The Rake. Mary Jo Putney

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СКАЧАТЬ He rode with the effortless grace and skill of a centaur. She supposed that good riding was essential to a well-rounded rake.

      They traveled in silence until they reached the grain-fields. Some were already planted while others were newly plowed, and a few lay fallow. They reined in and surveyed fields quilted by neat hedges.

      “As I recall, Strickland is just over three thousand acres, about half of that let to tenants and the other half in the home farm,” Davenport said. “From the amount of seed you’ve been buying, I assume that you’ve improved a good deal of what was waste. How much acreage is cultivated now?”

      “Almost two thousand acres, with much of the rest used as pasture.”

      He nodded. “You recently bought a shorthorn ram and a score of ewes to improve the stock. What breed did you buy?”

      “Southdowns from Ellman in Sussex.”

      “Excellent choice. Some of the best stock in England.” His gaze slowly scanned the fields in front of them. “You’re using a four-crop rotation?”

      Alys suspected that he was trying to impress her, and he was succeeding. For someone who allegedly had spent his life in taverns and gaming hells, he was extremely knowledgeable about modern agriculture. “Yes, usually with wheat instead of rye. Then turnips, clover, and sainfoin. It’s worked so well that I’ve been able to increase the livestock herds.”

      Davenport nodded again, setting his horse into motion while he asked another question. The interrogation continued throughout the morning as he inquired about the seed drill, the efficiency of the threshing machine she had bought, the oil cake she fed to the beef cattle to improve the quality, the breeding stock used for the dairy herd, the experiments she was trying on the home farm before recommending them to the tenants. His cool expression showed neither approval nor disapproval of her answers.

      By noon Alys had acquired a headache and a considerable respect for her new employer’s understanding. As they rode side by side down a lane toward the home farm, she commented on his knowledge of farming.

      Davenport shrugged. “I was the heir presumptive to the Earl of Wargrave for many years. My uncle wouldn’t let me set foot on any of his properties, but since I was likely to inherit someday, I kept an eye on developments in agriculture.”

      Alys glanced at him thoughtfully. He had done more than “keep an eye” on what was going on. Clearly he had made a serious study of farming and land management, fitting it in between orgies or whatever it was that had given him such a terrible reputation. She felt a surge of sympathy. Davenport had spent his life preparing for a position he would never fill. How did he feel about that? His hard profile gave no clues, but it would take a saint not to feel resentment at being displaced. Alys saw no signs of a halo.

      They came to the irregularly shaped ornamental lake that lay near the manor house. Davenport pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. “Excuse me, there’s something I want to see.” After tethering the beast, he disappeared into a thicket of trees next to the lake.

      Curious, Alys dismounted and tied her own horse, then lifted the long skirts of her riding habit and followed him. Her dress put her at a disadvantage in the thick undergrowth. Swearing under her breath as she unsnagged her habit for the third time, she emerged from the shrubbery into a small clearing at the water’s edge.

      She halted, surprised at the beauty of the place. Lush grass carpeted the ground while bluebells clustered beneath the trees, the violet hue set off by a drift of pale yellow primroses. It was a magical spot, the only sound the fluting song of a thrush and the whisper of wind in the trees. Private, too, because it lay on a cove invisible from the manor.

      Her employer stood by the edge of the lake, looking over its surface as he absently twined the stem of a bluebell around one finger. Alys studied the picture he made. He didn’t have the dandy’s perfection of figure that she had so admired in Randolph when she was eighteen and besotted. Davenport was taller and leaner, with a whipcord grace that hinted at power even when he was motionless.

      He was also disturbingly masculine. Uncomfortably Alys recognized that his virility was much of the reason she found him so unnerving. Breaking the silence to keep her thoughts from that direction, she asked, “How did you know about this clearing? I’ve lived here for four years and never found it.”

      Without turning to look at her, he said, “I was born at Strickland, Miss Weston. Didn’t you know that?”

      Her brows shot up. “No, I didn’t.”

      “I’m surprised that the local gossips weren’t more efficient,” he said, his tone even drier than usual.

      She crossed the clearing and halted beside him. “You caught them unaware. I only heard that the estate was being transferred two days ago, and you appeared yesterday. The gossip didn’t have a chance to catch up.”

      “It will. Gossip always catches up with me.”

      “And wouldn’t you be disappointed if it didn’t,” she said tartly.

      His mouth curved a little. “Probably.”

      “How old were you when you left Strickland?”

      His smile vanished. “Eight.”

      Though his terseness didn’t encourage further questions, Alys’s curiosity overcame her manners. “What happened?”

      “My family died.”

      Not just parents—family. A brother or sister, perhaps several? Alys felt a tightness in her throat as the ghost of old tragedy brushed her with chill fingers. Eight was very young to be orphaned and removed from the only home a child had known.

      She said softly, “I’m sorry.”

      “So am I, Miss Weston, so am I.” There was infinite bleakness in Davenport’s low voice.

      Silence hung heavy between them for a long moment. Then he tossed the bluebell into the lake and turned to her, vulnerability gone. “I didn’t know until my cousin signed Strickland over to me three days ago that the property belonged to my mother and should have come to me. Ironic, isn’t it? My dear guardian told me that Strickland was part of the Wargrave estate, and it never occurred to me to think otherwise.”

      “Good heavens, the old earl deliberately lied about the ownership?” Alys said, appalled by such blatant dishonesty. “How despicable!”

      “Despicable was an excellent word for my uncle,” he agreed. “Wargrave is in much better hands now.”

      “Your cousin discovered the injustice and gave you Strickland?”

      “What a quantity of questions you ask, Lady Alys.” There was a sardonic note in his voice as he used her nickname.

      She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Curiosity is my besetting sin.”

      He smiled faintly. “How nice to have only one sin, singular. Mine come in scores.”

      “I’m sure that I can come up with more than one,” she said a trifle indignantly.

      “And what might the others be?” he asked with interest. “Sleeping during the Sunday sermon? Coveting a neighbor’s horse?”

      Well СКАЧАТЬ