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Let the games begin.
4
Jaw tight, Luc dismounted from his horse in front of Lyons House, tossing the reins to the waiting groom.
He stalked into the old Elizabethan hall, mentally reviewing his so-far fruitless campaign. Each time he visited St. James Manor, the widow was never at home to visitors. Mourning gave her the perfect excuse to refuse him, and it was one he could hardly protest. But it was hard to seduce a lady when he could never get to see her, damn it!
As he strode across the fine oak floor of the study, his host turned toward him. After one look, Devon walked over to the brandy decanter and poured two glasses. Silently he passed one to Luc, now sprawled on a dark red velvet sofa before the black marble fireplace.
Taking a seat in a leather chair by the fire, his host studied him as he sipped his brandy. “No luck?”
Luc shook his head.
His friend slowly smiled. “Have I introduced you to my footman?”
Luc frowned. He shook his head and then sipped his brandy. He assumed Devon had a reason for asking the exceedingly odd question and would get to the point eventually.
Obviously realizing he wasn’t going to play, Devon got to it more rapidly than he’d expected. “His name is Paul Flowerday.”
Luc knew there was more to come. Patiently he waited and was rewarded with further information.
“Flowerday used to be a hall boy at St. James Manor. He has kept in touch with his uncle, the butler, and the other manor servants. He seems to know quite a bit about the household routine.” Devon paused to take a sip of brandy. “Such as when the lady of the manor visits her tenants.”
Luc sat up straight and looked at him, but from the expression on his friend’s face it was clear he had no intention of saying any more. He was waiting for him to make the next move. Not in the mood for games, Luc baldly asked, “What do you want?”
The marquess looked thoughtful for all of two seconds before saying, “I’d like a new horse. That gray gelding you bought at Tattersall’s last month, care to sell it?”
Without hesitation Luc responded, “It’s yours. Now tell me everything.”
Ria glanced up from the letter she was reading as her estate agent, John Black, entered the office.
Waving the letter she told him, “This is from the estate solicitor. Perwick wants to meet with me to discuss a farm north of York left me by a cousin of my father’s. It’s good timing as I want to discuss with him putting the estate into a trust.”
She looked back down at the letter and in a wistful tone added, “I didn’t know Father had a cousin. I wish I had known. I would have liked to have met him.”
Ria looked back up at her agent as he curtly asked, “What sort of trust?”
The sharp note in his tone surprised her—as did the hard look in his eyes.
“A trust for ladies like my aunts and cousins who, through no fault of their own, have fallen upon hard times.”
Up until this moment she had not really understood what was meant when a person was described as being so surprised his jaw dropped. Now before her was a clear example. John’s jaw definitely fell, and though his mouth kept moving, no sounds came forth. A refreshing change.
Rising from her chair before he could find his elusive voice, she gestured to the papers on the desk and told him, “We can discuss the remainder of this later. I am going to visit Mrs. Eltham as she is ill.”
Just as she reached the door, the estate agent got enough of his voice back to roughly mutter, “You spoil the damn tenants.”
Ignoring his comment, she left and walked down the corridor to the entry hall where the butler was waiting with her pelisse and bonnet.
Outside, she reached the gig just in time to watch as two footmen struggled to lift a large food basket into it. She climbed onto the seat and took the horse’s reins from the waiting groom.
As she set out down the tree-lined drive, her mounted groom following behind, the pale winter sun played among the gray clouds, darting in and out. With no wind to bring a winter chill, she basked in the sunshine, unusually warm for December.
The drive was designed to give views over different parts of the estate. It wound back on itself at one point so that, even while traveling away from the manor, it was possible to admire the house. Ria always enjoyed this sight of the manor and as usual stopped to admire the elegant two-story, red brick Georgian with its regularly spaced white sash windows.
It was not as large and grand as the mansion the masquerade had been held in, but it was larger than the old stone vicarage that had been her home until her parents died. Since that dark time, St. James Manor had come to represent home.
Casting an eye over the tranquil park surrounding the house, she considered her brief conversation with the estate agent. Since her husband’s death, the estate was her responsibility, and she would do whatever she must to protect it and its inhabitants. That included putting the estate into a trust—even if John Blackwell disapproved. It would provide protection for the ladies, the land and the tenants.
