Читать книгу The Rake - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 11

Chapter 5

Reggie awoke to the familiar, temple-pounding aftermath of too much brandy. He had been able to put himself to bed, which meant that he wasn’t as badly off as his last morning in London, but his present state was quite bad enough. Groping for his watch on the bedside table, he discovered that it was seven-thirty. He had just enough time to make himself presentable and meet Lady Alys for his tour of the estate.

Groaning, he rolled to the edge of the bed and sat there, his head in his hands as he prayed that Mac Cooper would arrive from London today. It was much harder to face the morning without Mac’s skilled ministrations.

Cautiously he stood. The brandy decanter was empty, which explained his head. He must arrange for new supplies of drink before the day was over, because at this rate the cellar would soon be empty.

The morning was damp and overcast. By the time Reggie had saddled his horse Bucephalus, he was swearing silently at himself for having requested this tour. It had been a deliberate choice to ride over the estate for the first time with someone else. Alone, he might run the risk of becoming maudlin. However, it was altogether too early in the day to face Lady Alys’s censorious eye.

His mood was not improved when his steward entered the stables, bandbox neat in a dark brown riding habit. The severe cut couldn’t quite disguise her luscious figure, though it did conceal the distracting legs. He studied the crown of thick, glossy braids. Her hair must be nearly waist length. Like her body, it was another splendid asset wasted; the expression on her handsome face rivaled Medusa for paralyzing effect.

“Good morning, Mr. Davenport. Is there any particular part of the estate you would like to see first?” Alys’s nervousness came out as waspishness, but it was hard to sweeten her tone when such a difficult day lay ahead of her. Davenport would surely disapprove of some of her innovations, possibly to the point where his tentative willingness to retain her might evaporate.

Davenport grunted a greeting as she went for her sidesaddle. He looked like a bear with a sore ear, which made it surprising when he took the saddle away from her. “I thought you were going to treat me like a man,” she remarked as he saddled her mount.

He gave her a slanting glance as he tightened the girth. “That’s hard to do when you’re dressed like a woman.”

Uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, she changed the subject. “Mr. Davenport, you will see some . . . unusual things at Strickland. There are reasons for everything I have done. I ask that you allow me to explain rather than condemning out of hand.”

He turned from the horse to face her. Alys was once more uncomfortably aware of how tall he was.

“I’ll add any new oddities to the list of questions I have already,” he said dryly.

The comment did not bode well.

They led their horses out into the open air. Obscurely unwilling to be touched by Davenport, Alys went to the mounting block before he could assist her. As she settled into the sidesaddle and arranged the fall of her long skirts, she felt the ironic amusement in his gaze. However, he said only, “A beautiful mare,” as he swung onto his own horse.

“She belongs to me, not the estate,” Alys said defensively. “I have the bill of sale if you don’t believe me.”

Davenport set his horse out of the stable yard at a trot. “Did I show any sign of doubting you?”

“No.” She felt like biting her tongue. To hide her embarrassment, she said hurriedly, “Most of the horses in the stables are just for wagon and plow use. The estate owns two riding hacks, but nothing of great quality. I keep my mare here because the steward’s house doesn’t have its own stable.”

Not dignifying her inane comment with an answer, Davenport put his horse into a fast canter. He rode with the effortless grace and skill of a centaur. She supposed that good riding was essential to a well-rounded rake.

They traveled in silence until they reached the grain-fields. Some were already planted while others were newly plowed, and a few lay fallow. They reined in and surveyed fields quilted by neat hedges.

“As I recall, Strickland is just over three thousand acres, about half of that let to tenants and the other half in the home farm,” Davenport said. “From the amount of seed you’ve been buying, I assume that you’ve improved a good deal of what was waste. How much acreage is cultivated now?”

“Almost two thousand acres, with much of the rest used as pasture.”

He nodded. “You recently bought a shorthorn ram and a score of ewes to improve the stock. What breed did you buy?”

“Southdowns from Ellman in Sussex.”

“Excellent choice. Some of the best stock in England.” His gaze slowly scanned the fields in front of them. “You’re using a four-crop rotation?”

Alys suspected that he was trying to impress her, and he was succeeding. For someone who allegedly had spent his life in taverns and gaming hells, he was extremely knowledgeable about modern agriculture. “Yes, usually with wheat instead of rye. Then turnips, clover, and sainfoin. It’s worked so well that I’ve been able to increase the livestock herds.”

Davenport nodded again, setting his horse into motion while he asked another question. The interrogation continued throughout the morning as he inquired about the seed drill, the efficiency of the threshing machine she had bought, the oil cake she fed to the beef cattle to improve the quality, the breeding stock used for the dairy herd, the experiments she was trying on the home farm before recommending them to the tenants. His cool expression showed neither approval nor disapproval of her answers.

By noon Alys had acquired a headache and a considerable respect for her new employer’s understanding. As they rode side by side down a lane toward the home farm, she commented on his knowledge of farming.

Davenport shrugged. “I was the heir presumptive to the Earl of Wargrave for many years. My uncle wouldn’t let me set foot on any of his properties, but since I was likely to inherit someday, I kept an eye on developments in agriculture.”

Alys glanced at him thoughtfully. He had done more than “keep an eye” on what was going on. Clearly he had made a serious study of farming and land management, fitting it in between orgies or whatever it was that had given him such a terrible reputation. She felt a surge of sympathy. Davenport had spent his life preparing for a position he would never fill. How did he feel about that? His hard profile gave no clues, but it would take a saint not to feel resentment at being displaced. Alys saw no signs of a halo.

They came to the irregularly shaped ornamental lake that lay near the manor house. Davenport pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. “Excuse me, there’s something I want to see.” After tethering the beast, he disappeared into a thicket of trees next to the lake.

Curious, Alys dismounted and tied her own horse, then lifted the long skirts of her riding habit and followed him. Her dress put her at a disadvantage in the thick undergrowth. Swearing under her breath as she unsnagged her habit for the third time, she emerged from the shrubbery into a small clearing at the water’s edge.

She halted, surprised at the beauty of the place. Lush grass carpeted the ground while bluebells clustered beneath the trees, the violet hue set off by a drift of pale yellow primroses. It was a magical spot, the only sound the fluting song of a thrush and the whisper of wind in the trees. Private, too, because it lay on a cove invisible from the manor.

Her employer stood by the edge of the lake, looking over its surface as he absently twined the stem of a bluebell around one finger. Alys studied the picture he made. He didn’t have the dandy’s perfection of figure that she had so admired in Randolph when she was eighteen and besotted. Davenport was taller and leaner, with a whipcord grace that hinted at power even when he was motionless.

He was also disturbingly masculine. Uncomfortably Alys recognized that his virility was much of the reason she found him so unnerving. Breaking the silence to keep her thoughts from that direction, she asked, “How did you know about this clearing? I’ve lived here for four years and never found it.”

Without turning to look at her, he said, “I was born at Strickland, Miss Weston. Didn’t you know that?”

Her brows shot up. “No, I didn’t.”

“I’m surprised that the local gossips weren’t more efficient,” he said, his tone even drier than usual.

She crossed the clearing and halted beside him. “You caught them unaware. I only heard that the estate was being transferred two days ago, and you appeared yesterday. The gossip didn’t have a chance to catch up.”

“It will. Gossip always catches up with me.”

“And wouldn’t you be disappointed if it didn’t,” she said tartly.

His mouth curved a little. “Probably.”

“How old were you when you left Strickland?”

His smile vanished. “Eight.”

Though his terseness didn’t encourage further questions, Alys’s curiosity overcame her manners. “What happened?”

“My family died.”

Not just parents—family. A brother or sister, perhaps several? Alys felt a tightness in her throat as the ghost of old tragedy brushed her with chill fingers. Eight was very young to be orphaned and removed from the only home a child had known.

She said softly, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Miss Weston, so am I.” There was infinite bleakness in Davenport’s low voice.

Silence hung heavy between them for a long moment. Then he tossed the bluebell into the lake and turned to her, vulnerability gone. “I didn’t know until my cousin signed Strickland over to me three days ago that the property belonged to my mother and should have come to me. Ironic, isn’t it? My dear guardian told me that Strickland was part of the Wargrave estate, and it never occurred to me to think otherwise.”

“Good heavens, the old earl deliberately lied about the ownership?” Alys said, appalled by such blatant dishonesty. “How despicable!”

“Despicable was an excellent word for my uncle,” he agreed. “Wargrave is in much better hands now.”

“Your cousin discovered the injustice and gave you Strickland?”

“What a quantity of questions you ask, Lady Alys.” There was a sardonic note in his voice as he used her nickname.

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Curiosity is my besetting sin.”

He smiled faintly. “How nice to have only one sin, singular. Mine come in scores.”

“I’m sure that I can come up with more than one,” she said a trifle indignantly.

“And what might the others be?” he asked with interest. “Sleeping during the Sunday sermon? Coveting a neighbor’s horse?”

Well and truly irritated, Alys snapped, “I can do much better than that.”

He laughed outright. “Perhaps someday you will tell me the full list of your vices, Miss Weston. I should enjoy learning what they are.”

With a horrid sense of discovery, Alys realized how charming Davenport could be with a sparkle in his light blue eyes and a wide smile that invited her to smile with him. She reminded herself sternly that a successful rake would have to be charming, or he could never beguile away a lady’s virtue. How alarming that she, a woman of great experience and no illusions, found herself wanting to respond to that charm with a smile of her own.

Hastily she wiped the expression from her face before her dimples could emerge. She felt obscurely that dimples would undermine the progress she was making toward convincing him that she was a competent steward.

Still smiling, Davenport lightly took her arm to guide her back to the horses. It was a casual gesture, but Alys was acutely aware of his touch, of the feel of his strong fingers through the heavy fabric of her riding habit. She quickened her pace.

He was about to help her onto her mount when he halted and stared down at her, his eyes a bare foot from her own. “Good Lord, Lady Alys, your eyes don’t match.”

“Really?” she said with asperity. “I never noticed.”

“Indoors the gray-green eye looks more or less like the brown one, but in this light the difference is striking,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. “A most unusual feature, but then, you are a most unusual woman.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked warily.

“Neither.” He bent over and linked his hands to give her a step up to her saddle. “A mere statement of fact.”

After she was mounted, he swung onto his own horse. “You’ve done a remarkable job with Strickland. Even though farm prices have plummeted since Waterloo, you’ve managed to increase the profits, and the land and tenants are in very good heart.”

She was absurdly pleased at the compliment. Perhaps her job was safe after all.

They circled the manor house and rode toward the village of Strickland, but before they reached their destination, Davenport reined in his horse. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall brick chimney that loomed above the next hilltop. “What on earth is an industrial chimney doing out here?”

Face set, he cantered forward to investigate. Alys trailed unhappily behind him. The new owner was about to discover one of the odder features of Strickland.

He stopped again on the top of the hill, where he could see the whole manufactory. The round bottle oven with its high, circular chimney was the unmistakable mark of a pottery. In a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “What the devil is a potbank doing on Strickland land? Didn’t this used to be one of the tenant farms?”

“The site is leased from Strickland, and at quite a profitable rate,” she replied, praying that he wouldn’t ask more, and knowing that he would.

He gave her an icy glance. “That isn’t what I asked. What is a manufactory doing here, and who owns it?”

Choosing her words carefully, Alys said, “It’s held in trust for three minors.”

“Oh?” His cold syllable ordered her to continue.

“This was the smallest of the tenant farms, with the least desirable tenants,” she explained. “It was a relief when they sold off their equipment and stock and skipped off without paying the Lady Day rent three years ago. I combined the land with Hill Farm, and Robbie Herald works it with his own property. I leased the buildings to the pottery.”

His sardonic snort made it clear that he knew she was telling less than the whole story.

“The pottery has been an excellent venture,” Alys said defensively. “It provides jobs, pays a fair rent to Strickland, and is a good long-term investment for the owners. I know most landowners loathe any kind of industry on their land, but you can’t shut it down even if you want to—the lease runs for twenty-two more years.”

Before she could offer more arguments, Davenport’s hand shot out to catch her mare’s bridle. The horse tried to throw its head upward, but his powerful grip held it steady. He turned in his saddle to face her, anger evident in his clipped words. “Yesterday I said I would give you a chance to prove yourself. Will you extend me the same courtesy?”

A fierce wave of embarrassment burned Alys’s face and spread down her neck. He was being entirely reasonable, and she was acting like a rabid hedgehog. For the first time she really looked at him, not as Reginald Davenport, notorious rake and disastrous employer, but as an individual. Their gazes held for an endless moment.

With jarring insight, she recognized that her employer was a good deal more—or less—than his reputation. Under the world-weary air were tolerance and intelligence that would be a credit to anyone. And he had the tiredest eyes she had ever seen.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, so she continued doggedly, “I have often been unfairly judged and condemned. It is unpardonable that I commit the same injustice toward you.”

He released the mare’s bridle. “Considering how many years I’ve spent cultivating an evil reputation, I would be disappointed if you didn’t assume the worst about me.”

She smiled. “I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Mr. Davenport.”

“Oh?” His dark brows rose in the sardonic expression she was coming to recognize. “In what way?”

“I am beginning to believe that you are not at all the wicked care-for-nobody that your reputation claims.”

“You had best withhold judgment on that point, Miss Weston,” he said dryly. Gathering up his reins, he said, “I think it’s time we ate. As I recall, there used to be a tavern on the Shaftesbury road that had good food.”

“It’s still there, and the food is still good.” Alys wondered for a moment that he would take her to a common tavern. Then she realized that it would be less scandalous to eat with her at the Silent Woman than to share a private meal at the manor. Despite his stated intention of treating her like a man, he was being careful of the proprieties.

Half an hour later, they were facing each other across a wooden table polished by years of sliding crockery and hard scrubbing. A good number of customers shared the beamed taproom and sent curious glances their way. All of the men were local and knew the eccentric Miss Weston, and they could surely guess who her companion was. They kept a respectful distance from the new master of Strickland.

Davenport polished off the last crumbs of an excellent beef and onion pie, then refilled his tankard with ale from the pewter pitcher. “Will you tell me the whole story of the pottery, or will I have to drag the information out of you a piece at a time?”

Alys finished the last bite of her own meat pie. It was time to tell the whole story, because if he had to dig for the facts, it might ruin his expansive mood. “You know about the problems caused by discharging so many soldiers after the war. There wasn’t enough work to begin with. To make matters worse, the new machinery reduces the need for farm laborers.”

When he nodded, she went on, “For example, the estate could never have managed without one of the new threshing machines. There simply weren’t enough laborers during the later war years. Now that the machinery has been purchased and is working well, it makes no sense to go back to slower, more cumbersome methods just to create a few ill-paid jobs. Other solutions needed to be found.” She gazed at him earnestly. “Besides the fact that idle men make trouble, it would be wrong to let the soldiers who defeated Napoleon starve. Wrong, and dangerous for Strickland as well.”

He took a draft of ale and prompted, “So . . . ?”

“I’ve encouraged the creation of various businesses to provide work. There’s a wood shop in Strickland village that employs eight men, and a brick and tile yard with five workers. Because there are good deposits of clay nearby, it made sense to open a pottery as well. It makes moderately priced ware that the average person can afford. There’s quite a market for such things, and now twelve people are employed.”

“Who manages the place?”

She took a deep breath. “I do.”

The dark brows shot up. “In addition to managing Strickland? Where the devil do you find the time?”

“I make all the decisions and keep the accounts, but a foreman supervises the daily work,” she explained. “As you can see from the estate books, I haven’t neglected Strickland. I . . .”

He held up one hand to stop her words. “Before we go too far afield, who are the three minors who are the actual owners of the pottery? Are they local children?”

Alys poured more ale for both of them before answering. “They are the niece and nephews of Mrs. Spenser, my former employer.”

“More and more interesting. Where do they live now?”

With an inward sigh, Alys recognized that it was time to confess what he would surely learn soon. “They live with me.”

“You’re their guardian?” he asked with surprise.

She took another swig from the tankard, her eyes cast down. “There were no close relatives whom Mrs. Spenser trusted. One reason she helped me get the Strickland position was so that I could keep the children with me.”

“I see why they call you Lady Alys,” he said with a mocking humor. “Managing an estate, several businesses, and children as well. You are an extraordinary woman.”

“Most women are extraordinary. It compensates for the fact that most men aren’t,” Alys snapped, then immediately bit her tongue. With his talent for getting under her skin, Davenport made her forget how dependent she was on his goodwill. She, who had always prided herself on her control, was continually skirting explosion with him.

He laughed, his extraordinary charm visible again. “I suppose your next project is to advance beyond needing the male half of the species? As a stock breeder, you must know that will be difficult, at least if there is to be a next generation.”

Alys had no doubt that his supply of suggestive remarks could easily outlast her belligerence. With as much dignity as she could muster, she reached for the ale pitcher. “I have never denied that men have their uses, Mr. Davenport.”

“Oh? And what might they be?”

His hand brushed hers casually when they both reached for the handle of the pitcher at the same time. Her nerves jumped, and she dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze. His hands were quite beautiful, long-fingered and elegant, the only refined thing about him. A seductive current flowed from him that made her want to yield, so melt and mold herself, to discover the other ways he could touch, to touch him back. . . .

In a voice that seemed to come from someone else, she said, “We’re out of ale. Shall we order another pitcher, or are you ready to see more of the estate?”

“More ale,” he said, apparently quite unaffected by the fleeting contact between them. “I still have a number of questions. For example, the sixty pounds a year for schoolmasters, books, and other teaching supplies.”

He signaled for another pitcher, refilling his tankard when it arrived. Alys was four rounds behind him, and knew better than to try keeping up. She didn’t doubt that in a drinking contest he could put her under the table.

And what would he do with you there? a mocking little voice asked. Nothing, of course. More’s the pity.

Trying to ignore the lewd asides of her lower mind, Alys said, “The teachers are a married couple. He teaches the boys, she teaches the girls. I require all the children on the estate to go to school until at least the age of twelve.”

“Don’t the parents resent that their children can’t start earning wages earlier?”

“Yes, but I have insisted,” she replied. “In the short run, it’s better for the children. In the long run, the estate will have better workers.”

“Miss Weston, did some Quaker or reforming Evangelical get hold of your tender mind when you were growing up?” Davenport asked, his dark brows arching ironically.

She blinked. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered into his ale. “A fanatic.” Grabbing hold of her frayed temper, Alys said with hard-won composure, “Not a fanatic, a practical reformer. You have seen the results at Strickland over the last four years. I would be hard-pressed to say precisely which reforms have produced what results, but the total effect has been more than satisfactory. The estate is prospering, and so are the people who work on it. The evidence speaks for itself.”

“I keep reminding myself of that, Miss Weston,” he said dourly. “I trust you appreciate that you are being treated to a display of open-mindedness and tolerance that none of my friends would believe.” He shook his head. “A female steward, and a reformer to boot.”

“It’s your income, Mr. Davenport,” Alys pointed out in an icy voice. “If you make sweeping changes, there might be a drop in the profits.”

“I remind myself of that, too.” He poured the last of the ale in his tankard. He’d drunk most of two pitchers himself. “What about the money given to help emigration?”

She sighed and traced circles on the table in a few drops of spilled ale. It had been a vain hope that he would overlook her cryptic notes in the account books. The blasted man missed nothing. “Three of the veterans who returned from Wellington’s army wanted to take their families to America, but didn’t have adequate savings to pay their passages and start over.”

“So you gave them the money?” He slouched casually against the back of the oak settle, relaxed but watchful.

“Theoretically the money was loaned, but it was understood that they might never be able to repay,” Alys admitted.

“And the chances of collecting from another country are nil. So you just gave it away,” he mused. “Are you running a business or a charity here?”

“If you saw the books, you know that less than two hundred pounds were lent,” she said, defensive again. “All of the families had served Strickland with great loyalty. One man’s wife worked on the harvest crew until an hour before her first baby was born.”

Under his sardonic eye she realized how foolish that must sound to a man of the world. She added more practically, “Helping them leave also reduced the strain on Strickland’s resources—fewer jobs to find and mouths to feed.”

“If every worker on the estate wanted to emigrate, would you have given money to them all?” he inquired with interest.

She turned one palm up dismissively. “Few people want to leave their homes for a strange country. Most of the Strickland tenants were born here, and they can imagine no other end than to die here.”

She thought, with sudden piercing sorrow, of where she herself had been born, the home to which she could never return. Alys had exiled herself as surely as the three families who had gone to America. Then she wondered how much her expression had revealed, for Davenport was watching her keenly.

“Somehow, I doubt that the old earl knew about your odd little charities,” he said, a flicker of amusement in his light eyes.

Relieved that Davenport was enjoying the thought of his uncle’s ignorance, she assured him, “The old earl never had any idea. His man of business must have known at least some of what I was doing, but he didn’t interfere since the overall profits were up.”

“In other words, you gave away less than your predecessor stole.”

She gave a lopsided smile. “I never thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right.” After hesitating for a moment, curiosity drove her to ask, “Now that you know how Strickland has been run, do you have any comments?”

Davenport thought for a moment, his hands loosely laced around his tankard. “As you have pointed out, your results are a justification for your methods. Also, everything you described belongs to the past, when I had no say in what went on, so I have no right to criticize your decisions.

“The future, now . . .” He swallowed his remaining ale in one gulp, then clinked the tankard onto the table as he watched her expression narrowly. “That will be a different story. I expect I’ll want to make some changes, but I shan’t rush into them.”

As an endorsement, it didn’t go as far as Alys would have liked, but it was the best she was likely to get. At least he intended to move slowly.

She started to rise, but her employer wasn’t finished yet. He lifted his hand to halt her. “I have only one more question at the moment. As an eager reformer, have you had everyone on the estate vaccinated against smallpox?”

Alys was startled. “No, I’ve encouraged vaccination, but some of the workers are very suspicious about ‘newfangled ideas.’ Only about half the people would agree to it, and I don’t really have the authority to insist on something like that.” In fact, she had railed, begged, and pleaded with the tenants, enraged by their pigheaded stubbornness.

“In that case, I will issue my first order.” His gaze met hers, cold determination in the depths of his eyes. “Everyone who is not vaccinated within the next month will be dismissed and evicted. There will be no exceptions.”

“But . . .” Alys gasped, torn between approval of the result and shock at his high-handedness, “you can’t . . .”

“No buts, Miss Weston, or arguments about whether I have the authority.” He stood and looked down at her, dark and implacable. “The cost will be carried by the estate, and there will be no exceptions.”

Alys saw very clearly how he had earned the reputation for being dangerous. If she were younger or more timid, she would be diving under the table to avoid that stare.

He added with a hint of scorn, “If you’re afraid to tell them, I’ll do it myself.”

Those were fighting words. She stood also, since glaring from a sitting position lacked impact. “I am not afraid to tell them, Mr. Davenport. It will be done.” Meeting his gaze with her own, she said, “Are you ready to continue your inspection?”

“Quite ready.” He dropped a handful of coins on the table, then crossed the taproom with long, lazy strides. As she followed, Alys remembered that tonight she would face a barrage of questions about what kind of man the new master was.

She realized that she had no idea what the answer should be.