Cold-Hearted Rake Read online

  At Bloom’s direction, Kathleen grasped the lead rope under Asad’s chin and guided him to take a step forward and then a step back.

  “Again,” Bloom said approvingly. “Back’ard and for’ard, and again.”

  Asad was perplexed but willing, moving back and forth easily, almost as if he were learning to dance.

  “Well done, lass,” Bloom praised, so involved in the training that he forgot to address Kathleen by her title. “Now tha’s taking up all his thoughts and leaving no room for fear.” He placed a crop in Kathleen’s left hand. “This is for tha to tap his side if need be.” Standing by Asad’s side, he began to unfold a black umbrella. The horse started and nickered, instinctively cringing away from the unfamiliar object. “This umbrolly scares tha a bit, lad, doesn’t it?” He closed and opened the umbrella repeatedly, while telling Kathleen, “Make the task tha’s given him more important than the thing that scares him.”

  Kathleen continued to move Asad in the back-and-forth step, distracting him from the threatening movement of the billowing black object. When he tried to swing his hindquarters away, she tapped him back into place with a touch of the crop, not allowing him to put distance between himself and the umbrella. Although Asad was clearly uneasy, his ears swiveling in every direction, he did exactly as she commanded. His hide twitched nervously at the umbrella’s proximity… but he didn’t shy away.

  When Bloom finally closed the umbrella, Kathleen grinned and patted Asad’s neck with affectionate pride. “Good boy,” she exclaimed. “You’re a fast learner, aren’t you?” She took a carrot stub from the pocket of her skirt and gave it to him. Asad accepted the treat, crunching noisily.

  “Next we’ll try it as tha rides him —” Bloom began.

  He was interrupted by a stable boy, Freddie, who hadn’t yet reached his teenage years. “Mr. Bloom,” the boy said breathlessly, hurrying up to the paddock railing, “The head groom bade me tell you that Mr. Ravenel has come to the stables for his mount.”

  “Aye, I told the lads to saddle Royal.”

  Freddie’s small face was pinched with anxiety. “There’s a problem, sir. Mr. Ravenel is the worse for drink and isn’t fit to ride, but he ordered them to bring the horse to him. The head groom tried to refuse, but the land agent, Mr. Carlow, is there as well, and he said to give Royal to Mr. Ravenel because they’re supposed to ride out to a tenant farm.”

  Once again, Kathleen thought in panicked fury, a drunken Ravenel was going to try to ride a horse from the stables.

  Wordlessly she climbed through the paddock rails, in too much of a hurry to bother with the gate. She grabbed handfuls of her riding skirt and ran to the stables, ignoring the sound of Bloom calling after her.

  As soon as she entered the building, she saw West gesturing angrily at the head groom, John, whose face was averted. The land agent, Carlow, stood by looking impatient and embarrassed. Carlow, a portly middle-aged man who resided in town, had been employed by Theo’s family for more than a decade. It would be his job to escort West to the tenant farms.

  One glance was all Kathleen needed to take stock of the situation. West was red-faced and sweating, his eyes bloodshot, and he was swaying on his feet.

  “I’m the one to judge my capabilities,” West was saying belligerently. “I’ve ridden in far worse condition than this – and I’ll be damned if —”

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Kathleen interrupted, her heart hammering. Without warning, the image of Theo’s stricken face appeared in her mind… the way he had looked at her, his eyes like cooling embers as the last seconds of his life had ticked away. She blinked hard, the memory vanishing. The reek of alcohol drifted to her nostrils, provoking a touch of nausea.

  “Lady Trenear,” the land agent exclaimed with relief. “Perhaps you would be able to talk sense into this half-wit.”

  “Indeed.” Without expression, she took hold of West’s arm, digging her fingers in as she felt him resist. “Come outside with me, Mr. Ravenel.”

  “My lady,” the land agent said uncomfortably, “I was referring to the head groom —”

  “John is not the half-wit,” Kathleen said curtly. “As for you, Carlow… you may attend to your other responsibilities. Mr. Ravenel will be indisposed for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “What the devil is going on?” West spluttered as Kathleen towed him outside and around to the side of the stables. “I dressed and came to the stables at the crack of dawn —”

  “The crack of dawn was four hours ago.”

  When they had reached a relatively secluded place behind an equipment shed, West shook his arm free of Kathleen’s grip and glared at her. “What is the matter?”

  “You stink of spirits.”

  “I always begin the day with brandied coffee.”

  “How do you expect to ride when you’re not steady on your feet?”

  “The same way I always ride – badly. Your concern for my welfare is misplaced.”

  “My concern is not for your welfare. It’s for the horse you intended to ride, and the tenants you’re supposed to visit. They have enough hardship to contend with – they don’t need to be subjected to the company of a drunken fool.”

  West gave her a baleful glance. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t you dare take one step away.” Discovering that she was still clutching the riding crop, Kathleen brandished it meaningfully. “Or I’ll thrash you.”

  West’s incredulous gaze went to the crop. With startling speed, he reached out and wrenched the crop from her, and tossed it to the ground. The effect was ruined, however, as he staggered to regain his balance. “Go on and say your piece,” he snapped.

  Kathleen folded her arms across her chest. “Why did you bother coming to Hampshire?”

  “I’m here to help my brother.”

  “You aren’t helping anyone,” she cried with incredulous disgust. “Do you understand anything about the burden that Lord Trenear has taken on? About how high the stakes are? If he fails and the estate is divided and sold, what do you think will happen to these people? Two hundred families cut adrift with no means of supporting themselves. And fifty servants, most of whom have spent their entire lives serving the Ravenels.”

  As she saw that he wasn’t even looking at her, she took a quivering breath, trying to contain her fury. “Everyone on this estate is struggling to survive – and we’re all depending on your brother, who’s trying to solve problems that he had no hand in creating. But instead of doing something to help, you’ve chosen to drink yourself silly and totter around like a selfish lumping idiot —”

  Her throat worked around an angry sob, and she swallowed it down before continuing quietly. “Go back to London. You’re of no use to anyone here. Blame me if you like. Tell Lord Trenear that I was too much of a bitch to tolerate. He’ll have no difficulty accepting that.”

  Turning, she walked away from him, throwing a few last words over her shoulder. “Perhaps someday you’ll find someone who can save you from your excesses. Personally, I don’t believe you’re worth the effort.”

  Chapter 9

  T

  o Kathleen’s surprise, West didn’t leave. He returned to the house and went to his room. At least, she thought darkly, he’d made no further attempt to mount a horse while he was drunk, which she supposed put him above her late husband in terms of intelligence.

  For the rest of the day, West kept to his room, presumably sleeping, although it was possible he was continuing to pickle himself in strong spirits. He didn’t come downstairs for dinner, only requested that a tray be brought up to him.

  In response to the girls’ concerned inquiries, Kathleen said curtly that their cousin had been taken ill, and would probably return to London in the morning. When Pandora opened her mouth to ask questions, it was Helen who quelled her with a quiet murmur. Kathleen sent her a grateful glance. As unworldly as Helen might be, she was quite familiar with the kind of man who drank to excess and lost his head
.

  At daybreak, when Kathleen went down to the breakfast room, she was shocked to find West sitting at one of the round tables, staring morosely into the depths of a teacup. He looked ghastly, the skin under his eyes pleated, his complexion pallid and damp.

  “Good morning,” Kathleen murmured, taken aback. “Are you ill?”

  He gave her a bleary glance, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed in his gray complexion. “Only if one considers sobriety to be an illness. Which I do.”

  Kathleen went to the sideboard, took up a pair of silver tongs, and began to heap bacon on a piece of toast. She placed another piece of toast on top, cut the sandwich neatly in two, and brought the plate to West. “Eat this,” she said. “Lord Berwick always said that a bacon sandwich was the best cure for the morning after.”

  He regarded the offering with loathing, but picked up a piece and bit into it while Kathleen made herself breakfast.

  Sitting next to him, Kathleen asked quietly, “Shall I have the carriage readied in time for you to catch the late morning train?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t be that fortunate.” West took a swallow of tea. “I can’t go back to London. I have to stay in Hampshire until I’ve met with all the tenants I had planned to visit.”

  “Mr. Ravenel —”

  “I have to,” he said doggedly. “My brother never asks anything of me. Which is why I’ll do this even if it kills me.”

  Kathleen glanced at him in surprise. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “Shall we send for Mr. Carlow to accompany you?”

  “I rather hoped that you would go with me.” Seeing her expression, West added warily, “Only for today.”

  “Mr. Carlow is far more familiar with the tenants and their situations —”

  “His presence may prove to be inhibiting. I want them to speak to me frankly.” He glared at his plate. “Not that I expect more than a half-dozen words from any of them. I know what that sort thinks of me: a city toff. A great useless peacock who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life.”

  “I don’t think they’ll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you’re not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty.”

  “I have no talent for sincerity,” West muttered.

  “It’s not a talent,” Kathleen said. “It’s a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.”

  “Please,” West said tersely. “I’m already nauseous.” Scowling, he took another bite of the bacon sandwich.

  Kathleen was pleased to see that despite West’s expectation of being treated with insolence, if not outright contempt, by the tenants, the first one he encountered was quite cordial.

  George Strickland was a middle-aged man, stocky and muscular, with kind eyes set in a large square face. His land, which he farmed with the help of three sons, was a smallholding of approximately sixty acres. Kathleen and West met him at his cottage, a ramshackle structure propped next to a large barn, where corn was threshed and stored. Livestock were kept in a tumbledown collection of sheds that had been built without plan, placed with apparent randomness around a yard where manure was liquefied by water running from unspouted roofs.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” the tenant farmer said, gripping his hat in his hands. “I’m wondering if you and the good lady would mind just walking a piece with me into the field. We could talk while I work. The oats have to be cut and brought in before the rain comes back.”

  “What if they’re not harvested in time?” West asked.

  “Too much grain will shed on the ground,” Strickland replied. “Once the grain is good and plump, even a gust of high wind could shake it loose from the chaff. We’d lose as much as a third.”

  As West glanced at Kathleen, she nodded slightly to convey her willingness. They walked out into the field, where the feathery tops of the gold-green oats grew as tall as West’s shoulder. Kathleen enjoyed the dusty-sweet smell of the air as a pair of men mowed through the crop with wickedly sharp scythes. A pair of gatherers followed to bind cut stalks into sheaves. After that, bandsters tied the sheaves into stooks, and a young boy cleared loose straw with stubble rakes.

  “How much can a man cut in a day?” West asked, while Strickland squatted to deftly bind a sheaf.

  “The best scytheman I’ve seen can cut two acres in a day. But that’s oats, which is faster than other grain.”

  West glanced at the laborers speculatively. “What if you had a reaping machine?”

  “The kind with a binder attachment?” Strickland removed his hat and scratched his head. “A dozen acres or more, I’d reckon.”

  “In one day? And how many laborers would you need to operate it?”

  “Two men and a horse.”

  “Two men producing at least six times the result?” West looked incredulous. “Why don’t you buy a mechanical reaper?”

  Strickland snorted. “Because it would cost twenty-five pounds or more.”

  “But it would pay for itself before long.”

  “I can’t afford horses and a machine, and I couldn’t do without a horse.”

  Frowning, West watched as Strickland finished tying a sheaf. “I’ll help you catch up with the mowers if you’ll show me how to do that.”

  The farmer glanced at West’s tailored clothes. “You’re not dressed for field work, sir.”

  “I insist,” West said, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Kathleen. “With any luck, I’ll develop a callus to show people afterward.” He squatted beside Strickland, who showed him how to cinch a band around the top of the straw. Just under the grain and not too tight, the farmer cautioned, so that when sheaves were stood on end and bound together, there was enough room between stalks to allow air to circulate and dry the grain faster.

  Although Kathleen had expected West to tire quickly of the novelty, he was persistent and diligent, gradually gaining competence. As they worked, West asked questions about drainage and planting, and Strickland answered in detail.

  It was unexpected, the way West’s politeness seemed to have transformed into genuine interest in the process taking place before him. Kathleen watched him thoughtfully, finding it difficult to reconcile the drunken lout of yesterday with this attentive, engaging stranger. One would almost think he gave a damn about the estate and its tenants.

  At the end of the row, West stood, dusted his hands, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face.

  Strickland blotted his own brow with his sleeve. “Next I could show you how to mow,” he offered cheerfully.

  “Thank you, no,” West replied with a rueful grin, looking so much like Devon that Kathleen felt a quick pang of recognition. “I’m sure I shouldn’t be trusted with a sharp blade.” Surveying the field speculatively, he asked, “Have you ever considered dairying, Mr. Strickland?”

  “No, sir,” the tenant said firmly. “Even with lower yields, there’s still more profit in grain than milk or meat. There’s a saying about the market: ‘Down horn, up corn.’”

  “Perhaps that’s true for now,” West said, thinking out loud. “But with all the people moving to factory towns, the demand for milk and meat will rise, and then —”

  “No dairying.” Strickland’s tentative friendliness faded. “Not for me.”

  Kathleen went to West, giving him his jacket. She touched his arm lightly to gain his attention. “I believe Mr. Strickland fears you may be trying to avoid paying for the drainage work,” she murmured.

  West’s face cleared instantly as he understood. “No,” he said to the farmer, “you’ll have the improvements as promised. In fact, Lord Trenear has no choice in the matter: It’s his legal obligation.”

  Strickland looked skeptical. “Beg pardon, sir, but after so many broken promises, it’s hard to put faith in another one.”

  West was silent for a moment, contemplating the man’s troubled expression. “You have my word,” he said in a way that left no room for doubt.
And he extended his hand.

  Kathleen stared at him in surprise. A handshake was only exchanged between close friends, or on an occasion of great significance, and then only between gentlemen of similar rank. After a hesitation, however, Strickland reached out and took West’s hand, and they exchanged a hearty shake.

  “That was well done of you,” Kathleen told West as they rode along the unpaved farm road. She was impressed by the way he had handled himself and addressed Strickland’s concerns. “It was clever of you to put him at ease by trying your hand at field work.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be clever.” West seemed preoccupied. “I wanted to gain information.”

  “And so you did.”