“MR. WINTERBORNE,” FERNSBY EXCLAIMED IN horror as she entered the office and saw that Rhys was filthy, battered, and bare-chested save for his coat. “Dear heaven, what happened? Were you set upon by thugs? Thieves?”
“By a building, actually.”
“What—”
“I’ll explain later, Fernsby. At the moment, I need a shirt.” Uncomfortably he fished the prescription from his coat pocket and gave it to her. “Give this to the apothecary and have him mix a tonic—my shoulder was dislocated, and it aches like the devil. Also, tell my solicitor to be in my office within the half hour.”
“Shirt, medicine, solicitor,” she said, committing them to memory. “Are you going to sue the owners of the building?”
Wincing in discomfort, Rhys lowered into the chair at his desk. “No,” he murmured. “But I need to revise my will immediately.”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go to your house to wash first?” she asked. “You’re rather . . . begrimed.”
“No, this can’t wait. Tell Quincy to bring hot water and a towel. I’ll scrub off what I can here. And bring some tea—no, coffee.”
“Shall I send for Dr. Havelock, sir?”
“No, I’ve already been treated by Dr. Gibson. She’s coming for an interview on Monday at nine, by the way. I’m going to hire her to assist Havelock.”
Mrs. Fernsby’s brows arched high over the rims of her spectacles. “She? Her?”
“Haven’t you heard of female doctors?” Rhys asked dryly.
“I suppose so, but I’ve never seen one.”
“You will Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Fernsby muttered, and rushed from the office.
With effort, Rhys reached for the jar of peppermint creams, took one and popped it into his mouth, and resettled his coat around his shoulders.
As the peppermint disintegrated on his tongue, he forced himself to confront the thought that had horrified him during the ride back to Winterborne’s.
What would have become of Helen if he had died?
He had always lived fearlessly, taking calculated risks, doing whatever he pleased. Long ago he had accepted that his business would someday go on without him: He had planned to leave the company to his board of directors, the group of trusted advisors and friends whom he’d collected over the years. His mother would be handsomely taken care of, but she neither wanted nor merited any controlling interest in the company. There were also generous bequests to certain employees, such as Mrs. Fernsby, and sums to be distributed to distant relatives.
But so far Helen hadn’t been mentioned in his will. As things stood, if the building accident had been fatal, she would have been left with nothing—after he had taken her virginity and possibly left her with his child.
It terrified him to realize how vulnerable Helen’s position was. Because of him.
His head throbbed viciously. Bracing his good arm on the desk, he lowered his forehead to the crook of his elbow, and trammeled his frantic thoughts into coherence.
He would have to move quickly to safeguard Helen’s future. The question of how to protect her in the long term, however, was a more complicated question.
As usual, his staff was fast and efficient. Quincy, the elderly valet he had hired away from Devon Ravenel only a few months ago, brought a fresh shirt, waistcoat, a can of hot water, and a tray of grooming supplies. Upon witnessing Rhys’s condition, the concerned valet clucked and murmured in dismay as he washed, brushed, combed, dabbed, and smoothed until Rhys was presentable. The worst part was donning the fresh shirt and waistcoat; as Dr. Gibson had predicted, the injured shoulder was becoming more painful.
After Mrs. Fernsby had brought a dose of tonic from the apothecary, and a tray with both coffee and brandy, Rhys was ready for the solicitor.
“Winterborne,” Charles Burgess said as he entered the office, glancing over him with a mixture of amusement and concern. “You remind me of a rough and tumble lad I once knew on High Street.”
Rhys smiled at the stocky, gray-haired solicitor, who had once worked for his father on small legal matters. Eventually he had become one of Rhys’s advisors as the grocer’s shop expanded into a vast mercantile business. Now Burgess was on the private company’s board of directors. Meticulous, insightful, and creative, he was able to pick his way through legal obstacles like a North Wales sheep through upland heath.
“Mrs. Fernsby says that you were caught in a construction mishap,” Burgess commented, sitting on the other side of the desk. He extracted a notebook and pencil from the inside of his coat.
“Aye. Which brought to my attention the need to revise my will without delay.” He proceeded to explain about his engagement to Helen, giving Burgess a carefully expurgated version of recent events.
After listening closely and writing a few notes, Burgess said, “You wish to secure Lady Helen’s future contingent upon a legal and consummated marriage, I assume.”
“No, starting now. If something should happen to me before the wedding, I want her to be taken care of.”
“You have no obligation to make any provision for Lady Helen until she becomes your wife.”
“I want to put five million pounds in trust for her without delay.” At the solicitor’s stunned expression, Rhys said bluntly, “There may be a child.”
“I see.” Burgess’s pencil moved rapidly across the page. “If a child is born within nine months after your demise, would you wish to make a provision for him?”
“Aye. He—or she—will inherit the company. If there is no child, everything goes to Lady Helen.”
The pencil stopped moving. “It’s not my place to say anything,” Burgess said. “But you’ve only known this woman for a matter of months.”
“It’s what I want,” Rhys said flatly.
Helen had risked everything for him. She had given herself to him without conditions. He would do no less for her.
He certainly didn’t plan on meeting his maker any time soon—he was a healthy man with the greater part of his life still ahead of him. However, the accident today—not to mention the train collision a month ago—had demonstrated that no one was exempt from the vagaries of fate. If something did happen to him, he wanted Helen to have everything that was his. Everything, including Winterborne’s.
KATHLEEN AND DEVON arrived at Ravenel House just in time for afternoon tea, which had been set out on a long, low table in front of the settee.
Striding into the room, Kathleen went to Helen first, embracing her as heartily as if they’d been apart for two months instead of two days. Helen returned the hug with equal strength. Kathleen had become like an older sister to her, at times even a bit maternal. They had confided in each other and grieved together over Theo. In Kathleen, Helen had found a generous and understanding friend.
When Theo had married Kathleen, everyone had hoped it would help to settle him down. Generations of Ravenels had been cursed with the volatile temperament that had distinguished them in battle as they fought alongside the Norman conquerors in 1066. Unfortunately it had been repeatedly proven in the following centuries that the Ravenels’ warlike nature wasn’t suited for any place other than the battlefield.
By the time Theo had inherited the earldom, the estate of Eversby Priory had nearly fallen to ruins. The manor house was decaying, the tenants starving, and the land had gone without improvements or decent drainage for decades. No one would ever know what Theo might have accomplished as the earl of Trenear. Only three days after his wedding, he had lost his temper and gone out to ride an unbroken horse. He had been thrown, and died of a snapped neck.
Kathleen, Helen, and the twins had expected that they would have to leave the estate as soon as Devon, a distant Ravenel cousin, took possession. To their surprise, he had allowed all of them to stay, and he had devoted himself to saving Eversby Priory. Along with his younger brother West, Devon was making the estate viable again, learning everything he could about farming, land improvement, agricultural machinery, and estate management.
Kathleen turned from Helen to embrace the twins. In the gray winter light from the windows, Kathleen’s auburn hair was a lively shock of color. She was a little slip of a thing with distinctive feline beauty, her brown eyes tip-tilted and her cheekbones prominent.
“My dears,” she exclaimed, “I’ve missed you—everything is glorious—I have so much to tell you!”
“So do I,” Helen said with an uneasy smile.
“To begin with,” Kathleen said, “we brought some company from Eversby Priory.”
“Has Cousin West come to visit?” Helen asked.
At that exact moment, the sound of high-pitched barking echoed from the entrance hall.
“Napoleon and Josephine!” Pandora exclaimed.
“The dogs were pining for you,” Kathleen said. “Let’s hope they don’t cause trouble, or back to Hampshire they go.”
A pair of black cocker spaniels burst in the room, yapping excitedly and jumping on the twins, who both dropped to the floor to play with them. Pandora was on all fours, pretending to pounce on Napoleon, who flopped onto his back in joyful surrender. Kathleen opened her mouth to protest, but shook her head in resignation, recognizing that any attempt to calm the boisterous girls would be useless.
Devon, Lord Trenear, entered the room and grinned at the mayhem. “How soothing,” he remarked to the room at large. “Like a Degas painting: ‘Young Ladies at Afternoon Tea.’”
The earl was a handsome man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a seasoned air that suggested a past full of misadventure. His gaze went to Kathleen and turned absorbed and hot, the look of a man in love for the first time in his life. He went to stand just behind her, one hand sliding over her narrow shoulder, while his chin rested gently on the ruddy curls pinned atop her head. Helen had never seen him touch Kathleen in such an openly familiar manner.
“Have you all behaved in our absence?” he asked.
“Two of us have,” Cassandra said from the floor.
Kathleen glanced at the other twin. “Pandora, what did you do?”
“Why do you assume it was me?” Pandora protested with faux indignation, making everyone laugh. She grinned and stood, holding the dog as he wriggled to lick her face. “While we’re asking questions—Kathleen, why is there a ring on your finger?”
All gazes shot to Kathleen’s left hand. Looking bashfully pleased, she extended it for them to see. Cassandra abandoned Josephine and leapt to her feet, joining Pandora and Helen as they crowded close for a look. The ring, featuring a ruby of the rare shade known as “pigeon’s blood,” was set in yellow gold filigree.
“Just before we took the train to Hampshire,” Kathleen confided, “Devon and I were wed at the registrar’s office.”
All three Ravenel sisters burst out with joyful exclamations. The news wasn’t altogether surprising: In the past few months, the household had become aware of the growing attraction between Devon and Kathleen.
“How wonderful,” Helen said, beaming. “Everyone knows you belong together.”
“I hope you won’t think too badly of me for marrying while I’m still in mourning,” Kathleen said in a muffled voice. Drawing back, she continued earnestly, “I wouldn’t wish for any of you to feel that I’d forgotten Theo, or that I didn’t respect his memory. But as you know, I have developed a very deep respect and fondness for Devon, and we decided—”
“Fondness?” Devon interrupted, his brows lifting. But there was a spark of mischief in his blue eyes. Kathleen had been raised in a strict household where declarations of emotion had always been discouraged, and Devon delighted in teasing her out of her reserve.
Self-consciously Kathleen muttered, “Love.”
He pretended not to hear, cocking his head. “Hmm?”
Blushing, Kathleen said, “I’m in love with you. I adore you. May I continue now?”
“You may,” Devon said, gathering her more closely against him.
“As I was saying,” Kathleen went on, “we decided that it was best to marry sooner rather than later.”
“I couldn’t be happier,” Cassandra said. “But why couldn’t you wait to have a proper wedding?”
“I’ll explain later. For now, let’s have tea.”
“You could explain during tea,” Pandora persisted.
“It’s not appropriate for teatime,” Kathleen replied evasively.
Then Helen understood, with insight gained from very recent experience, that Kathleen was expecting a child. It was the most logical explanation for a hasty marriage and an inability to explain why to a nineteen-year-old girl.
A faint blush rose in Helen’s cheeks as she reflected that Devon and Kathleen must have shared a bed, in the way of a husband and wife. It was a bit shocking.
But not nearly as shocking as it would have been if Helen hadn’t done the same thing with Rhys Winterborne only yesterday.
“But why—” Pandora persisted.
“Oh dear,” Helen interceded, “the dogs are sniffing around the tea table. Come, let’s all sit while I pour. Kathleen, how is Cousin West?”
Kathleen settled into a wingback chair, sending Helen a grateful glance.
The subject of West instantly diverted the twins, as Helen had known it would. Devon’s brother, a handsome young rake who pretended to be far more cynical than he actually was, had become the twins’ favorite person in the world. He treated both of them with casual affection and benevolent interest, acting as the older brother they’d never really had. Theo had always lived away at boarding school, and then London.
Talk soon turned to the subject of Eversby Priory. Devon described the massive hematite ore deposit that had been discovered, and how they were developing plans to quarry and sell it.
“Are we rich now?” Pandora asked.
“It’s not polite to ask,” Kathleen said, lifting her teacup. But just before she took a sip, she winked over the rim and murmured, “But yes.”
The twins chortled.
“As rich as Mr. Winterborne?” Cassandra inquired.
“Silly,” Pandora said, “no one’s as rich as Mr. Winterborne.” Noticing the scowl dawning on Devon’s face, she said apologetically, “Oh. We’re not supposed to mention him.”
Devon steered the conversation back to Eversby Priory, and the girls listened avidly as he described proposed plans for a station in the village. They all agreed that it would be marvelously convenient to have access to the railway so close to home, rather than go to the station at Alton.
Teatime was a lavish affair, an indulgence the Ravenels had always maintained no matter what else might have to be sacrificed. A flowered porcelain tea service had been brought out on a heavy silver tray, along with three-tiered stands filled with crisp golden scones, mincemeat puffs, slices of sweet Damson cheese on toast, and tiny sandwiches filled with butter and cress, or egg salad. Every few minutes, a servant came to refresh the hot water or replenish the pitchers of milk and cream.
As the family laughed and chatted, Helen did her best to participate, but her gaze strayed frequently to the mantel clock. Half past five: only ninety minutes until acceptable calling hours would end. She broke off a portion of scone and carefully pressed a morsel of comb honey onto it, waiting until the comb was warm and melting before popping it into her mouth. It was delicious, but in her anxiety, she could hardly swallow. Sipping her tea, she nodded and smiled, only half-listening to the conversation.
“This was lovely,” Kathleen finally pronounced, setting her napkin beside the plate. “I’ll believe I’ll rest now—it has been a tiring day. I will see you all at dinner.”
Devon stood automatically and went to help her from the chair.
“But it’s not yet seven,” Helen said, trying to conceal her dismay. “Someone may call. It is a visiting day, after all.”
Kathleen gave her a quizzical smile. “I doubt anyone will call. Devon has been away, and we’ve extended no invitations.” She paused, focusing more closely on Helen’s face. “Unless . . . we’re expecting someone?”
The mantel clock was absurdly loud in the absence of conversation.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Yes,” Helen said impulsively, “I’m expecting company.”
Simultaneously, Kathleen and Devon asked, “Who?”
“My lord.” The first footman had come to the doorway. “Mr. Winterborne is here on a personal matter.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Helen’s nerves were rioting, her blood coursing as Devon glanced at her sharply. His expression drove Helen’s heartbeat up into her throat.
He returned his attention to the footman. “Did you show him in?”
“Yes, my lord. He’s waiting in the library.”
“Please don’t turn Mr. Winterborne away,” Helen said with forced composure.
“There’s no chance of that,” Devon replied. The words were hardly reassuring; on the contrary, they were uttered with soft menace.
Kathleen touched her husband’s arm lightly and murmured to him.
Devon looked down at her, and some of the violence left his eyes. But still, an unsettling suggestion of ferocity practically radiated from him. “Stay up here,” he muttered, and strode from the room.