Marrying Winterborne Page 13

  “She wasn’t seeking scandal,” Kathleen countered reasonably. “She went to . . . well, to reclaim her fiancé. And one must view the situation in balance; it’s not fair to blame him entirely.”

  His brows lifted. “Why are you taking Winterborne’s side, when you’ve been against the match from the beginning?”

  “Because of Helen,” she admitted. “I knew she would do anything for the good of the family, even marry a man she didn’t love. I also knew that Mr. Winterborne intimidated her. But that’s changed. I believe she truly wants him now. She’s no longer afraid of him. The way she stood her ground with him this evening altered my opinion of the match entirely. If this is what she wants, I will support her.”

  “I can’t overlook Winterborne’s actions,” Devon grumbled. “Out of regard for me, if for no other reason, he shouldn’t have taken the innocence of a young woman under my protection. It’s a matter of respect.”

  Kathleen hoisted herself more fully over him, staring down into his blue eyes. “This,” she mocked gently, “from a man who seduced me in nearly every room, stairwell and hay-nook of Eversby Priory. Where was your regard for innocence then?”

  His frown disappeared. “That was different.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  Devon flipped her over, reversing their positions neatly and surprising a giggle from her. “Because,” he said huskily, “I wanted you so much . . .”

  She writhed and laughed as he unfastened her nightgown.

  “. . . and as lord of the manor,” he continued, proceeding to strip her naked, “I thought it was time to exercise my droit de seigneur.”

  “As if I were some medieval peasant girl?” she asked, shoving him onto his back and climbing over him.

  Grabbing his marauding hands, she tried to pin him down with her entire weight.

  A deep laugh escaped him. “Love, that won’t work. You’re no heavier than a butterfly.” Clearly enjoying their play, he lay unresisting as she gripped his thick wrists more tightly. “A determined butterfly,” he conceded. As he stared up at her, his smile faded, and his eyes darkened to intense blue. “I was a selfish bastard,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have seduced you.”

  “I was willing,” Kathleen pointed out, inwardly surprised by his remorse. He was changing, she thought, rapidly gaining maturity as he shouldered the responsibilities that had been forced on him so unexpectedly.

  “I would do it differently now. Forgive me.” He paused, frowning in self-reproach. “I wasn’t raised to be honorable. It’s damned difficult to learn.”

  Kathleen slid her hands over his until their fingers interlaced. “There’s nothing to forgive, or regret.”

  Devon shook his head, not allowing her to absolve him. “Tell me how to atone.”

  She bent to brush her lips against his. “Love me,” she whispered.

  With great care, Devon rolled until she was caught beneath him. “Always,” he said huskily, and possessed her mouth while his hands slid over her body. He made love to her slowly, with exquisite skill. Long after he’d made her ready for him, he finally nudged her thighs apart and eased inside. She wriggled in frustration as he refused to press deeper, no matter how she tried to urge him.

  “Devon . . .” Her breath came in little flurries. “I need more.”

  “More of what?” His mouth drifted to the base of her throat.

  She scowled and squirmed. “Oh I hate it when you tease me!”

  He smiled. “Almost as much as you love it.” Relenting, he slid an inch forward.

  “Deeper,” she gasped. “Please, Devon—”

  “Like this?” he asked gently.

  Kathleen arched beneath him, her lips parted in a silent cry as he took her with fierce, tender urgency, loving her body and soul.

  “FERNSBY,” RHYS CALLED out, frowning as he sorted through the sheaf of papers on his desk with a frown.

  The private secretary appeared promptly at the threshold of his open door. “Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”

  “Come in.” He straightened the paper into a neat stack, replaced it in a cardboard file envelope, and tied the attached string around it. “I’ve just looked through the documents sent by Mr. Severin’s office.” He handed her the envelope.

  “The ones pertaining to the block of residential buildings near King’s Cross?”

  “Aye. Deeds, mortgages, contractor’s agreements, and so forth.” He gave her a dark glance. “But there’s not one piece of paper in that entire file that bears the owner’s name. Severin knows better than to expect me to buy property without knowing who’s selling it.”

  “I would have thought it was legally required for the owner’s name to be listed.”

  “There are ways around it.” Rhys nodded toward the file in Fernsby’s hands. “The mortgage wasn’t financed by a bank, but through a loan from a cooperative building society. According to the deed, the property is owned by a private investment company. I’d bet a hundred pounds that it’s being held in trust for an unnamed party.”

  “Why would someone go to such trouble instead of buying it in his own name?”

  “In the past, I’ve bought property anonymously to keep the asking price from going through the roof when they hear my name. And I have business adversaries who would enjoy putting me in my place now and then, by denying me something I want. Likely this man’s reasons are similar. But I want his name.”

  “Would Mr. Severin be willing to tell you, if you asked him directly?”

  Rhys shook his head. “He would have told me already. I suspect he knows it would ruin the deal if I found out.”

  “Shall I give this information to the same man we hired to research the canning factory purchase?”

  “Aye, he’ll do.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away. Also, Doctor Havelock is waiting to have a word with you.”

  Rhys rolled his eyes impatiently. “Tell him my shoulder is as good as—”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your shoulder,” came a gravelly voice from the threshold. “I’ve come about a more important matter.”

  The speaker was Dr. William Havelock, formerly the private physician to a handful of privileged London families. He had also been a medical journalist with progressive views, writing about poor-law medicine and public health issues. Eventually his wealthy patients had been irked by the political debates he had stirred up, and had turned to other, less controversial practitioners.

  Rhys had hired Havelock ten years ago, ever since the store had first broken ground on Cork Street. It had made sense to hire a permanent staff doctor to take care of his employees, keeping them healthy and productive.

  The middle-aged widower was a fit, sturdy man with a lionesque head, a shock of snow-white hair, and eyes that had seen humanity at its highest and lowest. His craggy face was routinely set in truculent lines, but when he was with his patients, his features softened with a grandfatherly kindness that immediately earned their trust.

  “Dr. Havelock,” Mrs. Fernsby said with a touch of annoyance, “I asked you to wait in the visitors’ foyer.”

  “Winterborne doesn’t mind interfering with my schedule,” he said testily, “so I’ve decided to interfere with his.”

  They exchanged narrow-eyed glances.

  More than a few employees had speculated that beneath the habitual antagonism between Havelock and Mrs. Fernsby, the two were secretly attracted to each other. Seeing the pair at this moment, Rhys was inclined to believe the rumor.

  “Good morning, Havelock,” Rhys said. “How have I interfered with your schedule?”

  “By foisting an unexpected visitor on me during a day when I have at least a dozen patients to attend to.”

  Rhys sent Mrs. Fernsby a questioning glance.

  “He’s referring to Dr. Gibson,” she told him. “I interviewed her as you asked. Having found her both qualified and agreeable, I sent her to Dr. Havelock.”

  Havelock asked brusquely, “How can you judge her qu
alifications, Fernsby?”

  “She has a medical degree with honors and top prizes,” Mrs. Fernsby retorted.

  “From France,” Havelock said with a slight sneer.

  “Considering how English doctors failed to save my poor husband,” Mrs. Fernsby snapped, “I would take a French doctor any day.”

  Before the argument could develop into a full-fledged brawl, Rhys interceded quickly. “Come in, Havelock, and we’ll discuss Dr. Gibson.”

  The physician entered the office, saying pointedly as he passed the secretary, “I would like some tea, Fernsby.”

  “That’s Mrs. Fernsby to you. And you may find all the tea you want at the staff canteen.”

  Pausing, Havelock turned to give her an offended glance. “Why can he call you Fernsby?”

  “Because he is Mr. Winterborne, and you are not.” Mrs. Fernsby focused her attention on Rhys. “Sir, would you care for some tea? If so, I suppose I could place an extra cup on the tray for Dr. Havelock.”

  Rhys struggled to conceal his amusement before replying blandly, “I believe I would. Thank you, Fernsby.”

  After the secretary had left the office, Rhys said to Havelock, “I made it clear to Dr. Gibson that her hiring was subject to your approval.”

  A scowl divided the older man’s forehead into a ladder of ridges. “She informed me it was a fait accompli, the presumptuous chit.”

  “You did say last month that you needed an assistant, aye?”

  “One of my choosing, since I’m the one who will be called upon to train and guide him.”

  “Do you doubt her proficiency?” Rhys asked.

  Havelock could have destroyed Garrett Gibson’s incipient career with a simple “yes.” However, he was too honest to take that route. “Had any man come to me with her qualifications, I would have hired him on the spot. But a woman? There’s too much prejudice to overcome. Even the female patients will prefer a male doctor.”

  “At first. Until they become accustomed to the idea.” Seeing the objection on the older man’s face, Rhys continued with a hint of amused chiding, “Havelock, I employ hundreds of hardworking women who demonstrate their skill every day. Recently I promoted a salesgirl to manager of her department, and her performance has been equal to that of any man at her level. And obviously Fernsby’s abilities are beyond question. I’m not a radical, Havelock; these are facts. Therefore, as men of reason, let’s give Dr. Gibson a chance to prove herself.”

  Havelock reached up to tug fractiously at a lock of white hair as he considered the situation. “I’ve fought enough battles for one lifetime. I have no desire to take part in women’s struggles against injustice.”

  Rhys smiled, his gaze unrelenting.

  The doctor let out a sighing groan, acknowledging that he was being given no choice in the matter. “Damn you, Winterborne.”

  THE DAY WAS bitterly cold, the air laced with frost that stung the nose and chilled the teeth. Helen shivered and gathered her wool half-cape more tightly about her neck, and pressed her numb lips together in a futile effort to warm them.

  According to the rules of mourning, enough time had passed since Theo’s death that the Ravenel sisters could now respectably leave their faces uncovered in public, so long as they wore veils draped down the backs of their hats or bonnets. Helen was grateful that she no longer had to squint through a layer of black crepe.

  The Ravenel family and a handful of servants were about to depart London on a train bound for Hampshire. It seemed to Helen that Waterloo Station, a ten-acre system of sheds filled with a complex web of platforms and additions, could not have been more perfectly designed to cause the maximum amount of confusion for travelers. The volume of travelers practically doubled each year, forcing the station to expand in an ad hoc fashion. To make matters worse, the railway employees often gave contradictory information about where a train would arrive or depart. Porters carried luggage to the wrong trains and guided people to the wrong hackney carriage ranks and booking offices. Passengers seethed and shouted in frustration as they milled inside the open-sided sheds.

  Helen jumped at the sound of a nearby brass orchestra that began to play a regimental march with strident enthusiasm. The first battalion of the Coldstream regiment had been brought down from Chichester, and a crowd had gathered to cheer their arrival.

  Annoyed by the uproar, Devon said to Kathleen, “I’m going to find out where our blasted train is. Don’t move an inch until I return. I’ve already told the footman that any man who approaches you or the girls is to be beaten to a pulp.”

  Looking up at him, Kathleen placed her feet firmly on the planks as if rooting herself.

  Devon shook his head with a reluctant grin. “You don’t look obedient in the least,” he informed her, stroking her cheek with a gloved finger.

  “Am I supposed to?” Kathleen called out as he left.

  “It would be interesting to see at least once,” he retorted over his shoulder without breaking stride.

  Laughing, Kathleen went to stand beside Helen.

  While the wide-eyed twins viewed the procession of Coldstreams, dressed in brilliant scarlet tunics trimmed with gold buttons, Kathleen sobered and glanced at Helen’s subdued expression with concern. “I’m sorry we have to leave London.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Helen said. “I’m perfectly content.”

  It wasn’t true, of course. She was worried about being separated from Rhys for so long. Especially in light of how infuriated he’d been at her refusal to elope. He wasn’t accustomed to waiting or being denied something he wanted.

  Ever since Rhys had left Ravenel House, Helen had written to him daily. In the first letter, she had asked about his health. In the second she had told him about the family’s travel plans, and in the third, she had dared to ask, in a moment of uneasiness and self-doubt, if he regretted their engagement.

  After each of the first two letters, a succinct response, written in a remarkably precise copperplate hand, had arrived within hours. In the first, Rhys had assured her that his shoulder was mending quickly, and in the second, he had thanked her for the information about the Ravenels’ imminent departure.

  But there had been no reply to Helen’s third letter.

  Perhaps he did regret the engagement. Perhaps she had been a disappointment to him. Already.

  To keep from troubling the rest of the family, Helen did her best to conceal her low spirits, but Kathleen was sensitive to her mood.

  “The time will pass quickly,” Kathleen murmured. “You’ll see.”

  Helen managed a strained smile. “Yes.”

  “We would have had to return to the estate even if it weren’t for the situation with Mr. Winterborne. There’s much to be done now that the ground is being prepared for the railway and the quarry, and it can’t all fall to West.”

  “I understand. But . . . I do hope that Cousin Devon will not continue to be severe upon Mr. Winterborne.”

  “He’ll relent soon,” Kathleen assured her. “He’s not trying to be severe, it’s only that you and the twins are under his protection, and he cares very much for you.” After glancing around them, Kathleen lowered her voice. “As I told Devon,” she continued, “it’s hardly a crime for a man to make love to a woman he intends to marry. And he couldn’t argue. But he didn’t like the way Mr. Winterborne manipulated the situation.”

  “Will they become friends again?” Helen dared to ask.

  “They’re still friends, dear. After we’ve settled in and let a few weeks pass, I’ll persuade Devon to invite Mr. Winterborne to Hampshire.”

  Helen clenched her gloved hands together, striving to contain her excitement before she made a spectacle of herself in public. “I would appreciate that.”

  Kathleen’s eyes twinkled. “In the meantime, there will be more than enough to keep you occupied. You must go through the house to choose the things you’ll want to take to London. You’ll want your personal possessions, of course, but also any furniture and
ornaments that will help to make your new home feel snug.”

  “That’s very generous—but I wouldn’t wish to take anything that you might want later.”

  “There are two hundred rooms in Eversby Priory. Scores of them are filled with furniture that no one ever uses and paintings no one ever views. Take whatever you like, it’s your birthright.”

  Helen’s smile faded at that last word.

  Their conversation was drowned out by the roar and blast of a train arriving on the other side of the platform. Smells of metal, coal dust, and steam poured out into the shed, while the wood planks beneath their feet seemed to shake with impatience. Helen shrank back instinctively, even though the locomotive posed no threat. The band continued to play, soldiers marched, and people cheered. Passengers emerged from the railway carriages to be met by porters with barrows, and there was so much calling and shouting that Helen covered her ears with her gloved hands. Kathleen went to gather in the twins as the crowd pressed forward. Bodies moved and collided all around them, while the footman, Peter, did his best to keep the women from being jostled.

  A sharp gust came from the open side of the railway shed, whipping the front of Helen’s half-cape apart. The button of a frog fastening had slipped free of a braided silk loop. Gripping the edges of the cape, Helen turned her back to the wind and fumbled with the loop. Her fingers were so cold they wouldn’t work properly.

  A pair of young women, clutching valises and hatboxes, brushed by her in their haste to leave the platform, and Helen was bumped sideways. Taking an extra step or two to maintain her balance, she collided with a huge, solid form.

  A shocked breath escaped her as she felt a pair of hands steady her.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she gasped, “I—”

  Helen found herself looking up into a pair of midnight eyes. A deep flutter went through her stomach, and her knees weakened.

  “Rhys,” she whispered.

  Wordlessly he reached for the fastening of her cape and hooked the silk loop around the button. He was smartly dressed in a beautiful black wool overcoat and a pearl gray hat. But his civilized attire did nothing to soften the hard-edged tension of a dangerous mood.