Читать книгу The Rogue's Reform - Regina Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Jerome smiled as he turned from the doorway. An interesting woman, this governess. She was elegant, she was refined, yet one glance from him flustered her. He did not think it was an act. Could it be she was merely a pawn in his uncle’s game? Or was Caruthers more of a liar than Jerome had suspected?

Next to him, the little housekeeper bobbed a curtsey. “How long will you be staying, then, Mr. Everard, you and your family?”

Now here was a determined female if he’d ever met one. Her silvery eyes were narrowed, her snowy head cocked, and he’d have guessed she had already taken his measure and found him lacking. Still he smiled at her. “I’m not certain, Mrs. Linton. A week at the least. I hope that won’t be too much trouble.”

Her annoyance was evident in the way she tightly clasped her plump hands. “Certainly not, sir. We generally have dinner at six. Will that suit you?” Her look pinned him in place as if daring him to countermand a sacred tradition.

He generally ate much later in town, but he saw no need to enforce his requirements here so soon. Besides, eating at six would still give him a few hours for some reconnaissance of his own. “Perfectly. Thank you. In the meantime, perhaps you’d be so good as to point me to the estate records.”

With those thick, white brows, her frown was nearly as fierce as her gaze. “Records, sir?”

“Yes. Someone must keep track of the goings on here at Dallsten Manor. Where does the steward keep his information?”

She snorted. “Dallsten Manor has no steward. If it’s facts you want about the estate, you’d best speak with Miss Walcott. Now, I’d better see to those rooms you’ll need. Will there be anything else, sir?”

So Miss Walcott kept the records. An odd role for a governess, but then maybe everyone here at Dallsten Manor performed more than one function. Still, records had to be kept somewhere. Perhaps he could find them while Miss Walcott was busy.

He thanked the housekeeper again, and she hurried from the room as if she couldn’t wait to do his bidding or leave his presence. She passed Richard and Vaughn in the entry hall, pausing long enough to eye them and then move on, shaking her head. The footman trailed just behind them, for all the world as if he’d been herding them like a sheep dog.

“Thank you, Todd,” Jerome said as his brother and cousin crossed into the library. “That will be all.” He had the satisfaction of shutting the library door in the fellow’s face.

“Not very welcoming, are they?” Richard drawled before going to seat himself in the chair Adele Walcott had vacated. “The horses are stabled. The groom seems competent enough.”

“There’s a kitchen door and a side door from the south tower,” Vaughn reported. “Both were locked. The footman caught up with me in the back garden.” He fingered the hilt of his blade as if wishing he’d made better use of it.

“Well done,” Jerome said, glad Vaughn hadn’t been granted that wish. He returned to the desk. At least he could start with these papers. Rifling through them, he saw they were loose pages from the most recent estate book, the income and expenditures marching down the page in neat rows. He bent closer.

An orderly hand had written these, nothing like his uncle’s ungainly scrawl. The notes chronicled wool sheared from sheep and sold at profit, tithes received from tenants, costs for candles, for food. And what was this? New gowns for the governess? Didn’t the cost to gown a governess generally come out of the governess’s wages? And since when did governesses require silk and fine wool?

“How long do we plan to rusticate here?” Richard asked. Jerome looked up to find his brother watching him with a frown.

“Until we learn the truth,” Vaughn reminded Richard, prowling around the room like a lion on display in the Tower Zoo. “You know I’ll only stay until we can see the estate secured in the proper hands. Then I can go after whoever killed Uncle.”

“We do not know anyone killed Uncle,” Jerome said with what he hoped was a mix of determination and compassion.

Vaughn shook his head, causing several strands of pale blond hair to come loose from his queue and hang on either side of his narrow face like moonbeams. “It was murder, Jerome. He told no one where he was going. We have only the word of the doctor who returned the body that he’d been in a duel. And if it was a duel, don’t you think he would have had me second him?”

Richard stretched his legs closer to the fireplace as if finding even the throne too small. “Uncle made some enemies over the years. That’s hard to deny.”

Vaughn paced from shadow to light and back again. “So many that his valet fled in fear the night of his death, and I have yet to find the fellow. I should be in town, hunting him down.”

“But your family needs you here,” Jerome reminded him. Vaughn’s temper had been running hot since Uncle’s death. While Jerome hoped to be able to wrap up matters quickly, he still intended to see to it that they stayed away from town long enough for that temper to cool.

“Have you learned anything yet?” Richard asked.

“Very little,” Jerome replied, leaning a hip against the corner of the mahogany desk. “I’ve met the governess, Miss Walcott. She seems oblivious to the requirements of Uncle’s will.”

“She can’t be,” Vaughn put in. “She must have a part in this. Why name her in the will otherwise?”

Jerome shrugged. “I agree with you that she should seem more pleased by uncle’s demise if she was behind the change in the will, but she seemed sincere in her grief. She says he was much admired. According to her, Uncle was a doting father who visited several times a year.”

Richard’s frown deepened. “Impossible. He was never away long enough to get to Cumberland and back.”

They had cause to know. The three of them had ridden hard for over three full days, changing horses as they went, to reach Carlisle and make enquiries, a good part of another day along rutted country roads to find the manor. Jerome had no doubt that when Benjamin Caruthers realized they’d headed north without him, he’d be right behind, but he wasn’t a young man, and couldn’t maintain the same pace of travel. Besides, he’d come in a heavy traveling coach that was slower than a man on horseback.

“We weren’t with Uncle every minute,” Jerome reminded his brother. “He could have sired an entire family of daughters while we were away at school. And the last few years, he tended to keep to himself more and more.”

“You mean you avoided him more and more,” Vaughn said. He stopped in the sunlight, a dark figure against the brightness. “You never could appreciate his habits.”

Richard exchanged glances with Jerome before turning to eye their cousin. “His habits included every possible indulgence, with little regard for legality or even decency. You’ll pardon me for wanting better.”

Vaughn stepped out of the light, but his eyes narrowed. “He could practice virtue just as well. You might give him credit for that.”

Jerome found that impossible, particularly under the current circumstances. “Sinner or saint,” he told Vaughn, “we know one thing for certain. He managed to change his will with none of us being the wiser.”

“I still say it’s Caruthers,” Vaughn answered. “Uncle would never have cut you out this way, Jerome.”

Jerome wished he could believe it was as easy as a lying solicitor, but these changes smacked of something more. And it was too like his uncle to want to put Jerome in his place.

Richard, however, seemed to agree with Vaughn. “You may be right. It sounds as if Caruthers knew about this house and that will the entire time, the old fox.”

“Well, the fox will need to outrun the hounds this time,” Vaughn replied, returning to his pacing with a sudden grin that softened his sharp features. “It took us days to get here, but it may take Caruthers a fortnight to reach the manor, thanks to the reception I so graciously arranged along the way.”

Jerome could only hope. Vaughn had left gold and instructions all along the coaching route, but whether the solicitor’s journey was slowed even further depended on where he chose to stop and with whom he chose to speak.

“I’d say we have, at most, a week to learn the truth before Caruthers arrives,” Jerome told them. “Somewhere in this house is the proof he thinks will show that Samantha is Uncle’s legitimate daughter.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Richard asked.

“A marriage certificate, most likely,” Jerome replied. “But it may be something more nebulous—a letter from Uncle to her mother, the written testimony of the attending physician or midwife, the notation of a vicar before her baptism. It’s probably kept somewhere secure—a safe, a strongbox, or with the older estate documents in the muniment room, if this place has that sort of archives.”

Vaughn paused expectantly. “And when we find it, what then? Do we destroy it to prevent the lie from spreading?”

“If necessary,” Jerome agreed.

“And if she is Uncle’s daughter?” Vaughn pressed.

How could he answer? A part of him wanted to hurl the proof into the nearest fire and be done with it. Was this why his grandfather had set up his own will to hem in his oldest son? He’d feared Arthur Everard’s recklessness, so he had insisted on an entail that put the control of most of the property and fortune with Caruthers. How he’d forced Uncle to sign the entail agreement, Jerome couldn’t imagine.

But Grandfather’s will had tied Jerome’s hands as well, and Uncle and Caruthers had fought every improvement he’d proposed. For years he’d worked, studying farming so he could convince the solicitor to institute the best practices on their estates, learning the shipping trade with Richard so they could make optimum use of the share the Everards owned in various ships, scrutinizing every movement on the Exchange to ensure their investments grew. Despite the restrictions placed on him, he had managed to increase the fortune by over one hundred thousand pounds at last estimate, while their estates flourished and their ships sailed loaded with rich cargo.

And Uncle valued Jerome’s skills so little that he offered a girl fresh from the schoolroom to replace him? Unthinkable!

“She isn’t Uncle’s daughter,” he told Vaughn. “And we’re going to prove it.” He turned to his brother. “When the news of Uncle’s death is told, people are likely to dredge up memories about his life. You have a talent for getting people to talk to you. Strike up a friendly conversation at that inn we passed on our way into the valley. See what you can learn.”

Richard nodded, gathering himself and rising.

“And me?” Vaughn asked.

Vaughn was the wobbly wheel on Jerome’s plan, the one most likely to roll off in another direction entirely. His unending need for action could prove a problem if not harnessed.

“For now,” Jerome said, “keep the staff out of my way. Then I want you to befriend our new cousin. I’d like your impression of the girl.”

Eyes lighting, Vaughn swept him a bow. “It would be my pleasure. I’ll know whether she’s an Everard. Count on it.”

Jerome wanted to feel as certain, but he could only hope he had made the right decision about coming to Dallsten Manor and about bringing his volatile cousin with him.

Adele hurried along the chamber story, passing paneled doors closed on seldom-used rooms, alcoves that held rare statues and fine works of art. Where was Samantha? Why hadn’t she waited in the schoolroom as ordered? She had to be found before she bumped into their guests. The girl deserved better than to hear the news of her father’s death from a stranger, albeit a handsome, charming one.

Just the thought of Jerome’s wide, warm grin sent a tingle through Adele. How silly! Surely it was the drama—his sudden arrival, the news of Lord Everard’s death. If Adele had met Jerome Everard on a country road on the way to church, she probably wouldn’t even have noticed him.

And perhaps pigs might fly.

On Adele’s right, even her grandfather looked skeptical, standing tall and stern in his gilt-framed portrait. He had the same pinched-nose look as her mother, as if he were just as aghast that his descendant had fallen to such an end.

A Dallsten, governess in her own home!

Adele ignored him. The exalted Dallstens could toss and turn all they liked. Because she’d agreed to serve as governess, she had a home and she could be near her mother, who lived in the dower house at the foot of the drive. Because Adele was the governess, she was allowed a certain freedom, and she’d been able to keep the house generally intact. Thanks to Lord Everard’s capricious generosity, she had fine clothes to wear and good food to eat, even at the family table. Most days, she was truly grateful. Lord Everard had not been the most conscientious of men, but he had done very well by her family, going so far as to trust her with virtually all of the upbringing of his only daughter.

Yet how could she tell Samantha the awful news? Adele hesitated at the door of the girl’s bedchamber. She remembered the feelings of loss all too well. She’d been about Samantha’s age when her father had died: thrown from a horse, and him a man who rode like the wind. And, like tossed by a blowing wind, her future, her hopes, had all tumbled away.

She sighed. Life had turned out differently than she’d been taught to expect. In rare moments, she felt cheated, but most of the time, she simply did what must be done. And what must be done right now was to make sure Samantha wasn’t cheated in the same way. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.

Samantha was seated at her cluttered dressing table, bare elbows shoving aside the jars of creams, the boxes of hair ribbons. Her brows were drawn over her pert nose as she regarded her reflection in the looking glass. Once her feet had swung high above the floor as Adele brushed out her golden curls. Now the table seemed too small for her in her pale muslin gown. But she still didn’t look old enough to be wearing her mother’s pearl bobs, which dangled from her ears.

“Those are for special occasions, if you please,” Adele reminded her, venturing into the room.

Samantha turned to her with a smile. “I thought three handsome visitors might be occasion enough.”

Some of what Adele was feeling must have shown on her face, for Samantha’s grin faded. “What is it? Did they leave after all?”

“No, they’ll be staying with us for some time,” Adele said. “I’m sorry I took so long. We must talk.”

Samantha’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no, you heard about Toby Giles, didn’t you? I swear I didn’t know he was going to steal the vicar’s wig.”

Adele raised a brow. “You can be sure we will discuss your friend Mr. Giles another time. I have something far more important to tell you.”

Samantha eyed her expectantly, and Adele’s courage nearly failed her. She took the girl’s hands in her own and gave them a squeeze.

“You must try to be brave, love. Your father is dead.”

Samantha stared at her, skin washing ashen. “No.” The word was no more than a whisper, as if saying it louder would make her father’s death true.

Adele squeezed her hands again. “I’m afraid so. Those three men are your cousins. They came to bring us the news. I am so sorry.”

Samantha just sat there. Adele wasn’t even sure she was breathing. A single tear slid down one cheek. Then she threw herself into Adele’s arms and sobbed.

Jerome wasn’t about to waste the time he’d been given. With Richard on his way to meet the locals and Vaughn keeping an eye on the staff, Jerome set about looking for the rest of the estate records.

Dallsten Manor was shaped like an L, short in the front and long at the back. The main block was two stories, but a three- or four-story tower anchored each corner. The house had obviously been expanded over the years, as corridors ran into other corridors or blank walls, and nothing seemed to be where he expected it. He got lost twice just trying to reach the south tower.

He needed a guide. Surely as the heir, he would be expected to ask for a tour and a formal inventory. At least then he could decide the most likely places Caruthers’s proof might be stored.

He was wandering down the long chamber story when a sound rose to greet him. The great gulping sobs ended in wails. It hurt just listening. He could think of only one person who might have cause for such pain.

He stopped, letting the sobs wash over him, feeling them weigh him down. Why did it always have to be lies and secrecy, Uncle? Can you hear that girl cry for you?

He raised his head and straightened. He would spare no tears for his uncle; that decision had been made long ago. It remained to be seen whether he should spare any for the girl who was supposed to be his cousin. For now, he ought to turn and walk away, leave her to her grief. Yet something made him open the door and peer inside.

The room was all he would have imagined a young girl could want—pink and chintz and scallops and bows. Adele Walcott’s trim figure in the gray gown stood out in cool contrast, elegance defined. She had her arms around a young woman with a riot of golden curls, holding her gently, murmuring words of solace.

An ache rose up inside him, so strong he nearly gasped. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond remembering how it felt to lose someone held dear. He’d been an overconfident thirteen, sure of who God intended him to be, when his parents had been killed and his world upended. He could still remember his uncle’s words of solace at the funeral.

“So it’s just you and Richard and me, boy,” his uncle had said, gazing down at him with those nearly black eyes. “I’m not entirely sure what to do with you, but we’ll get along well enough if you remember one thing—I mean to cram more enjoyment into this life than one man might reasonably lay claim to. I’d advise you to do the same.”

Unfortunately, not only had he been unable to accept that advice, but it had seemed his lot to put a damper on his uncle’s pleasures. From the first day, they’d fought over every decision, and he’d learned how to smile through the frustration, appear humble though he hurt. As he had matured, he’d found ways to go over, under and around his uncle to do what he believed was best for the family legacy. Yet never had he heard anything but disdain from his uncle for daring to take life so seriously.

The wounds felt raw, even years later. He refused to give in to the pain. But as he tucked it away and started to pull the door shut, Adele Walcott’s head came up. Her gaze met his.

For a moment, he saw compassion, as if she knew what he felt was every bit as deep as the grief of the girl she held in her arms. When was the last time he’d seen such a look directed his way? He wanted to latch on to the promise, let it warm him.

Was this a scheming woman who intended to cheat him of his fortune? Or was he mad to think he could find an ally in Dallsten Manor of all places?