Читать книгу Playing the Rake's Game - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Waiting was driving her insane! Emma Ward took yet another long look at the clock on the corner of her desk. He should be here by now, Mr Fifty-One Per Cent. If he was coming. Emma idly shuffled the papers in front of her. They could have been written in Arabic for all she’d been able to focus on them today. Emma left the desk and began to pace, a far better use of her energies than staring at a paper.

Was she technically even waiting? Waiting assumed he was actually coming. What she really wanted to know was at what point could she stop waiting and be confident in the knowledge that he wasn’t coming at all?

Her nerves were a wreck and they had been every mail day since Albert Merrimore’s death. That meant she’d gone through this uncertainty for four months. Was this the day she got the letter saying Merrimore’s cousin was coming? Or worse, would it be the day he actually showed up? Anything could happen. His ship could have been delayed, he could have been personally delayed and that was if he’d decided to come at all. It was just as likely he could have rethought the notion of coming halfway around the world simply to see his property when his profits didn’t depend on whether he saw the place or not. Most gentlemen wouldn’t bestir themselves if it wasn’t required, especially since there was some risk involved. Who was she fooling? Not some risk. A lot of risk, starting with an ocean voyage. Ships went down even in the modern age of steam.

Emma scolded herself for such a morbid thought. It wasn’t that she wished he was dead, merely marooned, her conscience clarified. It was possible his ship could founder and he could float to safety on an overturned table. For four months, she’d got her wish. How much longer before she could safely assume her wish had been granted on a more permanent basis? She didn’t wish Mr Fifty-One Per Cent dead, she just wished he weren’t here.

She had to stop calling him that. He had a name. It had been in the will and a terribly stuffy name at that. Renford Dryden. An old man’s name. But of course, what sort of relations did dear old Merry have if not old ones? Merry had been in his late eighties. A cousin couldn’t be expected to be much younger. Even twenty years younger would put him in his sixties. Which perplexed her further—why a man of advanced years would want to make such a dangerous trip that would only serve to disrupt both of their lives? Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she would be safe on that front at least.

Emma wanted nothing more than to grow her sugar cane in peace and independence without the interference of men. After everything she’d been through, it wasn’t too much to ask. Men had never gone well for her, starting with her father and ending with a debacle of a marriage. The only man who’d done well by her had been old Merry and now she had his relative to contend with. She couldn’t stop him from coming, but she didn’t have to make it easy should that be his choice.

She’d already begun the campaign. She’d not written to him when she could have, explaining the situation when the solicitor had sent word to England. She’d feared a letter would be viewed as a personal invitation, as encouragement to come when that was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t sent the wagon into town on mail day these past months to see if anyone had arrived.

Guilt began to gnaw again. If he had arrived on this packet, she’d left an ageing man to fend for himself in the foreign heat. It was poorly done of her. She should have sent someone into town just to check. That was her conscience talking. She should tell Samuel to get the wagon ready and go to enquire about the mail. Emma glanced again at the clock, the knot in her stomach starting to ease. It was getting late. The threat had almost passed for another two weeks. If he was coming, he would be here by...

‘Miss! Miss!’ Hattie, one of the downstairs maids, rushed into the office, hardly attempting any pretence of decorum in her excitement. ‘It’s him, it’s our Mr Dryden! I’m sure of it. He is coming and that rascal Mr Kitt is with him!’

‘Kitt Sherard? Are you certain?’ What would the local scoundrel of a rum runner have to do with a man in his dotage? Sherard was the last person she’d want Renford Dryden to meet. Emma stopped before the mirror hung over the side table to check her appearance. Sherard was only one step above a pirate. ‘I hope he hasn’t got our guest drunk already.’ Emma muttered, tucking up a few errant stands of hair.

She wanted to make a good impression on all accounts. She had plans for that good impression and Kitt Sherard did not qualify as part of it. Emma was counting on that impression to convince Mr Dryden to sell his interest to her or, at the very least, to sail back to England secure in the knowledge that his money was in good hands, which was mostly true, she was just a bit short on funds right now. The harvest would change that.

She would gladly trade some profits for independence. The autonomy of the last four months had given her a taste of what it would be like to be on her own, to be free. She was loath to relinquish even an iota of that liberty or responsibility.

‘Do I look all right, Hattie?’ Emma smoothed the skirts of her aquamarine gown, one of her favourites. ‘Are they out front?’

‘They’re pulling up just now, miss. You look fine.’ Hattie gave her a saucy wink. ‘After two weeks on a ship, I think anything would look fine to a gent like him.’

Emma gave a dry chuckle. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Hattie.’ Satisfied with her appearance, Emma set out to meet Dryden with a brisk step as if her presence could undo any damage that had already been done. The sooner Dryden was free of Sherard, the better.

She was a little breathless in her eagerness and anxiety by the time she reached the covered porch. This was the moment she both feared and welcomed. At last, the future could begin now that Dryden was here. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, that future would be better than the limbo she’d been living in. If she could manage an entire plantation, she could certainly manage one old man.

The wagon pulled to a halt in front of the steps and she saw the flaw in her hypothesis immediately. Renford Dryden wasn’t an old man, not even a middle-aged one, but an astonishingly handsome young one. The man who jumped down from the wagon seat was certainly able bodied if those wide shoulders and long legs were anything to go on. So much for trying to caution him about the rigours of island life. He certainly looked as if he was up for it and much more.

Emma shot Hattie a sharp look that said: Why didn’t you tell me? But she supposed Hattie had warned her in her own way. She should have known something was amiss the moment Kitt Sherard’s name entered the conversation. Now she saw what it was. Up close, Renford Dryden was six feet plus of muscle topped with thick honey-blond hair and sharp blue eyes set above a strong, straight nose. He mounted the steps, oozing confidence and growing taller with each step he took. Still, he was a man and men could be managed, must be managed.

Emma took a deep breath. She needed to begin as she meant to go on. Men who weren’t managed had run roughshod over her life to date and she was done with them. Emma held out her hand to greet him as if he was precisely what she’d expected. ‘Welcome to Sugarland, Mr Dryden. We are so glad to see you.’ She hoped he couldn’t hear the lie.

His grip was firm as his hand curled around hers, sending a jolt of awareness through her. His eyes riveted on her, making her aware of the male presence of him. Never had a simple handclasp seemed so intimate. ‘I am so very glad to be here, Miss Ward.’ Was that a touch of irony she heard? Did he suspect she hadn’t been entirely truthful?

There was no chance to verify the impression. In the next moment she was very nearly lost. Renford Dryden smiled, dimple and all. It was a most wicked smile that invited the mind to imagine all sorts of pleasantly sinful things without even meaning to. He was that type of man, all charisma. But there was more to him than a charming facade. There was self-assurance and intelligence, too. Those blue eyes were assessing eyes, eyes that took nothing at face value and when they looked at her, they were shrewd and wary. It occurred to her that in these initial moments they were both doing the same thing: measuring the opponent, selecting and discarding strategies.

It didn’t take much guesswork to divine what his strategy would be. It was the strategy of all men when faced with a woman who had something they wanted. Emma stiffened her spine with a stern mental admonition to herself. She would not be wooed into giving up her independence. She had strategies of her own. It was time to teach Mr Dryden it wasn’t easy to run a sugar-cane plantation, time to lead him to the conclusion that his best choice was to leave all this in her capable hands and go back to the life he knew.

She flicked her gaze down the length of him, taking in the cut of his clothes, the expense of the materials. Here was a man of quality, a man used to luxury. Perhaps she could use that against him. Luxuries here were hard won, something men of charisma and charm weren’t used to. Those sorts usually didn’t have to work too hard to get what they wanted, especially when they were endowed with a heavy dose of self-confidence like Mr Dryden. They just smiled. But smiles didn’t harvest crops or pay the bills. Hard work was at the core of everything Sugarland had.

Emma gave him her hostess smile. ‘I have lemonade waiting on the back veranda. We can sit and talk and become acquainted, Mr Dryden.’ And he would learn how different they were and how he didn’t have to be here to reap the benefits Sugarland had to offer.

‘Call me Ren, please. No more of this Mr Dryden business,’ he insisted, stepping aside as two servants came up the stairs with his trunks.

Emma looked past him to the wagon, using the disruption to ignore the request for informality. For now she would resist the temptation. First names were usually the first step in any seduction. ‘Mr Sherard, would you care to join us?’ Politeness required she ask. She hoped Sherard understood politeness also required he refused.

Sherard shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I leave tonight on business and there’s much to be done before I sail. Now that the wagon’s unloaded, I’ll return to town.’ He gave her a strong look that reminded her Sherard was a man with a well-warranted reputation for fierceness. ‘I expect you’ll take good care of my friend, Miss Ward.’ He nodded to Dryden. ‘Ren, I’ll look in on you when I’m back in port.’

Great. The notorious Sherard was on a first-name basis with her guest and now felt he could use that familiarity as a reason to call regularly at her house. Her conscience prodded at her again. The bloody nuisance had been busy today. It probably served her right for stranding Dryden at the docks. She’d left him to his own devices and this was what she got.

Having the new partner befriend Sherard was not what she needed, considering the other rumours swirling about her. Never mind most people didn’t believe the rumours wholesale about her, the mere presence of those rumours was enough to still cast a certain cloud on her reputation. It called attention to her, something no decently bred woman deliberately sought. Nor did Sherard’s presence help her disposition towards her new house guest. Sherard already acted as if Dryden were in charge with his damnable fifty-one per cent, no matter that he technically was. She was the one who’d been here. She’d seen to the planting and nurturing of the crop. If Dryden had been a few days later he would have missed the harvest too. How dare he swoop in here, unannounced, at the last and claim any sort of credit for her labour.

Emma tamped down her roiling emotions and led her guest through the house to the back veranda. She liked that word, ‘guest’. It was precisely how she should think of Dryden. It was a far nicer term than ‘Mr Fifty-One Per Cent’ and, better yet, guests were temporary. She would make sure of it.

* * *

He could stay forever! Ren let the lemonade slide down his throat, cool and wet. He didn’t think anything had ever tasted as welcome, or any breeze had felt as pleasant. Things were definitely looking up. When Kitt had pulled up to Sugarland, Ren had been more than pleasantly surprised with the white-stucco manor house, threats of witches and magic receding. He’d felt an immediate sense of affinity for the place. This was somewhere he could belong, somewhere he could thrive.

Such an intuition was an odd sensation for a man who prided himself on logic, yet Ren couldn’t deny it was there. Possession, pure and primal, had hummed through his blood; his, his, his, it had sung. Then she had appeared at the top of the steps and his blood had hummed a more familiar tune of possession, a lustier tune. It was hard to mind being Trojan Horsed when it looked like Emma Ward. ‘She doesn’t look like a witch,’ he’d murmured to Kitt.

‘They never do.’ Kitt had laughed as he leapt down from the wagon. ‘Witches wouldn’t be nearly as effective if they did.’

But Emma Ward did look like something else just as worrisome and perhaps more real, Ren thought as they sipped their lemonade. Trouble. She had a natural sensuality to her. It was there in the sway of her hips as she led him through the airy halls to the veranda, it was there in her dark hair, in the exotic, catlike tilt of her deep brown eyes. It emanated from her, raw and elemental; a sensuality that coaxed a man to overstep himself if he wasn’t careful.

This woman was no virginal English rose. She was something much better and much worse. Maybe she was a witch, after all. He would have to reserve judgement. Ren raised his glass and stretched out an arm to clink his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to the future, Miss Ward.’

For someone who’d wanted to talk, she was awfully quiet, however. Perhaps he had misunderstood. He took the opportunity to learn a bit more about her. ‘It is Miss Ward, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Miss Ward is fine.’ She supplied the bare basics of an answer and the briefest of smiles. Ren noted that smile didn’t leave her mouth. Her eyes remained politely impassive. Perhaps her coolness was a result of his surprise arrival. She hadn’t known he was coming and she was wary. A stranger had just arrived on her doorstep and announced his intention to live there.

‘I am sure all of this comes as quite a shock...’ Ren began congenially. He fully believed in the old adage that one caught more flies with sugar. It wouldn’t do to put Miss Ward on the defensive without cause. ‘It’s a shock to me as well. Cousin Merrimore didn’t mention anything about you in his papers and here we are, two strangers thrown together by circumstance.’ He gave her a warm smile, the one he reserved for the ton’s stiff-necked matrons, the one that made them melt and relax their standards. It didn’t work.

‘In all fairness, Mr Dryden, I believe I have the upper hand. I knew of you by name. Merry did mention you in the will quite specifically.’

Intriguing. Ren’s critical mind couldn’t overlook the self-incriminating evidence. She’d known of him. She could have contacted him, something his lack of details had prevented him from doing on his end. He could be forgiven for a surprise arrival having no information about who to contact in advance, but she’d known. She’d had the ability to send a letter with the copy of the will. She’d chosen not to.

Ren gave her a wry smile. What would she do if he confronted her? ‘There is that, Miss Ward. You had my name. You were quite aware of my existence and yet you left me to find my own way here in my own time.’ He would have to tread carefully here. It seemed Miss Ward was already on the defensive, a very interesting position for a woman. Given her circumstances, he would have thought she’d be quite glad to see him, to have him remove the burden of running the place alone. The past four months must have been daunting for a woman alone.

She flushed at having been called out. Good. She understood precisely what he was implying, a further sign Miss Ward was an astute opponent. ‘It’s nearly harvest season, Mr Dryden. There’s hardly time for someone to sit for hours at the docks waiting for a ship to come in when it might possibly not and even if it did, it might not carry what you’re waiting for.’

Touché. She had him there. ‘Even for a relative?’ Ren probed. It was a shot in the dark, but he was curious to know how Emma Ward clung to the family tree. Undoubtedly she was more familiar with ‘Merry’ than he was. Where did that familiarity come from? Was she a lover? A mistress? Or merely a distant cousin like himself? Ren had met Cousin Merrimore, as his family called the old man, perhaps three times in his entire life, the last time being eight years ago when he’d finished his studies at Oxford.

Emma Ward gave a short laugh at the reference, but it was not warm. Ren had the distinct impression things were not getting off on the right foot. ‘You and I are not family, Mr Dryden. Merry was my guardian for several years until I attained my majority. After that, he was my friend.’ There was no help for him there. In his experience, ‘friends’ came in multiple varieties, bedfellows included. But if Merrimore had been her guardian, he could assume nothing untoward had followed.

‘Ren, please,’ he suggested again, making the most of the opening the conversation provided. ‘I should like for us to be friends as well.’ If there was any naughty innuendo in his response, he would let her relationship with Merrimore be the measuring stick.

‘We are business partners at present,’ she replied firmly, moving the conversation away from the personal, although there were a host of questions he wanted to ask—how had a confirmed bachelor like his ancient cousin ended up as someone’s guardian? Why hadn’t she left the island? Surely Merrimore would have sent her to London when she came of age?

Those questions would have to wait until she liked him better. It was an unsettling, but not displeasing, discovery to make. In London he was accustomed to making a favourable first impression on women when he had to make one at all. Usually it was the other way around. Women sought to make a good impression on him. Not Emma Ward, however.

Then again, his title didn’t precede him in Barbados. The York heiress had made it abundantly clear his antecedents were all she wanted. Her father would pay an outrageous sum for those antecedents to bed his daughter and give him a blue-blooded grandson. Ren had an aversion to being used as an aristocratic stud. A woman who didn’t want him for his antecedents would be quite an adventure.

Ren grinned and set down his glass, ready to try out his theory. Emma Ward had been attempting to disconcert him from the first moment, now it was his turn. ‘Miss Ward, I think you have not been entirely truthful with me.’ He was gratified to see a flash of caution pass through her dark eyes.

‘Whatever about, Mr Dryden?’ she replied coolly.

‘Contrary to your words earlier, you are not glad to see me. Since we’ve never met, I find that highly irregular.’ It was not a gentleman’s path he trod with that comment. But as she’d noted, this was business. More importantly, it was his business and quite a lot was at stake.

Miss Ward fixed him with the entirety of her dark gaze. ‘I apologise if you find your reception lacking.’

‘Really? I find that hard to believe when you don’t sound the least bit penitent.’ Ren pressed his advantage. If she meant to defy him, she would have to do it outright. Defiance he could deal with, it was open and honest. He would not tolerate passive aggression, not even from a pretty woman.

Her eyes flared with a dark flame, her mouth started to form a cutting rejoinder that never got past her lips. Boom! The air around them reverberated with sound that shook the windows and rattled the glasses on the table. Emma shrieked, bolting out of her chair, her eyes rapidly scanning the horizon for signs of the explosion.

Ren saw it first, his stomach clenching at the sight of uncontained flame. ‘Over there!’ He pointed in the distance to the telltale stream of smoke, clamping down on the wave of panic that threatened.

Emma had no such compunction for restraint. ‘Oh goodness, no, not the home farm!’ She pushed past him, racing down the steps, calling for her horse.

Ren bellowed behind her, ‘Forget the saddles, there’s no time!’ But no one was listening. The stable was in chaos, people running everywhere trying to calm the horses after the explosion. Ren managed to pull a strong-looking horse out of a stall. ‘Emma, give me your foot!’ Emma leapt into his cupped hand and vaulted up on the horse’s back. Ren swung up behind and grabbed the reins, kicking the horse into a canter as they sped out of the barnyard.

In other circumstances he might have taken a moment to appreciate the press of female flesh against him, the breasts that heaved against his arm where it crossed her and the excellent horseflesh beneath him. As it was, all he could focus on was the explosion. He’d been here a handful of hours and his fifty-one per cent was already on fire.