The Devilish Mr. Danvers: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (4 page)

Why spread her worry? Surely he had enough to think about with the rheumatism he often mentioned. “How was your trip to Grimsby?” she asked instead. “Are your grandchildren much changed since you’d last seen them?”

While she’d never met Mr. Tims’s family, hearing him speak of them with such affection had made her feel as if she knew them.

“Aye.” He smiled, and those dusty eyebrows drew apart, the tail ends bracketing either side of his eyes. “Polly’s growing into a beauty like her mother, and Walt—that scamp—is itching to climb aboard his father’s fishing boat. Soon enough . . . too soon, he’ll take his place beside his da.”

For a moment, he simply stood there in the archway, his gaze far off to sea. Then, reaching inside a pocket flap on his trousers, he withdrew a red kerchief and blew his nose soundly.

Boris backed up a step, his ears perked. Hedley nearly laughed at the way the dog looked helplessly up at her. The honking geese at Sinclair House—the same ones that had supplied Mother and Ursa with pillow stuffing—didn’t hold a candle to Mr. Tims.

“Eh. Maudlin thoughts are the curse of an old man,” the caretaker grumbled, stowing his kerchief. “I came by to tell you that I have news.”

“From Grimsby?”

“No. I stopped by Sinclair House before I arrived.” He hesitated just long enough to fill her with dread. “Your sister and her husband have returned.”

Distractedly, Hedley wondered if her eyes were as helpless-looking as Boris’s had been a moment ago. She drew in a breath to help settle the jump in her nerves. “I’m certain Mother will be glad for the visit. Ursa and Mr. Cole must have left the colonies the moment word of Grandfather’s death reached them.” Or even before . . . Surely if one accounted for word to reach them and then time for their journey, it stood to reason that they’d set off before his death. Trembling now, she wondered at the reason.

Mr. Tims released a series of tsks as he shook his head. “I overheard them talking about your inheritance.”

Suddenly, all the strength left Hedley’s body. She sat down. On the floor. Next to Boris, who laid his head on her knee. “Why would Ursa be talking about Greyson Park?”

This place had never interested Ursa. She’d been only too happy to leave it behind and let it rot. While Hedley didn’t know exactly how the property had been removed from her sister’s dowry, she knew that Ursa’s name no longer appeared on the deed to Greyson Park.

“From what I gather, that husband of your sister’s, that
Mr. Cole
, knew a fellow whose family hailed from Lincolnshire.” Mr. Tims’s expression turned thoughtful. “Apparently, a few hundred years back or so, the family who used to own this land were goldsmiths. Over time, it was sold off in marriage, but the rumor of treasure here in this very house lingers.”

“Treasure? Here?” Impossible. She shook her head, even as the weight of foreboding settled over her.

A raspy cough escaped him as he shook his head. “When I heard it, I nearly gave myself away by laughing. To think that Greyson Park, under my own care these past few years, is full of treasure.”

Over the years, this estate had been under the care of many men who’d been discarded by the Sinclair family. Mr. Tims had worked as the family gardener since shortly after Hedley was born. He used to live in a cottage near Sinclair House and had worked from dawn to dusk each day because Hedley’s mother refused to hire additional laborers. Then, when age diminished his ability to maintain the land to Mother’s satisfaction, she’d sent him here to live in the old gatehouse.

The gatehouse at Greyson Park served the purpose of an almshouse, leaving the main house essentially untended. Even Mr. Tims had admitted that his rheumatism forced him to avoid the stairs.

Accounting for all of that, it was
possible
that a treasure could exist, and it had been left under the noses of all who’d been assigned to oversee Greyson Park.

Sickening dread churned within Hedley. Ursa would have come to the same conclusion. If she’d traveled all the way from the former colonies in search of treasure at Greyson Park, nothing would stop her from getting everything she wanted.

Yet Ursa hadn’t wanted Greyson Park before . . . No, it had been Rafe Danvers. Peculiarly, he still wanted it, even in its current state. Which raised the question—had Rafe known about this supposed treasure all along?

CHAPTER FOUR

L
ater that afternoon, Rafe stood inside Hawthorne Manor near London and handed his brother-in-law a scotch.

Oliver Goswick, Viscount Rathburn, didn’t even see him. He was too busy pressing his ear to the door, eyes wide in something akin to terror. “Did you hear that? I think Emma called for me.”

They had always been the best of friends, even before the tragic fire that had claimed Rathburn’s father and brought him into the bosom of the Danvers clan. Now, since Rathburn’s marriage to Rafe’s sister last spring, they were true brothers.

“Drink,” Rafe said, pushing the glass into Rathburn’s hand. His own was unsteady, but he kept that fact hidden by staying in motion.

Rafe’s little sister was upstairs, giving birth to her first child. When he’d heard her cry out an hour ago, the instinct to protect her from harm had had him mounting the stairs in tandem with Rathburn . . .

Until the fierce Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had stopped them both at the top. “Come one step closer,” she’d warned, “and I’ll throttle you both with my cane.”

Rathburn had stood tall against his grandmother, but his voice was weak. “She needs me.”

The dowager’s glower had softened and she’d laid a hand over Rathburn’s arm. “Emma is strong. Be brave for her.”

Then, for good measure, the old dragon had ordered the head butler to lock them in the study.

Now, here they were—Rathburn, Weatherstone, Rafe, and his father—trapped in the study together.

Cuthbert Danvers crossed the room and clutched both Rafe and Rathburn by the shoulders. Above a vibrant paisley cravat, he offered a grin, an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. “These things take time, boys. Why, I remember, that Celestine spent the better part of two days in her chamber for you, Rafe. Longest hours of my life. But worth it.” He patted Rafe’s cheek.

“I destroyed
six
ledgers the day Penelope had our son,” Ethan Weatherstone said from behind them. Rising from the chair near the hearth, he smiled as if pleased by the memory. For a man who preferred order in his life above all things, this was a startling confession. “Nearly tore the door from the hinges to get to her”—he adjusted his cravat—“but I imagine that’s to be expected.”

The image of Weatherstone turning into a man possessed caused Rafe to grin. Their acquaintance had begun in school when a bullying prefect had taunted Weatherstone about his perfectly numbered columns in his perfectly ordered ledgers. Both Rafe and Rathburn had come to Weatherstone’s defense, and ever since they’d remained close. Weatherstone had also stood by the Danverses during their disgrace. That loyalty meant the world to Rafe.

“I tore a canvas to shreds with my bare hands, waiting for Emma to be born,” Cuthbert Danvers admitted, as if this were the perfect opportunity to confess to madness. Then he turned to Rathburn. “Oliver, your father took a sledgehammer to an old Crofter’s cottage and brought it to the ground the day you were born. He would have been so proud to stand here with you today.”

Rathburn clutched his shoulder and nodded. “I—”

The shrill sound of a baby’s cry interrupted him. Turning toward the door, he pushed the untouched glass of scotch back at Rafe, barely giving him the chance to grab it. Then, like a man possessed, he rammed his shoulder through the seam in the doors, splintering the wood where the lock once held.

Rafe stared after his friend as he ran up the stairs.

It took a moment to realize that his father was gripping Rafe by the arm, holding him back. “She’s Oliver’s responsibility now,” his father said quietly.

Rafe knew that, of course. He’d known for quite some time that Rathburn was the best of men. Like Weatherstone, the entire Goswick family had stood beside the Danverses when they’d been cut off from society. Only the best man would have done for his sister.

“You’ve always been our family’s steadfast shield,” his father quipped, ruffling his hair. “It would do my heart good to see you with a family of your own.”

The words were like a vinegary dose of reality. He swallowed down the pungent brew, reminded of how close he’d once been. Until Ursa Sinclair, and her whole family, had played him for a fool.

“Not until Greyson Park is mine.” And likely not even then. The entire ordeal had soured him on the idea of marriage.

His father withdrew the pipe from his teeth and pointed at him with it. “That house has been out of our family for over a hundred years, sold off in a marriage bargain. These things happen.”

But Greyson Park was more than just a house. The
treasure
it held could restore the Danvers name in society. Not that the
ton
mattered to Rafe, but he was still looking to protect his family. He wanted the best for them. Emma had a perfect life with Rathburn. Now, his parents were long overdue for theirs.

“Dear me!” a feminine voice exclaimed. “Did Rathburn break through the door?”

Looking out into the hall and up to the top of the stairs, Rafe saw two of Emma’s closest friends—Merribeth and Delaney—begin their descent.

“Aye. He did,” Rafe said.

Merribeth arched a dark eyebrow and shook her head. “Then I am glad I told Simon to spend the day at Tattersall’s. I wouldn’t want him to get any ideas,” she said with one hand on the rail and the other over her gently rounded belly.

“And I am glad Griffin is with him,” Delaney added, glowing brightly beneath a fall of auburn hair. “That way we can simply tell our husbands how patient Rathburn was and to live by his example.” Both women laughed as they crossed the hall to the study.

“How is Emma?” Rafe was still tempted to mount the stairs.

Merribeth beamed. “She is positively resplendent.”

“But tired,” Delaney said, looking first to Rafe’s father and then to him. “And your grandson—and your nephew—has all ten of his fingers and ten of his toes.”

“And a healthy set of lungs,” Merribeth added.

“Grandson,” Cuthbert Danvers said, clutching Rafe’s shoulder again and giving it a squeeze.

“Nephew,” Rafe breathed. A mixture of familial pride and something he would almost describe as a bittersweet yearning filled him. But the latter was more likely the effects of fine scotch on an empty stomach.

“Penelope should be down directly,” Delaney said to Weatherstone. She walked into the room and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs. “She wanted to retrieve your son from the nursery.”

Merribeth sat across from her and sighed. “In the meantime, the new grandmothers
and
great-grandmother are cooing over the baby while Rathburn and Emma have a moment alone together.”

“A son. That reminds me,” Weatherstone said, withdrawing a small ledger from inside his coat. “Danvers, I believe you and I have won the wager. Both Croft and Knightswold claimed the child would be a girl.”

“You wagered on your own sister’s child?” Merribeth gasped.

Rafe looked to Weatherstone, wondering if he was missing the significance. His friend closed the ledger and tucked it away with a shrug. What else was a man to do when presented with fifty-fifty chance of winning?

“Men will wager on absolutely anything,” Delaney said, as Penelope Weatherstone sauntered to the study, bouncing a handsome lad on her hip. A maidservant followed with a tray of tea.

While the women were distracted with pouring, and Weatherstone with his wife and son, Rafe’s father shook his head and poked him with the tip of his pipe. “I’ve recently heard of another wager, though I
sincerely
hope I’ve been misinformed.”

It was foolish to believe the wager between Everhart, Montwood, and himself would remain a secret. Rafe and his father stepped into the hall for a more private conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was cast a pall over their merry party. “In my own defense, I know I cannot lose.”

“I’m certain that not even Weatherstone could calculate how many times men have turned that phrase . . . ”

Making an attempt at levity, Rafe offered, “Some of them were bound to be right.”

“Not many, I’d gather.” There was an unmistakable edge to his father’s voice. “I assume that this is a continuation of your quest for Greyson Park?”

“I made an offer, and it was accepted.” There was no point in denying it. “The only problem is that, apparently, when I paid a good-faith sum and signed a contract, I was not aware that the estate had been settled upon a
different
Sinclair as an inheritance.”

“A different Sinclair?”

Rafe was still disgusted with himself for being so blinded by victory. After so many years of waiting, why hadn’t he taken the necessary precautions of having his own solicitor oversee the contract? “The younger daughter inherited the property.”

“I wasn’t aware there was
another
daughter.” His father looked wary, as if the possibility of having two women like Ursa Sinclair on this earth was two too many. And he would be right.

“Neither was I. Although, I had met her on a prior occasion,” Rafe added, the memory sparking anew.

Hedley’s hair had been braided that day, in a thick golden plait that nearly reached the fingertips she’d kept clasped behind her back. With her green shawl and brown dress, she’d nearly blended in to the garden shrubs and trees around her. But when she’d turned at the sound of his voice and that startled gaze had alighted on him, he’d realized his mistake—she hadn’t blended in at all.

For a moment, he’d thought he’d snared a wood sprite, and all from a single comment about her shawl. Then, hearing Ursa, he’d turned away. And when he’d looked back, the sprite had disappeared.

He’d convinced himself that she hadn’t been real after all. Then, upon seeing her again, he realized that she had been—and still was—all too real. And regrettably, another Sinclair.

“It had never occurred to me,” he continued, “that the young woman I’d noticed in the garden was the Sinclairs’ other daughter.”

His father tapped the tip of the pipe against the side of his mouth. “The sisters hold no similarities?”

Rafe shook his head. “Neither in appearance nor in design. If you can believe it, Hedley wears rags. Whereas her sister had never worn the same gown twice.”

“Hedley?” His father lifted his brows. “You don’t refer to her as
Miss Sinclair
?”

“Surely you can understand that using that particular address would sour my stomach.” Rafe didn’t bother to explain it further. Calling Hedley by her Christian name was nothing more than a way of separating the two sisters in his mind. Not that he needed to separate them. Or that he spent time—not too much, at any rate—thinking about the differences between them. It was just a matter of convenience. Nothing more. The reason his thoughts kept drifting to Hedley was purely because of recent developments, he was sure.

“Opposites, you say?” His father turned his head toward the sound of a soft cry up the stairs.

Rafe followed his gaze and listened with an absent ear, his thoughts far away in Lincolnshire. “Quite. Hedley has pale features and an artless way about her, whereas her sister is both dark in her looks and in her demeanor.” He found the contrast in Hedley refreshing.

Even when she’d attempted to lie about having an ailing grandmother and four elder brothers, her cheeks had turned pink, betraying her. Ursa, on the other hand, had been able to lie directly to his face for weeks without batting an eye.

“If the girl is pale, perhaps she is sickly. That could explain why no one has heard of her.”

Rafe dismissed that with a wry laugh. An instant image of her bending at the waist with her dress dampened against her legs flashed in his mind. “No. There must be another reason because the young woman I met was quite hale. Her unspoiled complexion is more like . . . Devonshire cream or the moon when it crests the treeline.”

Except for when she blushed. And then her cheeks became tinged with the most extraordinary hue. He wondered if he could re-create that particular shade of pink in his glasswork.

“Are her eyes not that unmistakable obsidian like the Sinclairs?”

“No.” There was no trace of the Sinclairs in
her
eyes. For that, he was grateful because he couldn’t seem to erase them from his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes . . . “They are blue.”

“Bah. That is no answer to me.
Blue
is the same as saying that rain appears wet.” His father always appreciated exactitude when it came to color.

“Very well. They are blue, like cornflower petals beneath a veil of fog. Wide and guileless . . . ”

His father cleared his throat in some manner of approval. “And what do you plan to do about Greyson Park once you return to Fallow Hall?”

Rafe shrugged. “A stipulation of her inheritance states that she will lose Greyson Park if she marries. If you take my wager with Everhart and Montwood into account, it’s in my best interest to marry her off to Montwood, who is the only remaining bachelor.”

First, he would need to learn if she displayed a prowess for flirting in order to lure his friend. Then, perhaps, he would purchase a new shawl for her. Something that would set an enticing frame around her features.

“Aside from you,” his father corrected, pulling Rafe away from a silent attempt to define the exact shade of pink on her cheeks. “You are
also
a bachelor.”

He’d heard this before. “Yes, but I am a more permanent type of bachelor, Father. Surely you’d never expect me to marry.”

“I seem to recall a young boy saying something rashly similar about mounting a horse again after he’d broken his arm in a fall.”

Rafe scoffed. “I was eight years old at the time.”

“Ah, yes.” He lifted his pipe. “But you were ten before you’d ever set your feet into the stirrups. Such a stubborn child. Over these past years, I’ve often wondered if you were more concerned about wounding your person . . . or your pride.”

H
edley dragged the heavy Turkish carpet up the stairs and paused to catch her breath. “Almost . . . there . . . ” she panted, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow.