Devil's Daughter

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” West asked lightly.

“Never.” Devon’s gaze was warm and steady. For years, all they’d had was each other—their bond was unbreakable. “But it occurs to me that you may want your own life someday. The privacy of your own house. A wife and children.”

“As much as I appreciate the gift of your tax liability . . .” West began dryly.

‘I’ll assume the tax burden until you start to turn a profit. Even after you hire an assistant manager to undertake your work here, you would continue earning a percentage of gross income in lieu of management fees. Obviously, we’ll still need as much oversight as you can spare—”

“Devon. You don’t owe me that.”

“I owe you my life, in the most literal sense.” Devon paused, his voice softening. “I want your life to be no less full than mine. You should have your own family.”

West shook his head. “The day I decide to marry will be long in coming.”

“What about Lady Clare?”

“I might have an affair with her in five or ten years,” West said, “after her next husband starts to bore her. For now, however, she’s not seasoned enough for my taste.”

“Every time she enters the room, we can all hear your heart beating.”

West felt his color heighten. “Bugger off.”

Devon wore an expression of concern blended with a touch of exasperation. It was the same older-brother look he’d given West whenever he’d had been caught bullying or cheating back in their school days. “For our entire lives, West, I’ve always taken your side. You’ve nothing to lose by telling me the truth.”

Folding his arms on the table, West rested his chin on them and glowered at the bookshelves. “I think I’m in love with her. Either that, or I have a stomach disease with a side effect of uncontrollable sweating. But there’s no doubt about one thing: I have no business marrying and reproducing. Somehow, you’ve managed to rise above our upbringing. You’re a good husband, and by some miracle you’re a good father. I won’t tempt fate by trying to follow suit.”

“What’s stopping you? The fact that you used to be a rake?”

“You were a rake. I was a wreck. Two years of moderately decent behavior doesn’t wipe away an entire personal history.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It will. Imagine Justin a few years from now, meeting another boy whose family was ruined because I once had an affair with his mother. Or when someone tells him about a formal party at which I turned up too drunk to walk straight. Or the charming fact that I was booted out of Oxford because I set fire to my room. Or how about this?—Imagine the moment I have to tell him that his father hated me to his dying day for bullying him at boarding school.”

“If his mother forgave you, don’t you think he’ll be able to?”

“Forgiveness be damned. It doesn’t make any of it go away.”

“I think you’re missing the point of forgiveness.”

Lifting his head, West said bleakly, “We have to stop talking about this; Phoebe will be here soon to look at the farm account ledgers.” He sorely regretted inviting her. It had been a stupid impulse.

Sighing, Devon stood. “Before I leave, let me share a piece of hard-won wisdom about women.”

“God, must you?”

“It’s not all about what you want. It’s also about what she wants. No matter what your intentions, most women don’t like it when you make their decisions for them.”

Phoebe came to the door of the study, which had been left partially ajar, and knocked on the doorjamb. It reminded her of when she’d walked into West’s bedroom and found him half naked, and she felt a pang of nerves.

“Lady Clare.” West appeared at the threshold, looking polished and handsome in a dark suit of clothes and a conservative striped necktie. His hair was neatly brushed back and his face close-shaven. One would never suspect what was beneath all those civilized layers, Phoebe thought, and blushed because she knew there were stitches above his left hip, and a bruise left by a sheep’s hoof on his right forearm, and a tan line below the waist, and a hairy chest that intrigued her more every time she thought about it.

After welcoming her into the study, West seated her at a table pilled with books.

“What a refreshing change to see you fully dressed,” Phoebe said lightly.

West turned and leaned back against the table, smiling down at her. “Are we going to start by flirting?”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“Let’s not deceive ourselves, madam: your allusion to my clothing and my previous lack thereof was definitely flirting.”

Phoebe laughed. There was something different in his manner with her today, a friendliness accompanied by a slight distance. She was relieved; it would make everything easier. “It was accidental flirting,” she said.

“It could happen to anyone,” he allowed graciously.

As Phoebe’s gaze moved to a towering stack of ledgers, she winced. “My goodness.”

“We keep a separate book for every department of the estate. Household, crops, dairy and poultry, livestock, pay list, inventory, and so forth.” West gave her a questioning glance. “That’s not how they do it at the Clare estate?”

“I’ve never actually seen the Clare account books,” Phoebe admitted. “Only the household ledger, which the housekeeper and I used to oversee together. Edward Larson has handled the rest of the bookkeeping ever since Henry’s health declined.”

“Why didn’t you have an estate manager handle it?”

“He was quite old and wanted to retire. It was a great relief when Edward offered to step in and manage things. Henry trusted him completely.”

“They were first cousins?”

“Yes, but they were more like brothers. Henry didn’t like to mix with people outside of his family or mine. He preferred to keep his world small and safe.”

West’s head tilted slightly, the light sliding over the rich chocolate luster of his hair. “And therefore, so was yours,” he said in a neutral tone.

“I didn’t mind.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “As much as I like the pace of life in the country, I’d go mad if I didn’t occasionally visit friends in London and enjoy more sophisticated amusements than can be found here.”

“There are things I miss about London,” Phoebe said. “But now I’m obliged to stay away, especially during the Season. As a widow and the mother of an heir presumptive, I’ll be the target of every fortune hunter in England.”

“If it makes you feel better, I promise never to propose to you.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said with a laugh.

Turning businesslike, West pulled a broad ledger from a stack and set it in front of her.

“When do you move to Essex?”

“In a fortnight.”

“Once you’re settled, ask for the general account books. One of them will contain yearly statements of the estate’s profits and losses. You’ll want to look at the past four or five years to—why are you frowning? It’s too soon to be frowning.”

Phoebe picked up a stray pencil and fiddled with it, tapping the blunt end against the edge of the ledger. “It’s the idea of asking Edward for the account books. I know it will upset him. He’ll take it as a sign that I don’t trust him.”

“It has nothing to do with trust. He should encourage your involvement.”

“Most men wouldn’t have that attitude.”

“Any man with common sense would. No one will watch over Justin and Stephen’s interests better than their mother.”

“Thank you. I happen to agree.” Her mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, Edward won’t approve, and neither will Henry’s mother. In fact, no one connected to the Clare estate will like it.” Phoebe didn’t realize she was clenching the pencil in a death grip until West gently extricated it from her fist.

“I know how intimidating it is to have to learn all this,” he said. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve already faced.” His warm hand slid over hers. “You have a backbone of steel. You went through months of hell looking after a small child, a dying husband and an entire household, with unholy patience. You missed meals and went without sleep, but you never forgot to read Justin a bedtime story and tuck him in at night. When you let yourself cry or fall apart, it was only in private, for a few minutes, and then you washed your face, put your broken heart back together, and went out with a cheerful expression and a half dozen handkerchiefs in your pockets. And you did all of it while feeling queasy most of the time because you were expecting another child. You never failed the people who needed you. You’re not going to fail them now.”

Shocked down to her soul, Phoebe could only manage a whisper. “Who told you all that?”

“No one.” The smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Phoebe . . . anyone who knows you, even a little, would know those things about you.”

“Peruvian guano,” Phoebe read aloud from a list of expenditures. “You spent one hundred pounds on imported bat droppings?”