Cold-Hearted Rake

Kathleen returned to the library table, pushing the chairs back into place. “How am I to prepare her for the season, if I can’t manage to keep her seated for more than five minutes?”

“I’m not certain it can be done.”

“Cassandra is making excellent progress, but I’m not certain that Pandora will be ready at the same time.”

“Cassandra would never go to a ball or soiree if Pandora wasn’t with her.”

“But it’s not fair for her to make such a sacrifice.”

Helen’s slight shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. “It’s the way they’ve always been. When they were small, they spoke to each other in their own invented language. When one of them was disciplined, the other would insist on sharing her punishment. They hate to spend time apart.”

Kathleen sighed. “They’ll have to, if progress is to be made. I’ll spend a few afternoons tutoring Pandora in private. Would you be willing to study separately with Cassandra?”

“Yes, of course.”

Helen organized the books, tucking in scraps of paper to mark the right place before closing each one. How careful she always was with books: they had been her companions, her entertainment, and her only window to the outside world. Kathleen worried that it would be difficult for her to acclimate to the cynicism and sophistication of London.

“Will you want to take part in society, when the mourning period is over?” she asked.

Helen paused, considering the question. “I would like to be married someday,” she admitted.

“What kind of husband do you wish for?” Kathleen asked with a teasing smile. “Handsome and tall? Dashing?”

“He doesn’t have to be handsome or tall, as long as he’s kind. I would be very happy if he loved books and music… and children, of course.”

“I promise, we’ll find a man like that for you,” Kathleen said, regarding her fondly. “You deserve nothing less, dear Helen.”

“Why didn’t you come to eat at the club?” West asked, striding into the parlor of Devon’s terrace apartment. Most of the rooms had been stripped of their furnishings. The stylish modern terrace had just been let to an Italian diplomat for the purpose of keeping his mistress. “They served beefsteak and turnip mash,” West continued. “I’ve never known you to miss —” He stopped abruptly. “Why are you sitting on the desk? What the devil have you done with the chairs?”

Devon, who had been sorting through a stack of mail, looked up with a scowl. “I told you I was moving to Mayfair.”

“I didn’t realize it would be so soon.”

Ravenel House was a twelve-bedroom Jacobean residence of stone and brick, looking as if the manor at Eversby Priory had spawned a smaller version of itself. Thankfully Ravenel House had been kept in better condition than Devon had expected. It was overfurnished but comfortable, the dark wood interior and deeply hued carpets imparting a distinctly masculine ambiance. Although Ravenel House was too large for one person, Devon had no choice but to take up residence there. He had invited West to live with him, but his brother had no desire to give up the comfort and privacy of his stylish terrace.

One couldn’t blame him.

“You look rather glumpish,” West commented. “I know just the thing to cheer you. Tonight the fellows and I are going to the music hall to see a trio of female contortionists who are advertised as the ‘boneless wonders.’ They perform in tights and little scraps of gold cloth —”

“Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Boneless wonders,” West repeated, as if Devon must not have heard him correctly.

Not long ago, the offer might have been moderately tempting. Now, however, with the weight of accumulated worry pressing on him, Devon had no interest in flexible showgirls. He and West and their friends had seen similar performances countless times in the past – there was no novelty left in such shenanigans.

“Go and enjoy yourself,” he said, “and tell me about them later.” His gaze returned to the letter in his hand.

“It does no good to tell you about them,” West said, disgruntled. “You have to see them, or there’s no point.” He paused. “What is so fascinating about that letter? Who is it from?”

“Kathleen.”

“Is there news from the estate?”

Devon laughed shortly. “No end of it. All bad.” He extended the letter to West, who skimmed it quickly.

My Lord,

Today I received a visit from Mr. Totthill, who appears to be in failing health. It is my private opinion that he is overwhelmed by the demands of his position as your estate agent, and is no longer capable of carrying out his responsibilities to your satisfaction, or indeed to anyone’s.

The issue he brought to my attention concerns five of your lowland tenants, who were promised drainage improvements three years ago. The clay soil on their farms is as thick and sticky as birdlime, and nearly impossible to plow. To my dismay, I have just learned that the late earl borrowed money from a private land improvement company to perform the necessary work, which was never done. As a result, we have just been issued an order from the court of quarter session. Either we must repay the loan immediately, or install proper drainage on the tenants’ farms.

Please tell me if I may help. I am acquainted with the tenant families involved, and I would be willing to speak to them on your behalf.

Lady Trenear

“What’s birdlime?” West asked, handing back the letter.

“A glue made of holly bark. It’s smeared on tree branches to catch birds. The moment they alight, they’re permanently stuck.”