Cold-Hearted Rake

The valet swallowed hard as he considered the proposition. “When shall I begin?” he asked.

Rhys smiled. “Today.”

News traveled fast around the Ravenel household: By the time Devon came to visit Rhys later that evening, he was already aware of Quincy’s new position.

“It appears you’ve begun to hire my servants away from me,” Devon said dryly.

“Do you object?” Rhys lifted a glass of wine to his lips. He had just finished his dinner tray, and was in an unsettled, edgy mood. Hiring a valet had given him a sense of satisfaction that had lasted only a few minutes. Now he was hungry to make decisions, accomplish things, take the reins in hand once more. It seemed as if he would be stuck in this small bedroom forever.

“You must be joking,” Devon said. “I have too damned many servants. Hire ten more, and I’ll dance a jig for joy.”

“At least one of us can dance,” Rhys muttered.

“You couldn’t dance even before you broke your leg.”

Rhys grinned reluctantly; Devon was one of a handful of men in the world who had no fear of mocking him.

“You won’t go wrong with Quincy,” Devon continued. “He’s a solid old fellow.” Settling in the chair by the bed, he stretched out his legs and crossed them.

“How are you?” Rhys asked, noticing that he was moving with uncharacteristic carefulness.

“Grateful to be alive.” Devon looked more relaxed and content than Rhys had ever seen him. “Upon reflection, I realized that I can’t expire for at least forty years: There’s too much to do at Eversby Priory.”

Rhys sighed, his thoughts returning to his department store. “I’ll go mad here, Trenear. I have to return to London as soon as possible.”

“Dr. Weeks said you could begin to walk on the cast, with the aid of crutches, in three weeks.”

“I have to do it in two.”

“I understand,” Devon said.

“If you have no objections, I want to send for some of my staff, and have them visit for a day. I need to find out what’s been happening in my absence.”

“Of course. Tell me how I can help.”

Rhys was grateful to Devon, to an extent he had never felt before. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling: He didn’t like being beholden to any man. “You’ve helped more than enough by saving my neck. Now I want to repay the favor.”

“We’ll call it even if you’ll continue to advise me on the matter of leasing land to Severin’s railway.”

“I’ll do more, if you’ll let me look over the estate’s finances and rental income calculations. English agriculture is a bad investment. You need revenue from sources other than farming.”

“West is making changes that will increase the annual yields by at least half again.”

“That’s a good start. With skill and luck, you might eventually make the estate pay for itself. But you’ll never make a profit. That will only come with ventures in something other than land, such as manufacturing or urban properties.”

“Capital is a problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Devon’s gaze turned sharp with interest. Before he could explain further, however, Rhys happened to catch sight of a slim, dark shape walking past the doorway. It was only a fleeting glimpse… but it was enough to send a jolt of awareness through him.

“You,” he said in a voice that carried out into the hallway. “Whoever just passed by the door. Come here.”

In the riveting silence, a young woman appeared at the threshold. Her features were delicately angular, her silver-blue eyes round and wide-set. As she stood at the edge of the lamplight, her fair skin and pale blond hair seemed to hold their own radiance, an effect he’d seen in paintings of Old Testament angels.

“There’s a grain about it,” Rhys’s father had always said when he’d wanted to describe something fine and polished and perfect, something of the highest quality. Oh, there was a grain about this woman. She was only medium height, but her extreme slenderness gave her the illusion of being taller. Her breasts were high and gently rounded beneath the high-necked dress, and for a pleasurable, disorienting moment Rhys remembered resting his head there as she had given him sips of orchid tea.

“Say something,” he commanded gruffly.

The shy glow of her smile gilded the air. “I’m glad to see you in better health, Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen’s voice.

She was more beautiful than starlight, and just as unattainable. As he stared at her, Rhys was bitterly reminded of the upper-class ladies who had looked at him with contempt when he was a shop boy, holding their skirts back if he passed near them on the street, the way they would seek to avoid a filthy stray dog.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

Rhys shook his head, still unable to take his gaze from her. “I only wanted a face to go with the voice.”

“Perhaps later in the week,” Devon suggested to Helen, “you might play the piano for Winterborne, when he’s able to sit in the parlor.”

She smiled. “Yes, if Mr. Winterborne wouldn’t mind mediocre entertainment.”

Devon glanced at Rhys. “Don’t be deceived by the show of false modesty,” he said. “Lady Helen is a fearsomely talented pianist.”

“It’s not false,” Helen protested with a laugh. “In truth, I have little talent. It’s only that I’ve spent so many hours practicing.”

Rhys glanced at her pale hands, remembering the way she had smoothed salve over his lips with a light fingertip. It had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. For a man who had indulged his carnal appetites without restraint, that was saying something.