Cold-Hearted Rake Read online

  He would have to hire men whom he could trust to manage the situation on his terms, but it would take time to find them. Totthill was too old and stubbornly traditional, and so was Carlow, the land agent who worked for him. Replacements were immediately necessary, but throughout England there were only a handful of men equipped for estate administration.

  That very morning, Devon had sunk into despair, brooding over his mistake in taking on such a burden. But then Kathleen’s letter had arrived, and that had been enough to bolster his resolve.

  Anything was worth having her. Anything.

  He couldn’t explain his obsession with her, even to himself. But it seemed as if it had always been there, woven through the fabric of his being, waiting to be discovered.

  “What will you do?” he heard West ask.

  “First I’ll ask Totthill what he knows about the borrowed funds. Since he probably won’t have a satisfactory answer, I’ll have to go through the account ledgers to find out what happened. In either event, I’ll tell the land steward to estimate what it will take to make the land improvements.”

  “I don’t envy you,” West said casually, and paused. His tone changed, sharpening. “Nor do I understand you. Sell the damned estate, Devon. You owe nothing to those people. Eversby Priory isn’t your birthright.”

  Devon sent him a sardonic glance. “Then how did I end up with it?”

  “By bloody accident!”

  “Regardless, it’s mine. Now leave, before I flatten your skull with one of these ledgers.”

  But West stood unmoving, pinning him with a baleful stare. “Why is this happening? What has changed you?”

  Exasperated, Devon rubbed the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t slept well for weeks, and his cookmaid had brought him only burned bacon and weak tea for breakfast. “Did you think that we were going to go through life completely unaltered?” he asked. “That we would occupy ourselves with nothing but selfish pleasures and trivial amusements?”

  “I was counting on it!”

  “Well, the unexpected happened. Don’t trouble yourself over it; I’ve asked nothing of you.”

  West’s aggression weathered down to a core of resentment. He approached the desk, turned, and hoisted himself up with effort to sit next to Devon. “Maybe you should, you stupid bastard.”

  They sat side by side. In the hard-scoured silence, Devon contemplated his brother’s blurred and puffy countenance, the flesh beneath his chin loosening. Alcohol had begun to crosshatch a pattern of threadlike capillaries across his cheeks. It was difficult to reconcile the disenchanted man beside him with the laughing, high-spirited boy West had once been.

  It occurred to Devon that in his determination to save the estate, the tenants, servants, and Theo’s sisters, he had overlooked the fact that his own brother could do with some saving as well. West had always been so clever that Devon had assumed he could take care of himself. But the cleverest people sometimes caused the worst trouble for themselves.

  It had seemed inevitable that Devon and West would turn out to be selfish wastrels. After their father had died in a brawl, their mother had left them at boarding school while she had traveled the continent. She had fluttered from affair to affair, accumulating heartbreak in small fractures that had eventually proved fatal. Devon had never learned whether she had died from illness or suicide, and he didn’t want to know.

  Devon and West had been shuttled between schools and relations’ homes, insisting on remaining together no matter how often people tried to separate them. As Devon reflected on those troubled years, in which each had been the other’s only constant, he realized that he had to include West in his new life – even if he didn’t want to be included. The strength of their bond would not allow one of them to move in any direction without pulling the other inexorably along.

  “I need your help, West,” he said quietly.

  His brother took his time about replying. “What would you have me do?”

  “Go to Eversby Priory.”

  “You would trust me around the cousins?” West asked sullenly.

  “I have no choice. Besides, you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them when we were there.”

  “There’s no sport in seducing innocents. Too easy.” West folded his arms across his chest. “What is the point of sending me to Eversby?”

  “I need you to manage the tenants’ drainage issues. Meet with each one individually. Find out what was promised, and what has to be done —”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that would require me to visit farms and discuss weather and livestock. As you know, I have no interest in animals unless they’re served with port wine sauce and a side of potatoes.”

  “Go to Hampshire,” Devon said curtly. “Meet with the farmers, listen to their problems, and if you can manage it, fake some empathy. Afterward I want a report and a list of recommendations on how to improve the estate.”

  Muttering in disgust, West stood and tugged at his wrinkled waistcoat. “My only recommendation for your estate,” he said as he left the room, “is to get rid of it.”

  Chapter 8

  Madam,

  My sincere thanks for your offer to speak to the tenants regarding the drainage issues. However, since you are already burdened with many demands, I have sent my brother, Weston, to handle the problem. He will arrive at Eversby Priory on Wednesday, and stay for a fortnight. I have lectured him at length about gentlemanly conduct. If he causes you a moment’s distress, wire me and it will be resolved immediately.

  My brother will arrive at the Alton rail station at noon on Saturday. I do hope you’ll send someone to collect him, since I feel certain no one else will want him.

  Trenear

  P.S. Did you really dye the shawl black?

  My Lord,

  Amid the daily tumult of construction, which is louder than an army corps of drums, your brother’s presence will likely go unnoticed.

  We will fetch him on Wednesday.

  Lady Trenear

  In response to Kathleen’s letter, a telegram was delivered from the village post office on the morning of West’s scheduled arrival.

  Madam,

  You won’t be in mourning forever.

  Trenear

  Smiling absently, Kathleen set down the letter. She caught herself wishing, just for a moment, that Devon were coming to Hampshire instead of his brother. She scolded herself for the ridiculous thought. Sternly she reminded herself of how he had distressed and unnerved her. Not to mention the cacophony of plumbing installation that plagued her daily, at his insistence. And she would not overlook the way he had forced her to take down the mourning curtains – although privately she had to admit that everyone in the household, including the servants, took pleasure in the brightened rooms and unencumbered windows.

  No, she didn’t want to see Devon. Not in the least. She was far too busy to spare a thought for him, or to ponder what the dark, clear blue shade of his eyes reminded her of… Bristol glass, perhaps… and she had already forgotten the feel of his hard arms around her and the rasp of his whisper in her ear… I have you… and that shiver-inducing scrape of his shaven bristle against her skin.

  She had to wonder at Devon’s reasons for sending his brother to deal with the tenants. Kathleen had seen little of West during their previous visit, but what she had learned had not been promising. West was a drunkard, and would probably be more of a hindrance than a help. However, it was not her place to object. And since West was the next in line for the earldom, he might as well become familiar with the estate.

  The twins and Helen were delighted by the prospect of West’s visit and had made a list of planned outings and activities. “I doubt he will have much time, if any, for amusements,” Kathleen warned them as they all sat in the family parlor with needlework. “Mr. Ravenel is here on a business matter, and the tenants need his attention far more than we do.”

  “But Kathleen,” Cassandra sa
id in concern, “we mustn’t let him work himself into exhaustion.”

  Kathleen burst out laughing. “Darling, I doubt he’s ever worked a day in his life. Let’s not distract him on his first attempt.”

  “Gentlemen aren’t supposed to work, are they?” Cassandra asked.

  “Not really,” Kathleen admitted. “Men of nobility usually concern themselves with the management of their lands, or sometimes they dabble in politics.” Kathleen paused. “However, I think even a common workingman could be called a gentleman, if he is honorable and kind.”

  “I agree,” Helen said.

  “I wouldn’t mind working,” Pandora announced. “I could be a telegraph girl, or own a bookshop.”

  “You could make hats,” Cassandra suggested sweetly, arranging her features in a horrid cross-eyed grimace, “and go mad.”

  Pandora grinned. “People will watch me running in circles and flapping my arms, and they’ll say, ‘Oh, dear, Pandora’s a chicken today.’”

  “And then I’ll remind them that you behaved that way before you ever started making hats,” Helen said serenely, her eyes twinkling.

  Chuckling, Pandora plied her needle to mend a loose seam. “I shouldn’t like to work if it ever prevented me from doing exactly what I wished.”

  “When you’re the lady of a great household,” Kathleen said in amusement, “you’ll have responsibilities that will occupy most of your time.”

  “Then I won’t be the lady of a great household. I’ll live with Cassandra after she marries. Unless her husband forbids it, of course.”

  “You silly,” Cassandra told her twin. “I would never marry a man who would keep us apart.”

  Finishing the seam of a detachable white cuff, Pandora began to set it aside, and huffed as her skirt was tugged. “Fiddlesticks. Who has the scissors? I’ve sewed the mending to my dress again.”

  West arrived in the afternoon, accompanied by an unwieldy assortment of luggage, including a massive steamer trunk that two footmen struggled to carry upstairs. Somewhat to Kathleen’s dismay, all three Ravenel sisters greeted him as if he were a returning war hero. Reaching into a leather Gladstone bag, West began to hand out cunning parcels wrapped in delicate layers of paper and tied with matching ribbon as narrow as twine.

  Noticing the little tags, each stamped with an ornate letter W, Helen asked, “What does this mean?”

  West smiled indulgently. “That shows that it’s from Winterborne’s department store, where I shopped yesterday afternoon – I couldn’t visit my little cousins empty-handed, could I?”

  To Kathleen’s dismay, any semblance of ladylike decorum fled. The twins erupted in screams of delight and began to dance around him right there in the entrance hall. Even Helen was pink-cheeked and breathless.

  “That will do, girls,” Kathleen finally said, struggling to keep her expression neutral. “There’s no need to hop about like demented rabbits.”

  Pandora had already begun to rip one of the parcels open.

  “Save the paper!” Helen cried. She brought one of the parcels to Kathleen, lifting one of the layers of paper. “Just see, Kathleen, how thin and fine it is.”

  “Gloves!” Pandora shouted, having unwrapped a parcel. “Oh, look, they’re so stylish, I want to die.” She held them against her chest. The wrist-length kid gloves had been tinted a soft pink.

  “Colored gloves are all the rage this year,” West said. “Or so the girl at the department store counter said. There’s a pair for each of you.” He grinned at Kathleen’s obvious disapproval, his gray eyes glinting with mischief. “Cousins,” he said, as if that could explain away such unseemly gifts.

  Kathleen narrowed her eyes. “My dears,” she said calmly, “why don’t you open your parcels in the receiving room?”

  Chattering and squealing, the sisters hurried into the receiving room and piled the gifts on a satinwood table. They opened each parcel with scrupulous care, unfolding the gift tissue and smoothing each piece before placing it on an accumulating stack that resembled the froth of freshly poured milk.

  There were more gloves, dyed in delicate shades of violet and aqua… tins of sweets… pleated paper fans with gold and silver embossing… novels and a book of poetry, and bottles of flower water to be used for the complexion or the bath, or sprinkled on the bed pillows. Although none of it was appropriate, except perhaps the books, Kathleen couldn’t find it in her heart to object. The girls had long been deprived of small luxuries.

  She knew that Theo would never have thought of bringing gifts home for his sisters. And despite the family’s relative proximity to London, the girls had never been to Winterborne’s. Neither had Kathleen, since Lady Berwick had disliked the notion of rubbing elbows in a large store crowded with people from all walks of life. She had insisted instead on frequenting tiny, exclusive shops, where merchandise was kept discreetly out of sight rather than spread willy-nilly over the counters.

  Stealing glances at West, Kathleen was disconcerted by the flashes of resemblance he bore to his older brother, the same dark hair and assertive bone structure. But Devon’s striking good looks were marred in his brother, whose features were ruddy and soft with dissipation. West was nothing if not well-groomed – in fact, he dressed too lavishly for Kathleen’s taste, wearing an embroidered silk waistcoat and jaunty patterned necktie, and gold cuff links set with what were either garnets or rubies. Even now at midday, he smelled strongly of liquor.

  “You may not want to glare at me quite so fiercely,” West murmured to Kathleen sotto voce, as the sisters gathered up their gifts and carried them from the room. “It would distress the girls if they were to realize how much you dislike me.”

  “I disapprove of you,” she replied gravely, walking out to the grand staircase with him. “That’s not the same as dislike.”

  “Lady Trenear, I disapprove of me.” He grinned at her. “So we have something in common.”

  “Mr. Ravenel, if you —”

  “Mightn’t we call each other cousin?”

  “No. Mr. Ravenel, if you are to spend a fortnight here, you will conduct yourself like a gentleman, or I will have you forcibly taken to Alton and tossed onto the first railway car that stops at the station.”

  West blinked and looked at her, clearly wondering if she was serious.

  “Those girls are the most important thing in the world to me,” Kathleen said. “I will not allow them to be harmed.”

  “I have no intention of harming anyone,” West said, offended. “I’m here at the earl’s behest to talk to a set of clodhoppers about their turnip planting. As soon as that’s concluded, I can promise you that I’ll return to London with all possible haste.”

  Clodhoppers? Kathleen drew in a sharp breath, thinking of the tenant families and the way they worked and persevered and endured the hardships of farming… all to put food on the table of men such as this, who looked down his nose at them.

  “The families who live here,” she managed to say, “are worthy of your respect. Generations of tenant farmers built this estate – and precious little reward they’ve received in return. Go into their cottages, and see the conditions in which they live, and contrast it with your own circumstances. And then perhaps you might ask yourself if you’re worthy of their respect.”

  “Good God,” West muttered, “my brother was right. You do have the temperament of a baited badger.”

  They exchanged glances of mutual loathing and walked away from each other.

  Fortunately the girls kept the conversation cheerful at dinner. Only Helen seemed to notice the bitter tension between Kathleen and West, sending Kathleen discreet glances of concern. With each course, West asked for new wine, obliging the underbutler to fetch bottle after bottle from the cellar. Fuming at his wastefulness, Kathleen bit her tongue to keep from commenting as he became increasingly soused. At the conclusion of the meal, Kathleen ushered the girls upstairs, leaving West alone at the table with a bottle of port.

  In the morning Kathleen ros
e early, dressed in her riding habit, and went out to the stable as usual. With the assistance of Mr. Bloom, the stable master, she was training Asad to resist shying at objects that frightened him. Bloom accompanied her out to the paddock as she led Asad with a special training halter.

  Kathleen had quickly come to value Bloom’s advice. He did not believe that physically restraining a horse, especially an Arabian, was the right way to help him overcome his fear. “Tha would only break his spirit, binding him up like a fly in a spider’s web. ’Appen he’ll take his reassurance from thee, milady. He’ll trust tha to keep him safe and know what’s best for him.”