The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

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Lord Edenmont gazed unhappily about him at the shabby interior of the small cottage. He had left London the day after he’d sent Willoughby the brief note. He’d been at Mount Eden for five days, and this was the first cottage he’d mustered the courage to enter.

It was tidy, despite its shabbiness, as were the six children—ranging in age from thirteen to two. This brood stood behind their noticeably pregnant mama and gazed at him in unblinking wonder.

“Gravity again,” said Gideon, coming away from inspection of the chimney. “It’s pulling down the chimney and the roof.”

The mother of the brood flushed. “John’s not had a chance to mend the roof, my lord. He’s had to take work where he can get it, and that’s took—taken—him to Aylesbury this month.”

Varian suppressed a sigh. John Gillis was only one of many who’d been forced to abandon the land his family had worked for generations.

While Varian considered how to respond, he saw Annie give her eldest—a lanky, tow-haired boy—a sharp nudge. When the boy didn’t react, she whispered something. The boy backed out of the room.

“Well...” Varian glanced uneasily at his brother. “Well, Annie, there’s not much to be got out of farming…here. I cannot…” He trailed off as the lanky boy re-entered, bearing a small earthenware jar.

As the boy gave it to his mother, his shoulders sagged, but he shuffled back into position beside her without a word.

Annie emptied the jar’s contents into her hand. “It’s all here,” she said. “Every last farthing for the past five years’ rent. No one ever come—came—for it, and there was nobody at the great house to give it to. So we put it aside.”

“The rent?” Varian repeated numbly. “Five years?”

“Aye.” She held it out to him, a pitifully small pile of coins. Judging by the chagrin on the eldest boy’s face, however, she might have been offering up a fortune.

So it was, Varian reflected. To them. To take it was criminal. To refuse would insult her, and she was proud. She and John would not have saved those precious funds if they were not. Varian thought quickly.

He accepted the money with polite thanks. “It must be properly invested, of course. In the estate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Which at present means it must be invested in people. The land is worthless unfarmed. If men must go away to work, they’re not farming it. We must persuade them—and make it worth their while—to return. It would appear my income would be most wisely invested in that way. Don’t you agree, Gideon?”

“Very wise,” came the stolid answer.

“Then it’s settled.” Varian carefully counted out the coins and gave all but one shilling back to the bewildered Mrs. Gillis.

“These constitute John’s advance wages,” he said, “to make it worth his while to work my land again. When he returns, perhaps he’ll be so good as to call on Gideon, who’ll discuss the practical details with him and put the agreement in writing.”

Gideon nodded composedly, just as though he was fully prepared, at any given moment, to provide every sort of detail about everything under the sun.

Annie stared at the coins in her hand.

Varian turned his attention to the lanky boy. “You are old enough to work, and strong enough, I’d say.”

Annie tore her gaze from the money. “Oh, yes, my lord,” she said eagerly. “He’s the man of the house while John’s away. Does what he’s told, Bertie—Albert—does, and quick, too. And he can read and write as well,” she added with pride. “I learned—taught him.”

Varian remembered that his mother had devoted a good deal of time to seeing local young people educated. She’d insisted both sexes must be taught, despite strong opposition to education, not only among her peers but among the older tenantry as well. Yet the people had loved her for it, and his father, too, for other reasons. The heap of coins was proof of that affection and loyalty. Certainly Varian had never earned it.

Aloud, he said, “If Albert can be spared, I should welcome his help at the house. Mount Eden must be made presentable for its mistress, and we are all at sixes and sevens.” Varian held up the coin. “I should like to engage you to help us make a start, Albert.”

“Indeed he will,” Annie answered for the dumbstruck boy. “This cold weather will put the planting back, and John can manage well enough without him, and anyhow...” She hesitated a moment. “It’ll be good to have the family among us again, my lord.”

After naming a time tomorrow for Albert to report for work, Varian took his leave of the Gillises and set out with Gideon through the new-fallen snow.

They trudged a ways in silence, each brother reflecting in his own way upon the scene they’d just left.

“That was well done,” Gideon said finally. “By sunrise, we’ll find a line of tenants at the door, ready to strike their own bargains with us.”

“I’ll let you do the bargaining, if you don’t mind. I’ve no head for these matters.”

“You did well enough on the spur of the moment. I shall follow your lead. Those as honest as John Gillis and his wife will come with their rent and get the same offer. The others I’ll persuade to work on speculation or some sort of trade arrangement. Or perhaps a reduction in rent. We won’t see much income at the end of the year, but the land will be worked at least and, as you said, it’s no good unfarmed.”

“Good heavens. Was I really so sensible? I had better lie down the instant we get home. On second thought, I’d better not. Gad, I do wish we might have salvaged a few beds at least.” Varian laughed in spite of himself. “Do you know how often I dreamed of home and a soft bed? I slept on the bare ground, and wet it was, and on wooden floors. How Esme will laugh when I tell her…”

His humor faded. “No, I can’t tell her, can I?” He paused. “I told her ‘a few weeks,’ Gideon.”

“You said she was levelheaded. She’ll understand.”

“Will she understand when I tell her it must be months—years, perhaps? Damnation.” Varian gazed bleakly about him. “That cottage was probably the best of them. I must do something for the Gillises, and the others. They can’t live in hovels. But how the devil am I to repair the cottages when my own roof is ready to drop on my head?”

“Mount Eden’s roof will endure a while,” said Gideon. “As to the other essential repairs, including the cottages—the cost of materials is negligible. It’s the labor and skill we need.”

“We’ve no money to hire anybody.” Varian resumed walking. “Still, I helped repair a mill in Albania, and it didn’t kill me.” He glanced at Gideon. “I don’t suppose you know how to mend a roof or a chimney?”

“I understand the principles.”

“Will you stay long enough to tell me how to go about it—and watch the first time to be sure I do it correctly?”

Gideon exhaled a sigh. “I daresay you’ve never lis

tened to a word Damon and I have uttered on this topic. We are not returning to London. Only tell us what we’re to do and we’ll do it—so long as it’s sensible. If we think it isn’t, we’ll tell you. What you propose appears the only sensible course, in the present circumstances.”

“Dammit, Gilly, I told you—”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Gideon’s stiff-set countenance eased into a grin. “It isn’t for you, my lord, but for the fascinating creature we’re so eager to meet. The sooner we repair the ancestral ruin, the sooner we get a glimpse of the young lady you want so desperately to impress.”

Varian’s face grew hot.

“Good grief. Edenmont blushing. Lord Alvanley would give a pony to see it.”

“Devil take you, Gideon!”

Gideon laughed. “You said you owed us a great deal, did you not? Mayhap we’ll take it out in plaguing you about your bride. For your own good, of course. It’ll keep your wits sharp, and then you shan’t be sinking into melancholy.” Gideon gave his lordship an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “For your own good, my noble brother. Can’t have you blowing your brains out. Not until you’ve got an heir at least.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

April arrived in a drizzle, to launch in earnest the London Season’s annual round of gaiety. But Sir Gerald Brentmor took no interest in society’s profitless amusements. At midnight, while the Beau Monde danced and gossiped, he was neatly tucked in his bed, dreaming of annuities, cent-per-cents, and promissory notes.

Though a sound sleeper, he bolted up from the pillow the instant the hot wax splattered on his forehead. He’d no time to scream, scarce time to open his mouth before he felt the cold blade of a dagger against his throat.

“Cry out, and your soul flies to hell,” a low voice warned.

The voice was disagreeably familiar. Despite the panic that froze his brain as well as his heart, Sir Gerald retained sufficient reason to identify its owner: Risto.

The dripping candle retreated and was returned to the bedstand. By someone else. Good God, there were two of them.