Chapter One
Hampshire, England
“The devil knows why my life should be ruined,” Devon Ravenel said grimly, “all because a cousin I never liked fell from a horse.”
“Theo didn’t fall, precisely,” his younger brother Weston said. “He was thrown.”
“Obviously the horse found him as insufferable as I did.” Pacing around the receiving room, Devon growled, “If Theo hadn’t already broken his damned neck, I’d like to go and break it for him.”
West sent him a glance of exasperated amusement. “How can you complain when you’ve just inherited an earldom that confers an estate in Hampshire, lands in Norfolk, a house in London—”
“All entailed. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm for land and properties that I’ll never own and can’t sell.”
“You may be able to break the entailment, depending on how it was arranged. If so, you could sell everything and be done with it.”
“God willing.” Devon glanced at a bloom of mold in the corner with disgust. “No one could reasonably expect me to live here. The place is a shambles.”
This was the first time either of them had ever set foot in Eversby Priory, the ancestral family domain built over the remains of a monastic residence and church.
So far Devon and West had seen only this room and the entrance hall, the two areas that were supposed to impress visitors the most. The rugs were worn, the furniture threadbare, the plaster wall mouldings dingy and cracked.
None of this boded well for the rest of the twenty-two-bedroom house.
“It needs refurbishing,” West admitted.
“It needs to be razed to the ground.”
“It’s not so bad—” West broke off with a yelp as his foot began to sink into a depression in the rug. He hopped away and stared at the bowl-shaped indentation. “What the deuce . . .?”
Devon bent and lifted the corner of the rug to reveal a rotting hole in the flooring beneath. Shaking his head, he dropped the rug back into place and went to a window fitted with diamond-shaped panes. The lead came that joined the window-glass was corroded, the hinges and fittings rusted.
“Why hasn’t that been repaired?” he heard West ask.
“For want of funds, obviously.”
“But how could that be? The estate comes with almost twenty thousand acres. All those tenants, the annual yields—”
“Estate farming is no longer profitable.”
“In Hampshire?”
Devon sent him a dark glance before returning his attention to the view. “Anywhere.”
The Hampshire scenery was green and bucolic, neatly divided by bottle-green hedgerows in bloom.
However, somewhere beyond the cheerful huddles of thatched-roof cottages, and the fertile tracts of chalk down and ancient woodland, thousands of miles steel track were being laid out for an onslaught of locomotive engines and railcars.
All across England, new factories and mill-towns had begun to appear faster than hazel catkins in the spring.
It had been Devon’s bad luck to inherit a title just as a tide of industry was sweeping away aristocratic traditions and entitled modes of living.
“How do you know?” his brother asked.
“Everyone knows, West. Grain prices have collapsed. When did you last read an issue of the Times? Have you paid no attention to the discussions at the club or the taverns?”
“Not when the subject was farming,” came West’s dour reply. He sat heavily, rubbing his temples. “I don’t like this. I thought we had agreed never to be serious about anything.”
“I’m trying. But death and poverty have a way of making everything seem rather less amusing.
” Leaning his forehead against the windowpane, Devon said morosely, “I’ve always enjoyed a comfortable life without having to perform a single day of honest labor.
Now I have responsibilities.” He said the word as if it were a profanity.
“I’ll help you think of ways to avoid them.” Rummaging in his coat, West pulled a silver flask from an inside pocket. He uncapped it and took a long swallow.
Devon’s brows lifted. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”
“One should always develop one’s talents. Isn’t that what Mother always said?” West tilted the flask again.
The habits of self-indulgence, Devon reflected with concern, were catching up with his younger brother.
West was a tall and handsome man of four-and-twenty, with a wily intelligence that he preferred to use as seldom as possible.
In the past year, an excess of strong drink had lent a ruddy cast to West’s cheeks, and his neck and waistline had softened.
Although Devon had made a point of never interfering in his brother’s affairs, he wondered if he should mention something about his swilling.
No, West would only resent the unwanted advice.
After replacing the flask in his coat, West steepled his hands and regarded Devon over the tips of his fingers. “You need to acquire capital, and sire an heir. A rich wife would solve both problems.”
Devon blanched. “When I die, you’re next in line. You can marry and sire the heir.”
“Do you actually believe I’ll outlive you?” West asked. “With all my vices?”
“I have just as many.”
“Yes, but I’m far more enthusiastic about mine.”
Devon couldn’t hold back a wry laugh.
No one could have foreseen that the two of them, from a far-flung branch of the Ravenels, would be the last in a lineage that could be traced back to the Norman Conquest. Unfortunately, Ravenels had always been too hot-blooded and impulsive.
They yielded to every temptation, indulged in every sin, and scorned every virtue, with the result that they tended to die faster than they could reproduce.
Now there were only two left.
Although Devon and West were wellborn, they had never been part of the peerage, a world so rarefied that the highest levels were impermeable even for minor gentry.
Devon knew little of the complex rules and rituals that distinguished aristocrats from the common masses.
What he did know was that the Eversby estate was no windfall, but a trap.
It could no longer generate enough income to sustain itself.
It would devour the modest annual income from his trust, crush him, and then it would finish off his brother.
“Let the Ravenels come to an end,” Devon said. “We’re a bad lot and always have been. Who will care if the earldom goes extinct and the estate is lost?”
“The servants and tenants might object to losing their incomes and homes,” West said dryly.
“They can all go hang. I’ll tell you how what’s to be done: first I’ll send Theo’s widow and sisters packing; they’re of no use to me.”
“Devon—” he heard his brother say uneasily.
“Then I’ll find a way to break the entailment, split the estate apart, and sell it piecemeal. If that’s not possible, I’ll strip the house of everything valuable, tear it down and sell the stone to a local builder—”
“Devon.” West gestured to the doorway, where a small, slim woman veiled in black stood at the threshold.
Theo’s widow.
She was the daughter of Lord Carbery, an Irish peer who owned a stud farm in Glengarrif. Although she was reputed to be a beauty, it was impossible to tell: a heavy black veil obscured her in a mist of gloom. One thing was certain: after what she had just overheard, she must think Devon despicable.
He didn’t give a damn.
As Devon and West bowed, the widow responded with a perfunctory curtsey.
“Welcome, my lord. And Mr. Ravenel. I will provide a list of the household inventory as soon as possible, so that you may loot and pillage in an organized fashion.” Her voice was refined, the cut-glass syllables frosted with dislike.
Devon watched alertly as she came further into the room. Her figure was too slender for his taste, wand-like in the heft of mourning-clothes. But there was something riveting about her controlled movement, a subtle sense of volatility contained within stillness.
“My condolences for your loss,” Devon said.
“My congratulations for your gain.”
He frowned. “I assure you, I never wanted your husband’s title.”
“It’s true,” West said. “He complained about it all the way from London.”
Devon sent his brother a damning glance.
“The butler will be available to show you the house and grounds at your leisure,” the widow said. “Since I am, as you remarked, of no use to you, I will retire to my room and begin packing.”
“Lady Trenear,” Devon said curtly, “we seem to have started off on bad footing. I apologize for giving offense.”
“None taken, my lord. Such remarks are no less than what I expected of you.” She continued before Devon could reply. “May I ask how long you intend to stay at Eversby Priory?”
“Two nights, I expect. At dinner tonight, perhaps you and I could discuss—”
“I’m afraid my sisters-in-law and I will not be able to dine with you. We are overset by grief, and shall take our meals separately.”
“Countess—”
Ignoring him, she left the room without another word. Without even a curtsey.
Stung, Devon asked, “What the devil did I do to deserve that?”
West’s mouth twitched. “You mean aside from saying you were going to cast her out and demolish her home?”
“I apologized!”
“Never apologize to women. It only confirms that you were wrong, and incenses them further.”
Devon cursed beneath his breath. “I’m going to talk to her.”
“Is that necessary?”
“It is,” Devon said grimly.
Lifting his feet onto upholstered settee, West stretched out and arranged a pillow beneath his head. “Wake me when it’s over.”
Devon left the receiving room and followed the widow with long, ground-eating strides. He caught a glimpse of her at the end of the hallway, her dress and veil rippling as she sped away like a pirate ship at full sail.
“Wait,” Devon called after her in annoyance. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”
“You did mean it.” She stopped and whirled to face Devon. “You intend to destroy the estate, and your family legacy, all for your own selfish purposes.”