Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

West looked bemused. “At catching husbands? Nonexistent.”

“Even Lady Helen?”

“Lady Helen is an angel. Lovely, quiet, accomplished… she should have her pick of suitors. But the men who would be appropriate for her will never come up to scratch. Nowadays no one can afford a girl who lacks a dowry.”

“There are men who could afford her,” Devon said absently.

“Who?”

“Some of the fellows we’re acquainted with… Severin, or Winterborne…”

“If they’re friends of ours, I wouldn’t pair Lady Helen with one of them. She was bred to marry a cultivated man of leisure, not a barbarian.”

“I would hardly call a department store owner a barbarian.”

“Rhys Winterborne is vulgar, ruthless, willing to compromise any principle for personal gain… qualities I admire, of course… but he would never do for Lady Helen. They would make each other exceedingly unhappy.”

“Of course they would. It’s marriage.” Devon sat in a musty chair positioned behind a writing desk in one of the deep-set window niches. So far the library was his favorite room in the house, paneled in oak, with walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that contained at least three thousand volumes. One bookcase had been fitted with narrow stacked drawers for storing maps and documents. Agreeable hints of tobacco, ink¸ and book dust spiced the air, overlaying the sweetness of vellum and parchment.

Idly Devon reached for a wooden cigar holder on the nearby desk and examined it. The piece was carved in the shape of a beehive, with tiny brass bees scattered on its surface. “What Winterborne needs most is something he can’t purchase.”

“Whatever Winterborne can’t purchase isn’t worth having.”

“What about an aristocrat’s daughter?”

West wandered past the bookshelves, perusing titles. He pulled a volume from a shelf and examined it dispassionately. “Why the devil are we talking about arranging a match for Lady Helen? Her future is none of your concern. After we sell the estate, you’ll likely never see her again.”

Devon traced the pattern of inset bees as he replied, “I’m not going to sell the estate.”

West fumbled with the book, nearly dropping it. “Have you gone mad? Why?”

He didn’t want to have to explain his reasons, when he was still trying to sort through them. “I have no desire to be a landless earl.”

“When has your pride ever mattered?”

“It does now that I’m a peer.”

West gave him a sharply assessing glance. “Eversby Priory is nothing you ever expected to inherit, nor desired, nor prepared for in any way whatsoever. It’s a millstone tied around your neck. I didn’t fully grasp that until the meeting with Totthill and Fogg this morning. You’d be a fool if you do anything other than sell it and keep the title.”

“A title is nothing without an estate.”

“You can’t afford the estate.”

“Then I’ll have to find a way.”

“How? You have no bloody idea how to manage complex finances. As for farming, you’ve never planted so much as a single turnip seed. Whatever you’re qualified for, which isn’t much, it’s certainly not running a place like this.”

Oddly, the more that his brother echoed the doubts that were already in his mind, the more stubborn Devon became. “If Theo was qualified, I’ll be damned if I can’t learn to do it.”

West shook his head incredulously. “Is that where this nonsense is coming from? You’re trying to compete with our dead cousin?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Devon snapped. “Isn’t it obvious there’s far more at stake than that? Look around you, for God’s sake. This estate supports hundreds of people. Without it, many of them won’t survive. Tell me you’d be willing to stand face-to-face with one of the tenants and tell him that he has to move his family to Manchester so they can all work in a filthy factory.”

“How can the factory be any worse than living on a muddy scrap of farmland?”

“Considering urban diseases, crime, slum alleys, and abject poverty,” Devon said acidly, “I’d say it’s considerably worse. And if my tenants and servants all leave, what of the consequences to the village of Eversby itself? What will become of the merchants and businesses once the estate is gone? I have to make a go of this, West.”

His brother stared at him as if he were a stranger. “Your tenants and servants.”

Devon scowled. “Yes. Who else’s are they?”

West’s lips curled in a derisive sneer. “Tell me this, oh lordly one… what do you expect will happen when you fail?”

“I can’t think about failure. If I do, I’ll be doomed from the start.”

“You’re already doomed. You’ll preen and posture as lord of the manor while the roof caves in and the tenants starve, and I’m damned if I’ll have any part of your narcissistic folly.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Devon retorted, heading for the door. “Since you’re usually as drunk as a boiled owl, you’re of no use to me.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” West called after him.

Pausing at the threshold, Devon gave him a cold glance. “I’m the Earl of Trenear,” he said, and left the room.

Chapter 6

For the first time since Theo’s accident, Kathleen had slept without nightmares. After emerging from a deep rest, she sat up in bed as her lady’s maid, Clara, brought her breakfast tray.

“Good morning, milady.” Clara placed the tray on Kathleen’s lap while a housemaid opened the curtains to admit a spill of weak gray light from the cloud-hazed sky. “Lord Trenear gave me a note to set by your plate.”

Frowning curiously, Kathleen unfolded the small parchment rectangle. Devon’s penmanship was angular and decisive, the words written in black ink.

Madam,

As I will soon depart for London, I would like to discuss a matter of some consequence. Please come to the library at your earliest convenience.

Trenear

All her nerves jumped at the notion of facing Devon. She knew why he wanted to speak to her… he was going to ask her to leave the estate as soon as possible. He would not want to be burdened by the presence of Theo’s widow, or his sisters, and certainly no one would expect it of him.