Devil's Daughter

“My reasons are quite rational—”

“As you know,” he continued, “my Edward is every inch of him a gentleman. An ornament to his class. His qualities have often been remarked on. Many a marriage-minded young woman has set her cap for him—I wouldn’t expect him to stay on the market forever.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

“It would be a great pity for you to realize too late what a treasure you might have had in Edward. As the captain of your family’s ship, he would steer a steady course. There would never be surprises with him. No arguments, no unconventional ideas. You would live in perfect serenity.”

Yes, Phoebe thought, that’s exactly the problem.

On the ride back to Clare Manor, Phoebe sorted through the cumbersome pile of ledgers on the seat beside her until she found one with yearly statements of the estate’s profits and losses. After hefting it onto her lap, she began to page through it slowly.

To her dismay, the information was laid out very differently from the ledgers West Ravenel had shown her. A frown worked across her brow. Was the word “liability” used interchangeably with “debt, or did they mean different things in this system of bookkeeping? Did “capital” refer only to property, or did it include cash? She didn’t know how Henry or Edward had defined such terms, and to make matters worse, the pages were littered with acronyms.

“I need a Rosetta Stone to translate all of this,” Phoebe muttered. A sinking feeling came over her as she looked through another ledger, the crop book. Mystifyingly, some of the tenant farmers’ yields had been reported four times, and each number was different.

As the carriage continued along the flint-graveled road, Phoebe considered what to do. She could ask the estate’s land manager, Mr. Patch, to answer some of her questions, but he was quite old and infirm, and a conversation lasting more than few minutes would exhaust him.

There was always the option of waiting for Edward to return, but she didn’t want to do that, especially since he believed she shouldn’t be bothering with accounting in the first place. And in light of the way she’d commandeered the estate ledgers and brought them home herself, Edward would probably be just a bit smug, and one could hardly blame him.

This would be a convenient excuse to send for West.

Holding an account ledger in her lap, Phoebe leaned back against the carriage seat and felt a pang of yearning so sharp, it hurt to breathe.

She wasn’t at all certain West would come, but if he did . . .

How strange it would be to have him at Clare Manor: a collision of worlds, West Ravenel in Henry’s house. It was scandalous for an unmarried man to stay in the home of a young widow, with no chaperone in sight. Edward would be appalled when he found out. Georgiana would have apoplexy on the spot.

Thinking back to that last morning with West, Phoebe recalled him saying something to the effect that he had nothing to offer except a relationship that would insult and lower her.

Love affairs were common among the upper class, who usually married for reasons of family interests and connections and sought personal fulfillment outside of wedlock. Phoebe had never imagined herself doing such a thing or having needs that might outweigh the risk of scandal. But neither she nor West were married; no vows would be broken. No one would be harmed . . . would they?

A shock went through her as she realized she was actually considering it. Oh, God, she was turning into a cliché—the love-starved widow seeking company for her empty bed. A particular figure of mockery, since women were supposed to be above the kind of base physical desire that was considered far more natural and explicable in men. She herself had liked to think so, until West had proved otherwise.

She wished she could talk to Merritt.

She tried to imagine how such a conversation might go:

“Merritt, I’m thinking about having affair with West Ravenel. I know it’s wrong . . . but how wrong?”

“Don’t ask me,” Merritt would probably say, her eyes laughing. “As a moral relativist, I’m thoroughly unqualified to judge your decisions.”

“A fine help you are,” Phoebe would retort. “I want someone to give me permission.”

“No one can do that but you, dear.”

“What if it turns out to be a mistake?”

“Then I suspect you’ll have had a delightful time making it.”

After the carriage had stopped at the front portico of Clare Manor, the footmen carried the stacks of account ledgers to the study. They placed the volumes on the empty bookshelves while Phoebe seated herself at the old oak desk. She smoothed a sheet of writing paper onto the desk’s green leather inset, reached for a slim lacquered pen holder, and inserted a nib.

“Milady,” said one of the footmen, “the books have been put away.”

“Thank you, Oliver. You’re free to go now. Arnold, if you’ll wait a moment, I have another errand for you.”

The younger footman, always eager to prove himself, brightened at the request. “Yes, milady.” He waited at a respectful distance while she wrote a few lines.

Post Office Telegram

Mr. Weston Ravenel

Eversby Priory Hampshire

Knee deep in quicksand. Need rope.

Would you possibly have time to visit Essex?

—P. C.

After folding the paper and tucking it into an envelope, Phoebe turned in her chair. “Take this to the telegraph desk at the post office and make certain they dispatch it before you leave.” She began to extend it to him, then hesitated as a tremor of mingled fear and craving ran through her.

“Milady?” Arnold asked softly.

Phoebe shook her head with a rueful smile and held out the envelope decisively. “Take it quickly, please, before I lose my nerve.”

Chapter 22

“Mama,” Justin said the next morning, pausing in the middle of licking the drizzle of white icing on top of his breakfast bun, “Nanny said I’m going to have a governess.”

“Yes, darling, I plan to start looking for one soon. Please eat the entire bun and not just the icing.”

“I like to eat the icing first.” As Justin saw the objection on her face, he pointed out reasonably, “It’s all going to end up in my tummy, Mama.”

“I supposed so, but still . . .” her voice trailed away as she saw that Stephen had emptied his bowl of applesauce onto the tray of his high chair and was circling his hand through the puddle.

Looking very pleased with himself, the toddler squeezed applesauce through his fingers and licked at it. “Yummy apples,” he told her.

“Oh, dear—Stephen, wait—” She used the napkin from her lap to mop at the mess, and called out to the footman who stood beside the sideboard. “Arnold, fetch the nursemaid. We need reinforcements.”

The young footman dashed away immediately.

“You were doing so well with the spoon,” Phoebe told Stephen, catching his little wrist and wiping his dripping hand. “I rather wish you’d stayed with that method.”

“Ivo didn’t have a governess,” Justin said.

“That was because Granny had time to help with his manners and all the other things a governess teaches.”

“I already know all the manners,” Justin said indignantly.

“Justin—” Phoebe broke off as Stephen smacked his free hand into the applesauce, sending splatters everywhere. “Goodness gracious!”

“It’s in his hair now,” Justin said, looking at his younger brother in the manner of a scientist observing a failed experiment.

The nursemaid, a wiry and energetic girl named Verity, charged into the room with a stack of nursery flannels. “Master Stephen,” she scolded softly, “did you overturn your pudding again?”

“Applesauce this time,” Phoebe said.

The toddler held up his empty bowl with a pair of sticky, glistening hands. “All gone,” he told Verity brightly.

A snort of amusement escaped the nursemaid as she unlatched the tray from the chair. She shook her head as Phoebe reached out to help. “Stand back, if you please, milady—we can’t have applesauce splashing on your dress.”

Justin tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Mama, if I must have a governess, I want a pretty one.”

Another snort from the nursemaid. “They start early, don’t they?” she remarked in an aside.

“In my family, they do,” Phoebe replied ruefully.

The applesauce was mopped up by the time the butler, Hodgson, brought the morning mail on a silver tray. It was far, far too soon to expect a reply from West—the telegram had been dispatched yesterday morning, for heaven’s sake. Still, Phoebe’s pulse turned brisk as she rifled through the stack.

She’d had more than a few second thoughts about having sent the telegram. If only she hadn’t been so impulsive—she should have written a dignified letter. For her to have wired a message to West had probably appeared desperate, or worse, self-important. It was only that she had wanted him to come before Edward returned.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that he wouldn’t. West must be very busy, especially since—according to The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors—September was the month to harrow and fertilize the fields for the sowing of winter wheat. Furthermore, both Kathleen and Pandora had mentioned in correspondence that West had gone to London at least twice during the summer in search of companionship and amusement. One of those visits had been to see Pandora after she’d undergone surgery for a shoulder injury. The operation had been performed by the only licensed female doctor in England, a charismatic woman whom the Ravenel family seemed to like excessively. “My sister Helen is determined to introduce Dr. Gibson to Cousin West,” Pandora had written, “but I don’t think it a likely match, since Dr. Gibson loves the city and hates cows.”