But for the first time in his life, he was a landowner, and in England land was the source of power and consequence. If he ever hoped to find a meaning for his existence, it must be found here. If only he weren’t so weary... .
His mouth tightened into a hard line when he realized that his thoughts were dangerously close to self-pity. Urging his horse forward again, he tried to recall what he knew about his mother’s family. Her maiden name had been Stanton, but apart from that and his personal memories of her, he could recall nothing.
Strange how children accept their surroundings without question. He had never guessed that the estate belonged to his mother. Her family must have been solid, prosperous country squires, but after the aristocratic Davenports had taken charge of him, he had buried all memory of the Stantons.
Strickland had been built in Tudor times, a sprawling two-story house with gables, mullioned bay windows, and bold octagonal chimneys. It faced south so that the sun fell across it all day long, while the back commanded a view of gardens, lake, and rolling countryside.
The fact that the house was typical didn’t mean that it was not beautiful.
The really shocking realization was how little had changed. The grounds were well kept, the house in good repair. Only a faint air of emptiness said that his parents or young brother and sister would not walk through the door and down the front steps.
He shivered, his hand tightening so hard that his horse whickered and tossed its head. Forcing himself to relax, he dismounted and tethered the stallion at the bottom of the stairs. He went up lightly, two steps at a time, driven by an uneasy mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
His hand paused for a moment over the heavy knocker, a brass ring in the mouth of a lion. He had admired it greatly as a child, longing for the day when he would be tall enough to reach it. He buried the memory and rapped sharply. When there was no quick response, he experimentally turned the knob. After all, he owned the place, didn’t he? He would begin as he intended to go on, and that was as master of Strickland.
The knob turned under his hand, and the massive door swung inward, admitting him to a large entry hall with carved oak wainscoting. He passed through to the main drawing room, then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He had anticipated many things, but not that there would be virtually no changes at all.
Everything was neat, with only a slight suggestion of mustiness. The colors, the hangings, the furniture dimly visible under holland covers—all were unchanged. Faded certainly, and shabbier, but the very same pieces that had defined his world when he was a boy. Ghost memories of his parents sat at the blind-fretted mahogany card table, laughing over a game.
He turned sharply away, stalking across the room to the passage beyond. Wasn’t anyone here? There had better be, or someone had better have a damned good explanation for why the front door was open.
He circled around to the right, toward the morning room. There he found a plump woman removing covers from the furniture.
She looked up in surprise as he entered, wiping her hands quickly on her apron and bobbing a curtsy. “Mr. Davenport! You gave me a start. You made good time. We only just heard the news, and there hasn’t been time to set everything to rights.”
Reggie wondered how she knew he was coming, then decided it was logical for a new owner to inspect his property. “You have the advantage of me. You are ...?”
She was in her forties, a rosy-cheeked country woman who was polite but hardly obsequious. “I’m Mrs. Herald. You wouldn’t remember, but I was a housemaid here when you were a lad. I was May Barlow then.” Looking him up and down, she added with approval, “You’ve grown tall, like your father.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the tenant farms was worked by a Herald.”
“Aye, I married Robbie Herald. We’re at Hill Farm.”
“The house is in excellent condition.” Reggie spoke absently as his eyes scanned the morning room. The proportions were pleasant, and there were large mullioned windows on two walls. His mother had always particularly liked it here.
“Aye. It was leased to a retired naval captain for a good few years. He maintained the place well enough, but never bothered making changes. It’s been vacant since about the time the old earl died. I’ve kept an eye on things, watching for leaks and dry rot so the estate carpenters could make repairs as it was needful.”
“You’ve done a good job.” Over the years, Reggie had learned the value of an appreciative word, and Mrs. Herald beamed at the compliment.
“I’m glad you think so, sir. We’ve done our best.” She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “We’re all ever so glad to have a Stanton here again. It’s not right, the way Wargrave ignored this place for so many years. The old earl never once set foot here, just took money out and put naught back in.”
She blushed then, remembering that the old earl had been her new master’s uncle and guardian, but Reggie only said mildly, “I’m a Davenport, not a Stanton.”
“Your mother was a Stanton, that’s what counts in Dorset,” she said with a firm nod. “There have always been Stantons at Strickland.”
Her words reminded Reggie of the way a judge pronounced a sentence. After a moment’s reflection he asked, “You’ll think this a foolish question, but do I have any Stanton relations?”
“The closest would be Mr. Jeremy Stanton at Fenton Hall. He was your mother’s cousin, and he and your father were good friends. He’s getting along in years now, but a fine gentleman.” Mrs. Herald shook her head with regret. “Your mother, Miss Anne, was an only child. Pity that her branch of the family had dwindled down to just her. If there had been any nearer relations, they never would have let the earl take you away after ...” She stopped, then decided not to continue that sentence. She finished with, “The Stantons always took care of their own.”
Perhaps that’s why they died out, Reggie thought cynically, but he kept the words unsaid in the face of Mrs. Herald’s vicarious family pride. Aloud he said, “My man will be along in a day or so with my baggage, but I came by myself.”
“Shall I be putting your things in the master bedchamber?”
A vivid image of the room flashed in front of Reggie. His parents had unfashionably shared it, sleeping together in the carved oak four-poster. It seemed wrong to sleep in their bed. “No, I’ll take the room above this one. The blue room it was called, I think.”
“Very well, sir. Would you like something to eat? The house is all at sixes and sevenses, but my sister-in-law Molly Barlow is down in the kitchen, cleaning and stocking the pantry. She could do a cold collation quick enough.”
“Later, perhaps. Now I’d rather see Mr. Weston. Do you know if he’s in the estate office, or is he out on the property somewhere?”
Mrs. Herald paused, her normal garrulity temporarily deserting her. “It’s hard to say, sir. The steward is very active. Could be most anywhere.”
“I’m told Weston is very good.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Davenport. There isn’t a better steward anywhere,” she said with an odd, guilty expression.
Reggie eyed her curiously, wondering why mentioning Weston had such an effect. Maybe the housekeeper was having an affair with the steward? Or didn’t country folk have such vices? If they didn’t, Dorset would prove dull indeed.
He left the morning room. As he made his way through the house, he caught sight of two girls polishing wood and scrubbing floors. They stared with open curiosity, giggling bashfully and bobbing their heads when he nodded at them. An odd feeling, being lord of the manor.
The side door led to a wide cobbled yard surrounded by buildings of the same golden-gray stone as the manor house. It was all so familiar. He glanced up, and remembered the day he’d climbed the ladder left by a man repairing the roof. He’d skittered happily around on the slates, having a wonderful time, until his mother appeared and ordered him to come down right now. Having no conception of what a fall to the cobbles would do to his life expectan
cy, he had been surprised by her alarm, but he’d come down readily enough.
He had been obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.
His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite side of the yard. The door opened silently under his hand, and he stepped inside. The room seemed dim after the bright afternoon sun. Behind the desk a man stood in front of a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn’t hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.
Reggie’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”
She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he’d ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.
Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn’t imagine how he’d mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.
His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.
He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “I’m Weston.”
Chapter 4
Alys stared at the stranger, frozen with shock. Of all the ill luck ... ! She hadn’t expected Davenport to arrive so soon. She had no doubt whatsoever about the man’s identity—he’d entered the office with the easy confidence of ownership.
She read the London papers regularly to monitor the world she had fled, and Reginald Davenport’s name was one that turned up regularly. He was a Corinthian, one of a sporting set known for racing, roistering, and raking. Now the man in front of her confirmed her worst fears.
He might have been handsome if his aristocratic nose hadn’t been broken and reset somewhat less than straight. He must be around forty, his dark hair untouched with gray, but the long face marked by years of dissipation. Despite his obvious strength and athletic build, there was a sallow, unhealthy tint to the dark skin. The wages of sin, no doubt.
Her only satisfaction was that Davenport was as shocked as she was. He said incredulously, “A. E. Weston, the steward of Strickland?”
“Yes.” Her one syllable was unforthcoming.
A look of unholy amusement on his face, he sauntered across the room, his insolent glance scouring her, lingering on her breasts and hips. His eyes were striking, the light, clear blue of aquamarine, and he moved beautifully, with an intensely masculine swagger that reminded her of a stallion.
He was also half a head taller than she, a fact she did not appreciate. She was used to looking down on men, or at least meeting them eye to eye. Having to look up was disconcerting.
Her back to the bookcase, Alys stiffened as he approached, her face coloring hotly. His piercing gaze made her feel as if she were being stripped naked, a pursuit in which Davenport must be highly practiced.
He halted no more than three feet away. His complexion was the weathered tan of a man who was much outdoors. He drawled, “I do believe you are a female.”
Suddenly furious, Alys subjected him to the same scrutiny he had given her. Her eyes slowly scanned down his lean body, from powerful shoulders to expensive riding boots, with special attention for the buckskin riding breeches that clung to his muscular thighs. Her voice as pointed as her gaze, she said, “Gender is not difficult to determine.”
He grinned wickedly. “Not usually. And if vision is insufficient, there are surer tests available.”
His implication was as obvious as it was insulting. If looks could kill, Reginald Davenport would be a dead man. Alys knew she was not the kind of woman men desired, and only an arrogant rooster who pursued anything female would speak so to her. She opened her mouth for a furious reply. Years of supervising recalcitrant laborers had given the ability to wield her tongue like a lash.
Barely in time she remembered that she was supposed to placate this man, not alienate him. Her mouth snapped shut. The yearning to reply in kind was so great that her jaw ached as she struggled for control. Finally she was able to say in a level voice, “I presume you wish to see the books. Or would you rather tour the property first?”
He studied her measuringly. “What I would really like is a discussion and a drink. Do you have anything here?”
Wordlessly she pulled open the door of the cabinet and removed a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers, then poured two fingers worth for each of them. She seldom drank herself, but visitors sometimes appreciated a wee dram. Maybe the spirits would help soften Davenport.
Taking the glass from her stiff fingers, he sat and stretched out his legs, as relaxed as she was tense. “I assume the late earl didn’t know you were female. He would have never permitted it.” He took a sip of his drink. “Does the present earl know?”
Alys sat down behind the desk. “No, the only time Wargrave visited Strickland, I made an excuse to be away.” She drank some of her whiskey, needing its warmth.
“How nice to know that my cousin didn’t arrange this as an insult,” he murmured.
Too tense to be tactful, Alys asked brusquely, “Are you going to discharge me because I’m a woman?”
The cool gaze slid over her again. “Don’t put ideas in my head. Discharging you is a tempting prospect.”
“Do you think a woman can’t do the job?” Alys said, fearing that she had lost this battle before it had started.
Davenport shrugged. “You are demonstrably doing it. Though I’ve never heard of a female steward, it’s hardly unknown for a woman to run property that she has inherited.”
“Then, why would you want to get rid of me?”
He finished his whiskey and leaned forward to pour some more. Instead of answering directly, he asked, “Are you single, married, widowed, or what?”
“Single, and why should it matter?” Alys was having trouble keeping her belligerence under control.
“First of all, you’re rather young for the job, even if you were male. The fact that you’re also single is a potential source of gossip when the owner of the estate is a bachelor.”
Alys stared at him aghast. Of all the things that Davenport might have said, this surprised her the most. “A rake is concerned about propriety?”
He laughed aloud at the shock in her voice, humor softening his hard face. “I have the feeling that my reputation has preceded me. Is it so unthinkable that a rake should have some concept of decorous behavior?”
Alys had the grace to blush. Calling him a rake to his face was an unforgivable impertinence. Thank heaven he was amused, not insulted. She said carefully, “I can’t imagine that my gender would cause any eyebrows to raise. I’m thirty, hardly a girl, and I’ve had this position for four years. Everyone in this part of Dorset is used to me.”
“I’m not used to you,” he said bluntly. “It’s obvious from the way you talk that you’re the respectable sort of female, a breed I’m almost completely unacquainted with. In the nature of things, you will be working with me regularly. I don’t relish having to watch my tongue around you.”
She shrugg
ed. “After four years of working with every kind of laborer, I’m very hard to shock. Treat me like a man.” She couldn’t resist adding, “It will probably be safer for me that way anyhow.”
His mouth tightened. “It sounds as if you expect me to pounce on every female on the estate.”
She gave him a challenging look. “Will you?”
“Not when I’m sober,” he answered shortly.
Alys wished that she had not let the conversation go in this direction. She hoped that Reginald Davenport wasn’t the sort to leave a trail of bastards across the county, but if that’s what he wanted to do, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop him.
Luckily, he changed the subject. “Care to explain how you came to be a steward, Miss Weston?”
Alys stared down at the tumbler clasped between her hands. “I was the governess at a nearby estate. The widowed owner, Mrs. Spenser, was having problems with her steward. I had ... grown up on a farm, and was able to advise her. Eventually she discharged her steward and had me take over his duties.”
“I see.” His eyes watched her expressionlessly over the tumbler as he drank more whiskey. “How did you come to Strickland itself?”
Alys hesitated, choosing her words. “Mrs. Spenser knew she was dying and that her husband’s nephew, who was heir to her property, wouldn’t keep me on. When the Strickland steward was discharged, she suggested I apply for the situation. She gave me excellent references, and persuaded several of the local gentry to do the same. They all thought it a great joke to play on the Earl of Wargrave—absentee landowners are not much liked around here. Because of the references, the Wargrave business manager hired me sight unseen. The estate has done very well under my management, so there was no reason to question my credentials later.”
Mrs. Spenser had extracted a price for her aid: that Alys would become guardian to the older woman’s niece and nephews after her death. Alys had been quite willing to take charge of her former students. However, she preferred not to mention them to her new employer. The situation was already quite complicated enough.