned and forced himself to focus. Usually he wasn’t so easily distracted.
He glanced over the entry about the old earl’s purchase of land outside of London, one the estate manager had been unable to locate.
“You know as much as Mr. Evans,” he said.
“More,” she said, matter-of-factly.
He held back a smile. At first her proud manner had irritated him, but now he admired it. She was pleased with her knowledge and accomplishments regarding the estate, and her pride was, he now acknowledged, well deserved.
But that pride also presented a problem. While she seemed to reluctantly accept the estate was now his, it was clear she couldn’t completely let go. He’d also learned that she had been quietly looking over changes he’d made. That afternoon alone she’d apparently questioned the groom about two new horses brought from Eastgate, and she’d also asked the housekeeper about his instructions regarding the kitchen.
All the more reason to have her go as soon as possible. He would not have anyone scrutinizing his affairs.
Yet he felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of all she’d done for the estate. He was in her debt. The best way to repay her would be to secure her future through a good marriage. He could even add to her inheritance to help her make the best possible match. Perhaps now she could be persuaded to marry before Madeline who, despite his aunt’s best efforts to search here in the country, might very well not find a suitable match until she’d had at least one season in London, perhaps more. The longer Miss Colbrook waited, the smaller her own chances for a match.
If indeed she wished to marry. From the way she’d rebuffed his aunt’s discussion of her prospects the night before, marriage was clearly a sensitive subject. Yet if he treaded carefully, in time he was certain he would learn what she wanted for her future.
He would risk raising the subject—indirectly. He’d not yet located inheritance documents for her or Madeline, documents apparently drawn up separately from the old earl’s will. This afternoon he’d asked the steward about the papers, but Mr. Evans had claimed no knowledge of them. Perhaps Miss Colbrook would know.
“There are a few other documents I’ve been unable to locate,” he said. She tensed at his words, her shoulders drawing closer together, her expression suddenly grave. As if she knew what he would ask about. “Ones regarding what arrangements Alfred made for Madeline and—”
“Some papers are in the care of the solicitor,” she said quickly. “But surely you do not require them at present?” She began organizing the ledgers nearest her, piling them neatly and lining them up in an unnecessarily exact manner, all the while avoiding his gaze.
“No, I suppose not.” She clearly knew what he was interested in, and once again, resisted discussing marriage. Did she simply not wish to marry? Or was she really so dedicated to seeing Madeline wed first?
He would let the matter drop—for now. He would learn soon enough.
“I have one other question for you, Miss Colbrook. The cottage off the road from the mill, near the river…” Her hands stilled on the ledgers. “The rent recorded in the books seems too low. I almost thought it an error.”
He expected she would welcome the change of subject. Instead, she seemed even more nervous. She sat up straighter and folded her hands in her lap.
“It is not an error,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze. Something flashed in her eyes—worry and…a hint of defiance?
“Who lives there?” he asked.
“A widow and her five children.” She spoke uncharacteristically fast. “They cannot afford any more.”
“I see.” Did she fear he would raise the rent? “This widow, she is not a relation?”
“No, but…” She looked him the eye and spoke softly. “She is a friend. And,” she said, her voice fast once again, “she does a great deal of sewing for us to make up for the low rent. She is a talented seamstress.”
“It would appear to be an acceptable arrangement,” he said, nodding. Her shoulders relaxed and her expression softened.
Allowing her friend lower rent was a small thing he could do to repay her for her care of the estate. He wasn’t in the habit of tossing impoverished widows out into the cold anyway. For some reason, the thought that she worried he might bothered him. More than it should.
Her opinion of him should not matter. Yet he was forced to admit that he might learn from her. Her skill in managing the estate was impressive and, in some aspects, he reluctantly admitted, better than his own. He’d already concluded her method for organizing the accounts was an improvement.
“I am considering modeling my books after these in the future,” he said, gesturing to a ledger. “The structure seems better.”
“May I see one?” She pointed to the books he’d brought with him from Eastgate.
“Certainly.” He handed her the top black ledger and watched her flip slowly through the book.
“Is this your accountant’s handwriting?” She pushed the book closer to him. As she leaned across the table, the bodice of her dress drew tightly against her chest. Beneath the taut fabric, her corset did little to hide the shape of her delightfully full breasts—
“Atrocious,” she said. “Truly atrocious.” He snapped his gaze away. Had she caught him staring at her chest? But she was looking down at the ledger between them and shaking her head. “You should let him go for that reason alone,” she added.
What the devil had they been discussing before he’d become so foolishly distracted? Ah, yes, the accountant’s handwriting.
He looked more carefully at the page and frowned.
“That is my writing,” he said.
“Oh.” She quickly looked back to the book. Was she hiding a smile? He had the sudden desire to see her truly smile, not the fleeting glimpses he’d caught so far.
&nbs
p; “What are these entries for Miss Carpenter and Mrs. Jameson?” she added, apparently trying to change the subject. “Are they relatives you support?”
He instantly forgot all about wanting to see her smile.
“They are servants at Eastgate.” He tried to keep his voice casual. Damn, why had he let her look at that particular book? He wasn’t normally so careless.
“Then why are they not listed with the other servants?” she asked.
“They are…former servants.”
“Of course.” She shut the ledger and pushed it back towards him. She looked away, her face impassive, but she wasn’t likely fooled. She would know the amount was far too generous for servants. But to claim they were relatives was out of the question, as she could too easily learn he was lying.
“Did you require my assistance any longer?” She clasped her hands in her lap and continued to avoid his gaze. Obviously, she suspected something improper, but there was nothing to be done about it. She wasn’t exactly predisposed to think well of him, anyway. But she would never guess the truth, and that was all that mattered.
“No,” he said, a bit too harshly. “Thank you for your help.”
They both rose. As she said goodnight, he met her gaze. Her blue eyes flashed a clear message, and for an instant she looked at him much as she had years ago. She obviously thought him a libertine and a scoundrel, but this time her expression held a hint of disappointment as well—as if she’d expected more of him.
Let her think what she wished, what did he care?
She turned away. Scowling, he listened to her footfalls fade in the hall outside.
To hell with what she thought of him—and anyone else who continued to make assumptions about him based on his past.
He strode toward his desk, trying to ignore the lingering scent of roses. He paused near the fireplace. The hunting scene that had been above the hearth when the old earl was alive had been replaced with a painting of two women walking along a beach. Both had reddish-brown hair poking out from beneath their hats, hair a similar shade to Miss Colbrook’s.
He frowned.
There was hardly a room in the manor that she hadn’t altered, hadn’t made her own in some small way. Here was one change he didn’t find agreeable. In the morning, he would order the portrait removed.
Then he’d set about getting the vexatious woman out of his home as well.
4
Servants indeed, Anna thought as Lord Wareton entered the breakfast room the next morning. She, Madeline, Cecelia, and Lady Carlton had already taken their seats around the table.
He returned from the sideboard with an astounding amount of food—three crumpets, three pieces of fruit, four slices of ham, a large serving of baked eggs, and half a dozen sausages. It was proving to be his usual-sized breakfast, along with half a dozen cups of tea, which he nearly overflowed with cream and sugar.
He glanced across the table as if he felt her gaze. She looked quickly away, sipping her chocolate.
Despite trying not to think of the account entries that she’d stumbled upon yesterday, she kept conjuring up possible identities for the two mysterious women. There was only one likely explanation, and it was hardly surprising given a man of his charm and past reputation. Apparently, he wasn’t as reformed as he wished people to believe, but at least he’d learned to value discretion. He’d seemed embarrassed at her discovery, even if he’d hidden it quickly.
She glanced at him again, watching his hands as he ate. They were large and strong, looking as if they should hold a blacksmith’s hammer rather than a teacup. Yet his long fingers curved around the china handle with surprising refinement. Despite his ruggedness, there was an intriguing gentleness about him. She found herself wondering whether he showed much tenderness to the women he kept. And what type of women did he like, anyway?
She quickly berated herself for such thoughts. Why should she care about his promiscuous tastes? She took a large gulp of chocolate, savoring the sweet warmth as she tried to distract herself from thinking of him. The diversion worked for a moment—until he ruined it by speaking to her.
“Miss Colbrook,” he said, “I have a question regarding an expense I came upon last night.”
“What expense?” She stirred the remnants of her chocolate.
“An annual listing for ‘the Forlorn Females Home.’”
This morning he was dressed simply, in a dark coat and waistcoat and a plain white cravat, his usual gold and pearl pin missing. Even so, he looked every inch an earl. It was his bearing, perhaps, or the confident tilt to his head that made him always look aristocratic. It was certainly not the way he ate, she thought, as she watched him pour yet another cup of tea.
“If you feel it is too much of an expense,” Anna said, “I can make do other ways.”
“Out of your own pocket?” he said. “That will not be necessary. But what is it?”
“A charitable organization,” Anna said.
“They take in fallen women,” Madeline whispered loudly, leaning so close to Cecelia that her napkin slipped to the floor.
He smiled. “Indeed? You will have to give me the address.”
“Adrian!” Cecelia tried to look offended before she burst out laughing. Straightening from having retrieved her napkin, Madeline laughed as well. Lady Carlton narrowed her eyes at Lord Wareton, likely remaining quiet only because she had a mouthful of chocolate.
Anna looked him in the eye. “It is for those unfortunate women who have been ruined and abandoned.”
He stared back at her. “A worthy cause.”
There was certainly no hint of embarrassment in him this morning.
Lady Carlton plunked her now empty cup onto the saucer. “Enough jabbering! We have important matters to discuss.” She leveled her gaze at Anna. “Miss Colbrook, it is no wonder you remain unmarried if you waste time involving yourself with charities. Such activities are unlikely to attract a husband.” She didn’t wait for Anna to reply.
“Tomorrow,” she continued, “we shall all be fitted for new clothing. Something to keep us presentable until we can have proper attire made in London. Then we shall begin searching for potential suitors.”
“I cannot wait to meet the local gentlemen,” Cecelia said, sighing. “Perhaps I shall fall in love with one of them on sight.”
“You will do no such thing,” Lady Carlton said. “Not unless he is of high rank, excellent connections, and meets with the approval of your brother and myself first.”
Cecelia frowned. “How unromantic.”
“Only commoners marry for romance,” Lady Carlton said. “You are now the sister of an earl.”
Cecelia pouted, her pale eyes flashing, but she said nothing. Apparently satisfied at having cowed her, Lady Carlton returned her attention to the entire table.
“I am quite determined that I shall have made four matches within the next year,” she announced.
“Four?” Madeline asked, glancing at Lord Wareton.
“Of course,” Lady Carlton said.
“Did you mean to find yourself another husband?” Lord Wareton said, resuming his breakfast. Lady Carlton had been widowed three times, all within a few years of being married. Anna suspected Lady Carlton had nagged her poor husbands to death.
“You know perfectly well I speak of you, Adrian,” Lady Carlton said. “You are an earl now, you have a title to pass on, and a responsibility to make a match that will add to our family’s influence. And you are thirty. Why, if you wait much longer, Wareton might end up in Edmund’s hands. That would be disastrous.”
Lord Wareton frowned at the mention of his brother.
“Adrian,” Cecelia said, “When will Edmund visit?”
“If we are fortunate,” he said, “never.”
“You will invite him?” Cecelia pouted. “Please? He’s not visited me in almost a year.”
“I do not know where he is, Cecelia,” Lord Wareton said as he stabbed at his ham, “even if I wished to invite him. Other than rece
iving some monstrous bills, I’ve had no word of him in weeks.”
Anna recalled meeting Edmund Sinclair long ago, when they were both little more than children. Mr. Sinclair had seemed a pleasant, agreeable young man. She had trouble imagining him as the troublemaker that Lord Wareton described. Despite Lord Wareton’s complaints about his brother’s current behavior, Anna had heard little of him here in Somerset.
Cecelia smiled sweetly. “You could find him—”
“If he wishes to visit,” Lord Wareton said, “he will not wait for an invitation. He will almost certainly appear to bother us eventually.”
“Adrian,” Lady Carlton said, “back to your obligation to pass on your title—”
“Aunt,” he said, “you will help Cecelia and my cousins to find matches but leave me out of it.” He gripped his teacup as if he might crush it.
He looked so disturbed at his aunt’s mention of finding him a wife, Anna almost pitied him. Yet Lady Carlton was correct; marriage was his duty. At least he would have no shortage of women to choose from. His title and wealth all but assured a spectacular match with a high-ranking heiress, and his youth and good looks guaranteed it. Most likely he would bring a bride home within a few years, perhaps much sooner if his aunt had her way.
A new Countess of Wareton.
Anna’s throat tightened. The last woman who arrived here expecting to one day have that title was her mother. She’d come here so full of hope for her new marriage, only to quickly learn of the mistress who had long ago claimed her new husband’s heart. The realization that she’d again been married only for her fortune had broken her mother’s spirit.
Within a year she’d died from a pneumonia that normally killed only the very old, leaving Anna with an indifferent stepfather, ailing himself, and his father, the old earl. After her stepfather’s death, his father had made clear to Anna how much he resented her presence in his home. Caring for Madeline had been the one bright spot in Anna’s life—yet even that had been used against her. She pushed away the unpleasant memories.
Undone by the Earl Page 4
