Devil's Daughter

West had scowled. “I don’t bloody know.”

“You might as well marry her. There’s no escaping women.”

“I’m hardly going to throw myself on the sacrificial altar just because you did,” West had retorted. “Our friendship doesn’t mean that much to me.”

Ransom had grinned and leaned back in his chair as the tavern maid approached the table with a foaming jug. “Take my advice, you daft block o’ wood. Be happy while you’re living—you’ll be a long time dead.”

West’s thoughts were drawn back to the present as Phoebe led him to a spacious reception room with silk-paneled walls and a gilded ceiling. Above the marble fireplace hung a large three-quarter-length portrait of a young man. A slant of light from the windows caused his face to glow as if with its own illumination.

Fascinated, West drew closer to the portrait.

“Henry,” he said, with a faint, questioning lilt.

Phoebe nodded, coming to stand beside him.

The young man was clad in a loosely painted suit, shadows hollowing the fabric here and there. He posed next to a library table with a touch of self-conscious grace, one hand resting lightly on a stack of books. A handsome and touchingly vulnerable man, dark-eyed and chiseled, his complexion as fine as porcelain. Although his face had been rendered with precise edges, the borders of his coat and trousers were softly blurred, seeming to melt into the dark background. As if the portrait’s subject had begun to disappear even as he was being painted.

Staring at the portrait with him, Phoebe said, “People always tend to idealize the departed. But I want the boys to understand their father was a wonderful, mortal man with flaws, not an unapproachable saint. Otherwise, they’ll never really know him.”

“What flaws?” West asked gently.

Her lips pursed as she considered the question thoughtfully. “He was often elusive. In the world, but not of it. Part of that was because of his illness, but he also didn’t like unpleasantness. He avoided anything that was ugly or upsetting.” She turned to face him. “Henry was so determined to think of me as perfect that it devastated him when I was petty or cross or careless. I wouldn’t want—” Phoebe paused.

“What?” West prompted after a long moment.

“I wouldn’t want to live with such expectations again. I’d rather not be worshipped, but accepted for all that I am, good and bad.”

A wave of tenderness came over West as he looked into her upturned face. He longed to tell her how completely he accepted her, wanted her, how he adored her every strength and frailty. “I’ve never thought of you as perfect,” he told her flatly, and she laughed. “Still,” he continued, his tone gentling, “it would be hard not to worship you. I’m afraid you don’t behave nearly badly enough to bring my feelings into proportion.”

A hint of mischief glittered in Phoebe’s light gray eyes. “If that’s a challenge, I accept.”

“It’s not a challenge,” he said quickly, but she didn’t appear to hear as she led him from the room.

They went to a glass-and-stone corridor connecting the main block of the house to one of the side wings. Sunlight poured through the paned windows, warming the corridor agreeably.

“The guest cottage can be reached through the east wing,” Phoebe said, “or by way of the winter garden.”

“Winter garden?”

She smiled at his interest. “It’s my favorite place in the house. Come, I’ll show you.”

The winter garden turned out to be a glass conservatory, two stories high and at least one hundred and twenty feet long. Lush ornamental trees, ferns, and palms filled the space, as well as artificial rock formations and a little streamlet stocked with goldfish. West’s opinion of the house climbed even higher as he looked around the winter garden. Eversby Priory had a conservatory, but it wasn’t half as large and lofty as this.

An odd little noise seized his attention. A series of noises, actually, like the squeaking of toy balloons releasing air. Bemused, he looked down at a trio of black-and-white kittens roaming around his feet.

Phoebe laughed at his expression. “This room is also the cats’ favorite.”

A wondering smile spread across West’s face as he saw the sleek black feline arching against Phoebe’s skirts. “Good Lord. Is that Galoshes?”

Phoebe bent to stroke the cat’s lustrous fur. “It is. She loves to come here to terrorize the goldfish. We’ve had to cover the stream with mesh wire until the kittens are older.”

“When I gave her to you—” West began slowly.

“Foisted,” she corrected.

“Foisted,” he agreed ruefully. “Was she already—”

“Yes,” Phoebe said with a severe glance. “She was a Trojan cat.”

West tried to look contrite. “I had no idea.”

Her lips quirked. “You’re forgiven. She turned out to be a lovely companion. And the boys have been delighted to have the kittens to play with.”

After prying one of the kittens from his trousers as it tried to climb his leg, West set it down carefully.

“Shall we continue to the guest cottage?” Phoebe asked.

Knowing he couldn’t trust himself with her if there was a bedroom in the vicinity, West suggested, “Let’s stay here for a moment.”

Obligingly Phoebe sat on the stone steps that formed part of a bridge over the goldfish stream. She arranged her skirts to keep them from bunching beneath her and folded her hands in her lap.

West sat beside her, occupying a lower step so their faces were level. “Will you tell me what happened with Edward Larson?” he asked quietly.

Relief flashed across her face as if she were eager to unburden herself. “First,” she said, “will you promise not to say anything insulting about him?”

West rolled his eyes. “Phoebe, I’m not that strong.” But as she gave him a reproachful glance, he sighed and relented. “I promise.”

Although Phoebe made an obvious effort to remain composed while she explained her difficulties with Edward Larson, tension strung through her quiet tone. “He won’t talk to me about the estate’s business. I’ve tried many times, but he doesn’t want to discuss information, or plans, or ideas for improvement. He says it’s too difficult for me to understand, and he doesn’t want me to be burdened with the responsibility, and that everything is perfectly fine. But the more he tells me not to worry, the more worried and frustrated I am. I’ve started to wake up every night with a nagging feeling and a pounding heart.”

West took one of her hands, warming her cool fingers in his. He wanted to kill Edward Larson for causing her even one minute of needless anxiety.

“It’s hard for me to trust him now,” Phoebe continued. “Especially after what he did with the account ledgers.”

West glanced at her sharply. “What did he do with them?”

As Phoebe proceeded to explain how Larson had removed the account books from the estate without permission and had let three months go by without returning them, she became visibly agitated. “. . . but Edward kept forgetting to bring them back,” she said without pausing for breath, “because he was very much occupied with work, and then he said they were too heavy, and finally after he left yesterday morning, I went to the offices in town to fetch them myself, and I know he won’t like it at all when he finds out, even though I had every right to do so.”

West stroked the back of her hand slowly, letting his fingertips delve into the valleys of her slim fingers. “When your instincts are trying to tell you something, don’t ignore them.”

“But my instincts must be wrong. Edward would never act against my interests. I’ve known him forever. Henry introduced us in childhood—”

“Phoebe. Let’s not tiptoe around this. Larson’s delay in bringing back the account books wasn’t because he was too busy, or unable to lift them, or trying somehow to ease your burden. The fact is, he doesn’t want you to see them. There’s a reason for that, and it’s probably not a pleasant one.”

“Perhaps the estate farms aren’t doing as well as he claimed.”

“Perhaps. But it could be something more. Every man has his secret sins.”

Phoebe looked skeptical. “You expect to find secret sins listed in a farm account ledger?”

“I expect to find discrepancies in the numbers. Sin is never free: there’s either an up-front cost or an invoice to pay later. He may have reached into the wrong pot to settle a debt.”

“But he’s not that kind of man.”

“I wouldn’t make judgments about what kind of man he is until you find out the truth. If we uncover a problem, you can ask him about it. Sometimes people do the wrong thing for the right reasons. He deserves the chance to explain himself.”

Phoebe glanced at him with a touch of surprise. “That’s very fair-minded of you.”

West’s mouth twisted. “I know what his friendship means to you,” he muttered. “And he’s Henry’s cousin. I would never try to poison you against him.”

He went still with surprise as he felt Phoebe lean against him, her beautiful head coming to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.