Chapter 3
Annabelle
Iwas never supposed to see Trescott Abbey again.
When my father threw me out at sixteen, disinheriting me, he told me never to return. The man had two sons after all, so what use did he have for one disobedient, ruined daughter?
Now I sit in my dead father’s study drinking his excellent whiskey.
I am well on my way to finishing another one of the bottles with which he was so parsimonious in life.
I delight in running through it carelessly.
Unlike my father, if I run out, I can buy more.
It is one of the advantages of being as rich as I am.
Even richer now that I am the master of Trescott Abbey, too.
My late father’s steward, Mr. Perry, is across from me. We are going over the accounts.
We do this exercise nearly every day. I do not love Trescott Abbey, but I will be damned if I run it poorly.
“The cottagers are delighted with the improvements, ma’am,” Mr. Perry says after going over what said repairs have cost me. Dearer than I want but it is nothing in the end. A better price than many would get. I drove the local builder hard.
“That’s very well,” I say languidly. “But I didn’t make the improvements to delight them. I made them so this place would turn a better profit.”
My father was a hard master, which is all well and good.
Unfortunately, he was also an inefficient one.
A workforce housed in shoddy cottages and sick half the time from chill and damp is not good for business.
I have no qualms starving the villagers of this infernal place, who belong with the devil as far as I am concerned.
They are a cruel, sniveling, whining, ignorant lot.
However, if they are too weak, the land cannot be worked.
“I know you didn’t do it for charity, Miss de Lacey. But it did me good to see little Charlie Hurtwell in a cottage with snug walls and a chimney with a decent draw.”
“Your happiness was also not my object.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Perry bows his head. “Did you enjoy your tea with Mr. Saintsbury yesterday?”
It is just like Perry to keep such close watch. I have known the man all my life and he will never quite let me forget it. It is quite irritating.
Did the vicar complain of me?
It was unnecessary, perhaps, to humiliate him in such a fashion, especially when I am already so despised in the village. But the man deigned to instruct me. To give me an order. To attend church no less. I could not let his impertinence go unpunished.
And I assumed he would not reveal such a lowering experience to another soul. Most men do not expose when they have been bested by a woman. I did not need to leave Trescott Abbey or build an empire to know that. No, I learned that at my father’s knee.
May his soul never know a moment of peace.
“It was unremarkable.”
“He is an amiable young man. Mrs. Perry and I have had him to dine. A very suitable choice, Miss de Lacey. For the vicarage, I mean. Of course, Mr. Thompson hoped to get the post for his boy. But your father didn’t think him right for it.”
I sigh. I shouldn’t take Perry’s bait, but I cannot abide the euphemism.
“My father was always resentful of Mr. Howard Thompson’s achievements. My brothers weren’t nearly as steady or accomplished. Neither took a degree at Cambridge, as you’ll recollect, and they spent any money handed to them without thought and were always asking for more.”
“I am sure your father had his reasons when it came to the younger Thompson,” he says evasively.
“We both know his reasons, Mr. Perry. And if I cared for Mr. Thompson, I’d make it right. But I’m sure he hates me just as much as the rest of Trescott.”
Mr. Thompson certainly didn’t counsel Christian restraint to my father when he banished me from home.
“The man should have known my father better,” I continue. “He crowed so much about his son that it would have sickened a man not half as jealous and bitter as my sire.”
“Mr. Saintsbury is quite right for it anyway,” Mr. Perry says, studiously avoiding the content of my speech. “I would hate to see him displaced.”
I study my steward. Why is he insisting upon Mr. Saintsbury? Perhaps he worries I will dismiss him.
In truth, I am considering it. I would love to dismiss Mr. Alfred Saintsbury and leave the post empty, but I have not quite resolved to do it, even after yesterday. I am not sure why.
I invited him to tea to get the measure of him.
I found him pompous and self-important.
And unfortunately, I discovered that, in other respects, he is exactly the type of man I like.
Green eyes, curling hair, slanting, slightly disapproving mouth. He is handsome, but also pretty, far prettier than he needs to be in his profession. Men like Saintsbury never seem to know what to make of their prettiness. But I always do.
I clench my hand, a pulse of desire threading through me.
His pretty, clumsy movements over the teacups—I liked it too much.
When he spilled his tea onto the tray, when he stuttered and stammered, all I thought of was him spilling in other ways, of how he would stutter and stammer when I gave him pleasure.
I have always been that way about a nervous man. I don’t know why.
Many women, I know, dream of men who never show an ounce of uncertainty.
But not me.
When I bedded confident types who were puffed up on themselves, I felt nothing.
But a shy man who is vexed at the idea of his own desires, whose hands shake over teacups and who stammers out apologies—it does something to me. It makes me want.
Perhaps I want such men because I have enough ruthlessness in me for two people.
Maybe more than two.
In a way, that was my problem with my father. He wanted his children compliant. My brothers were yielding. They were happy to be the heirs my father wanted. But not me. And my sire never forgave me for it.
When I left Trescott Abbey at sixteen, I made my way to London. There I built up my counting house. I acquired a reputation for taking big chances in business—investing in risky outfits and ventures—and winning.
When I inherited Trescott Abbey two months ago, I already had more money than Croesus.
Thus, I am used to being powerful. To having the men that I want. In London men do not refuse Annabelle de Lacey anything—in or out of the bedchamber.
I smile, the resolution coming clearly into my mind. My mind is a wonderous thing. It works at a problem tirelessly, even when I am only half-aware of it. Give my mind enough time and it will always come to a solution.
I have everything that I want in this life—money, power, influence.
There is only one thing I lack.
For years, it has nagged at me.
One question.
To whom will I leave this empire?
It may seem an odd desire for a woman like me, but powerful men hunger after the same thing. Why would I be different?
I want an heir of my body, of my own flesh and blood, who will carry out what I have begun when I am gone.
And now that Trescott belongs to me too—well, the need is all the more pressing.
Perhaps, this Saintsbury has appeared for a reason.
I have hesitated to beget myself an heir, because I have found no man who has attracted me sufficiently.
My heir needs to be sired by a man who is something more than common.
Who, at least, I am uncommonly drawn to. No such man has ever materialized.
Until now.
I will seduce the vicar, I resolve quietly.
I will get with child. And then I will discard him.
It is the perfect punishment for the canting pieties he delivered to my face today.
And for how he made me want his shaking hands and stammering mouth.
Best of all, I will then have the one thing I lack and that I have long wanted.
“Yes, I am sure he will suffice,” I demure, beginning to plan. “Not that I will ever see him preach myself. I have no use for church.”
Mr. Perry blanches at that. Good. Perhaps my heretical words will teach him that he shouldn’t try and trade pleasantries with me.
“May we go over the numbers for the stock yard now, Mr. Perry?” I raise a brow to make clear I do not appreciate his social commentary.
What an amusement in all this boredom. I will enjoy Saintsbury once I have him panting beneath me. He will be completely at my mercy. And then a child. It is a beautiful solution.
The man nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
And just like that I am back in control and the world is as I like it.