Chapter 3
Three
“How long before the mill can be working?”
The steward pulled a face as he rubbed at his chin. “Assuming we have the mortar and timber and enough men can be pulled from the other work…” He let the words trail off as he stared at the forlorn stone structure, which was in an obvious state of disrepair.
Julian Fitzwilliam Atherton, the new Earl of Davenport, sighed. “Figure out a cost for that too.”
The other man scribbled a notation in his notebook, and then they both spurred their horses forward and continued along the riverbank. They rode in silence for a while, each seemingly occupied with his own thoughts.
“Perhaps you should just hand the bloody place over to the creditors and be done with it,” murmured the steward as they passed yet another field that was lying fallow for lack of seed.
The earl shook his head. “I’m not intimidated by a difficult task, Jarrett. Things will be different now.”
The steward shot him an appraising glance.
“Aye, milord, I have no doubt about that—you ain’t at all like the previous earl.
” He heaved a sigh. “Well, if you’re serious, the tenants will most likely come around.
They’re good folk and not afraid of hard work.
Perhaps it won’t be impossible to set things right. ”
Davenport nodded grimly. “Bring me your list first thing tomorrow morning, and we’ll decide where to begin.” With that, he turned his mount away and spurred the big black stallion into a canter toward home.
After dismounting by the stable, he sighed and loosened his cravat before crossing to the walkway that led to the manor house.
His shirt was damp with sweat, and his worn riding coat showed the effects of a long day spent in the saddle.
A rueful glance at his mud-encrusted boots drew another sigh—he was hardly the picture of a titled gentleman, he thought with an ironic smile.
But he didn’t give a damn about appearances.
All his thoughts were fully occupied with the myriad things that needed to be done to restore the run-down estate to rights.
The first task was to pen a letter to his banker in London.
His own carefully managed funds should be sufficient to satisfy the most pressing demands of the creditors and still leave enough to begin putting things in working order.
With prudent management, hard work and a little luck…
The front door was opened by a rotund man of less than average height.
His wiry hair seemed to defy all efforts with a brush—it stuck straight up from his head as if he had recently encountered a manor ghost. That, combined with his rather large eyes and pinched mouth, gave him a perpetually startled look.
But at least, noted Davenport, there was no longer a stab of fear in the other man’s eyes every time he approached.
“Good evening, Fields,” said the earl.
The butler bowed. He was still having trouble finding his tongue. “G-Good evening, milord,” he finally stammered. “Y-You have a visitor.”
The earl exhaled a long breath and ran a hand through his wind-blown locks. He hadn’t bothered with a hat, and his hair, worn longer than was fashionable, was as dusty as the rest of him.
“Who is he?” he inquired.
“Actually, it’s the C-Countess of Davenport, milord. I put her in th-the library.”
“I trust you lit the fire.”
The butler nodded.
“Very well.” He let out another breath—along with a silent oath. At the moment, he wasn’t feeling up to facing his brother’s widow. What he really wanted was a hot bath and a bottle of brandy.
But it had to be done.
He walked down the corridor and opened the library door.
“Halloo, Julian.” She was still as lovely as when they had first met, though her mouth seemed harder and more careworn, and her eyes were perhaps a shade duller. “I apologize for coming unannounced.”
“You are always welcome here, Helen.”
Her smile was fleeting. “You are…too good.”
Davenport crossed to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a stiff brandy. “May I get you anything?” he asked, gesturing to the sherry.
She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were lying knotted in her lap.
He stared into the fire and took a long swallow from his glass.
“Actually, I’ve come to say goodbye,” intoned Helen.
The earl looked around with a start.
“I have a small property in New Forest, near Lymington, and a modest income to go with it. I inherited it through my mother, and it was one asset Charles couldn’t touch.” She paused, trying to control the emotion in her voice.
“You may always think of this as your home,” he said quietly. “The dower house can be refurbished—”
“No!” cried Helen. “This was never my home! And I don’t wish to be a reminder of…” A fraught pause. “You have borne more than any man should have to bear.” Her voice broke. “The lies, the ugly rumors that have blackened your name! Don’t think that I’m unaware of what I owe you.”
“It isn’t necessary…”
“Yes! Yes, it is! Julian, please let me say it aloud. It is only your willingness to take the blame for many of Charles’s excesses that allows me to appear in Society without being cut directly by all my acquaintances, and my daughter to grow up without hanging her head in total shame.”
“Helen…”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m glad I never bore him a son,” she whispered. “I’m glad Highwood went to you, who deserves it so much more than any seed of Charles’s. Though heaven knows there are probably more than enough of those in the area.”
“Helen,” he repeated quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
The widowed countess struggled to regain her composure. “Lud, what an utter fool I was, Julian.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“How could I have been so blind?” She swallowed hard. “And how can you have ever forgiven me?”
“It was a long time ago,” he said gently. “And we all know how charming Charles could be when he so chose.”
She shook her head. “How can two people so alike on the outside be so different on the inside?”
Davenport ran a finger along the thin white line of puckered flesh that marred his cheekbone. “Ah,” he said, his voice tinged with self-mockery. “Not alike—I’m the twin with the scar.”
Lady Helen regarded him with a look of great sorrow, along with a flicker of inscrutable emotion.
He turned to look out the diamond-paned glass windows.
She continued to stare at his back. “What about you, Julian? I know that Charles mortgaged the estate to the hilt and gambled away any money that your father hadn’t already lost.”
“I shall manage.”
A sigh escaped her lips as she went to stand beside him. “A storm looks to be blowing in.” She rose and moved to stand by his side. “I’ll take my leave so that I may return to my uncle’s before the rain begins.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, she stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss on his cheek.
“Would that the hands of time could be turned back,” she whispered.
He shook his head bleakly. “That, I fear, is beyond the power of any mortal.”
Helen smiled sadly and looked as if to say more. Then her lips pressed together, and after a moment’s hesitation, she simply sighed.
“Goodbye, Julian. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried from the room.
“Happiness?” whispered Davenport, after the door clicked shut. “I fear that is also beyond my power.”
Then he poured himself another brandy. Would that the spirits could wash away the bitter taste that stuck in his throat, no matter how much of the amber liquid he poured into himself.
But alas, it brought only oblivion, not sweet relief from the sea of demands that washed over him. The earl was heartily sick of it—sick of feeling that slowly, inexorably, he was losing a little piece of himself with every crashing wave.
With a grimace, Davenport realized that he could hardly remember how it had all started.
When had his mother first importuned him to have a care for his twin, to try to temper the high spirits of the heir and guard both him and the family name from harm?
The earl thought for a moment. He and his brother could not have been more than ten or twelve years old, but even then, Charles had been irresistibly charming… while he had been painfully dull.
And dim-witted as well, to allow himself to become his brother’s keeper.
From then on, the pattern had been set. Charles had become increasingly wild, while he had been left to quietly make amends for his sibling’s excesses…
Or take the blame himself. Sometimes it had just been easier that way.
It had made his father laugh and his mother cry. He supposed it was the anguished look in her eyes that had kept him from shirking the unfair responsibilities. She had cared about the family’s honor, and the concept of right and wrong.
His own principles must have come from her side of the family, for as much as he had wished to, Davenport had found that he couldn’t simply walk away.
And that had just been the beginning…
Much as his mind rebelled against it, Davenport forced himself to think about Helen. Charles had not been content with merely stealing his brother’s good name—he had found it amusing to take the woman he loved as well.
Closing his eyes for an instant, the earl drained his glass in one quick swallow.
Charming Charles.
His brother had been free and easy with his charm, while he had been shy and awkward. How could he blame a lovely young lady for being seduced by well-turned phrases and elegant manners?
Unfortunately, when in his cups, his brother had become as free and easy with his fists as he had been with his pretty words.
Davenport’s face darkened as he recalled his first sight of the bruises.
Helen had begged him not to make a scene.
So, once again, he had dutifully done what was asked of him, no matter the cost to his own feelings.
Had Helen truly any notion of what torture it had been to watch what was happening to her?
His own suffering must surely have been nearly as painful as hers.
He lifted a finger to trace the thin white scar on his cheekbone as his jaw tightened in anger.
Rather than stand up for herself, Helen had turned to him for comfort.
How unfair a burden! Why was it that he fell prey to vulnerable females?
Not for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to care for someone capable of giving as well as taking.
Well, his brother was dead now, and Davenport intended to bury his own past weaknesses along with him. He meant to finally get on with his own life.
But first, he would uncork another bottle.
* * *
Caroline had no notion of how long she had been lying in a daze.
It was still dark, and the rain had begun anew—light, intermittent drops, but chilling to the bone.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting down a new wave of nausea as pain lanced through her left arm.
She couldn’t move it, but with her right hand, she assured herself that the small packet sewn into the bodice of her gown was still there.
The feel of it triggered the memory of the conversation between her assailants she had heard.
It all seemed so unreal.
But then her fingers moved up to her bruised face—and came away sticky with blood.
Think, think! Caroline knew that she had to move from where she was. With daylight hovering on the horizon, there was a good chance that the men might return. Summoning all her strength, she managed to crawl out from the gorse and make her way back up to the road.
Feeling dizzy from the effort, she slumped against a tree for support and made herself breathe deeply as she pulled her muddy cloak tightly around her aching body.
Thankfully, the rain had stopped. Clouds scudded across the sky, revealing a pale moon.
In the faint light, she saw that the road made a sharp bend up ahead and disappeared into a forest of live oak and beeches.
However, she quickly decided against such a course, which would make her too vulnerable to her attackers.
Given the steep ravine that skirted the right side of the road, she was left with no choice—on the other side of the road was a field, and at its far edge was a copse of trees.
With slow, shaky steps, she set out for their shelter.
The trees turned out to be a larger wooded area than it had first appeared. Though thankful for the cover, Caroline found it difficult to pick her way through the tangle of brush and brambles.
One step at a time, she repeated to herself. And then another…and another.
She forced herself to keep moving. Only once, while crossing a small stream, did she allow herself to stop for a moment.
The water felt cool and comforting as she drank thirstily and washed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face.
The urge to lie down was overwhelming, but she forced herself back to her feet.
She had to keep going.
Dawn’s pink glow slowly tinted the horizon.
Caroline wended her way out of the trees and passed through a number of fields overgrown with weeds and wild blackberry bushes before stumbling upon some sort of path.
Birds began chirping as the light became stronger.
A fox darted out in front of her, returning to its den from a nocturnal hunting foray.
Startled, she stopped dead in her tracks, then chided herself for being so skittish.
Just a little farther, she promised herself, but somehow her feet wouldn’t obey her commands any longer.
Swaying slightly, she crumpled to the ground.