Page 19 of The Summer Country

Of course he had. Charles swallowed a surge of annoyance, not at Fenty, but at Robert, Robert who couldn’t bear the thought of a Redleg meddling in estate business.

Pride was one thing, but this was pure stubbornness. Charles remembered his father, long ago, telling him about his mother’s family. They’re all proud as sin, the Peverills. They were cavaliers to the core and they’ll never let you forget it.

But he wasn’t just a Peverill, whatever Robert might believe. They were Davenants too, and whatever Charles might think of his father’s family, at least they weren’t still mired in some forgotten dream of the seventeenth century, of feudal loyalties and great estates. This was the nineteenth century, for good or for ill, and changes would be made.

He couldn’t criticize his brother, but he could say, “It’s my business and you’re meant to mind it. You’ve done as you should, Fenty.”

Was that relief in the other man’s face? He’d turned away before Charles could tell. “Thank you, sir.”

The interview, somehow, had been terminated, and Charles wasn’t the one to have ended it. “If you find any other, er, anomalies, don’t hesitate to bring them to my attention.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Fenty. “Shall I have the book brought to the great house for you, sir?”

“I believe I can manage it,” said Charles, and was bending to pick up the ledger when they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a female voice calling.

“Mr. Davenant? I was told I might find you here.” A woman appeared in the doorway, the train of her riding habit looped over one arm.

“Miss Beckles?” said Charles.

The voice he recognized, throaty and distinctive. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have known her. Between the drink and the candlelight, he had seen her last night only as a blur of pink satin and crepe. In a red riding habit, she presented a different figure entirely. The blurred features of last night reserved themselves into a snub nose, a determined chin, and a well-set pair of gray eyes.

She was also, he realized, smaller than he remembered. In her bright habit, she looked like a little girl playing dress-up. But there was nothing girlish about the way she advanced into the room.

“It’s best to ride early in the day,” she said without preamble, as though Charles were responsible for keeping her waiting. Which, he supposed, in a way, he was. Did silence imply consent? He was sure his fellow students at Lincoln’s Inn would have a grand time debating the point. Miss Beckles, on the other hand, looked as though she wouldn’t brook any legal quibbles.

“I beg pardon,” said Charles awkwardly. “I meant to send a message—”

“No matter,” said Miss Beckles brightly, cutting him off before he could tender his regrets. And then, to Charles’s surprise, she leaned over his arm to squint at the crabbed accounts lying open on the table. “Someone’s been playing with your accounts. Those numbers are all wrong.”

“Yes, I know,” said Charles. “But how did you—?”

“Here and here. The numbers don’t add up.” She looked pointedly at Fenty’s back. “No matter how good a manager one has, it’s always best to review the accounts.”

Her manager, Charles recalled, was her uncle. “Even among family?”

“Especially among family.” There was something hard about her face, something that made her look years older. She put a hand on Charles’s arm. “Shall we, Mr. Davenant? It’s not kind to keep the horses waiting. Unless you’d rather I review your books for you.”

“That,” said Fenty flatly, “will not be necessary.”

“I wouldn’t trouble you, Miss Beckles,” said Charles, looking down at that small, gloved hand on his arm and wondering just when the day had entirely escaped his control.

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Miss Beckles, and Charles had the sense that it was the most honest thing she had said. “I like numbers. And it’s important to keep track of one’s own books. People take advantage if you let them.”

Fenty’s back was displaying signs of indignation, like an offended cat. Charles hastily took Miss Beckles’s arm, guiding her from the room. “If you could have the ledger sent on, Fenty, I would appreciate it. And thank you again for speaking to me of this matter.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Fenty. “Ma’am.”

“You’d best watch that one,” said Miss Beckles as they proceeded down the steps. “My father always said you could never trust a Redleg.”

Goaded, Charles said, “And who would you trust?”

“My maid,” said Miss Beckles, and there was a strangely defiant note in her voice. But before Charles could make too much of it, she affected a light laugh and said, “And there she is with the horses! I had yours brought round for you. It seemed simplest.”

For whom? Charles wanted to ask, but couldn’t. There were disadvantages to being a gentleman.

There were three horses inspecting the grass outside the bookkeeper’s house, their reins held, not by a groom, but by a woman, clad in a severely cut riding habit. Her face was hidden by her hat, but there was something about her stance, a stillness, that touched a chord of memory.

Candlelight and white lawn; the colonel’s hand on Charles’s arm. The girls at Beckles are counted exceptionally pretty.