laughed outright. “Perhaps someday you will tell me the full list of your vices, Miss Weston. I should enjoy learning what they are.”
With a horrid sense of discovery, Alys realized how charming Davenport could be with a sparkle in his light blue eyes and a wide smile that invited her to smile with him. She reminded herself sternly that a successful rake would have to be charming, or he could never beguile away a lady’s virtue. How alarming that she, a woman of great experience and no illusions, found herself wanting to respond to that charm with a smile of her own.
Hastily she wiped the expression from her face before her dimples could emerge. She felt obscurely that dimples would undermine the progress she was making toward convincing him that she was a competent steward.
Still smiling, Davenport lightly took her arm to guide her back to the horses. It was a casual gesture, but Alys was acutely aware of his touch, of the feel of his strong fingers through the heavy fabric of her riding habit. She quickened her pace.
He was about to help her onto her mount when he halted and stared down at her, his eyes a bare foot from her own. “Good Lord, Lady Alys, your eyes don’t match.”
“Really?” she said with asperity. “I never noticed.”
“Indoors the gray-green eye looks more or less like the brown one, but in this light the difference is striking,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. “A most unusual feature, but then, you are a most unusual woman.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked warily.
“Neither.” He bent over and linked his hands to give her a step up to her saddle. “A mere statement of fact.”
After she was mounted, he swung onto his own horse. “You’ve done a remarkable job with Strickland. Even though farm prices have plummeted since Waterloo, you’ve managed to increase the profits, and the land and tenants are in very good heart.”
She was absurdly pleased at the compliment. Perhaps her job was safe after all.
They circled the manor house and rode toward the village of Strickland, but before they reached their destination, Davenport reined in his horse. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the tall brick chimney that loomed above the next hilltop. “What on earth is an industrial chimney doing out here?”
Face set, he cantered forward to investigate. Alys trailed unhappily behind him. The new owner was about to discover one of the odder features of Strickland.
He stopped again on the top of the hill, where he could see the whole manufactory. The round bottle oven with its high, circular chimney was the unmistakable mark of a pottery. In a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “What the devil is a potbank doing on Strickland land? Didn’t this used to be one of the tenant farms?”
“The site is leased from Strickland, and at quite a profitable rate,” she replied, praying that he wouldn’t ask more, and knowing that he would.
He gave her an icy glance. “That isn’t what I asked. What is a manufactory doing here, and who owns it?”
Choosing her words carefully, Alys said, “It’s held in trust for three minors.”
“Oh?” His cold syllable ordered her to continue.
“This was the smallest of the tenant farms, with the least desirable tenants,” she explained. “It was a relief when they sold off their equipment and stock and skipped off without paying the Lady Day rent three years ago. I combined the land with Hill Farm, and Robbie Herald works it with his own property. I leased the buildings to the pottery.”
His sardonic snort made it clear that he knew she was telling less than the whole story.
“The pottery has been an excellent venture,” Alys said defensively. “It provides jobs, pays a fair rent to Strickland, and is a good long-term investment for the owners. I know most landowners loathe any kind of industry on their land, but you can’t shut it down even if you want to—the lease runs for twenty-two more years.”
Before she could offer more arguments, Davenport’s hand shot out to catch her mare’s bridle. The horse tried to throw its head upward, but his powerful grip held it steady. He turned in his saddle to face her, anger evident in his clipped words. “Yesterday I said I would give you a chance to prove yourself. Will you extend me the same courtesy?”
A fierce wave of embarrassment burned Alys’s face and spread down her neck. He was being entirely reasonable, and she was acting like a rabid hedgehog. For the first time she really looked at him, not as Reginald Davenport, notorious rake and disastrous employer, but as an individual. Their gazes held for an endless moment.
With jarring insight, she recognized that her employer was a good deal more—or less—than his reputation. Under the world-weary air were tolerance and intelligence that would be a credit to anyone. And he had the tiredest eyes she had ever seen.
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, so she continued doggedly, “I have often been unfairly judged and condemned. It is unpardonable that I commit the same injustice toward you.”
He released the mare’s bridle. “Considering how many years I’ve spent cultivating an evil reputation, I would be disappointed if you didn’t assume the worst about me.”
She smiled. “I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Mr. Davenport.”
“Oh?” His dark brows rose in the sardonic expression she was coming to recognize. “In what way?”
“I am beginning to believe that you are not at all the wicked care-for-nobody that your reputation claims.”
“You had best withhold judgment on that point, Miss Weston,” he said dryly. Gathering up his reins, he said, “I think it’s time we ate. As I recall, there used to be a tavern on the Shaftesbury road that had good food.”
“It’s still there, and the food is still good.” Alys wondered for a moment that he would take her to a common tavern. Then she realized that it would be less scandalous to eat with her at the Silent Woman than to share a private meal at the manor. Despite his stated intention of treating her like a man, he was being careful of the proprieties.
Half an hour later, they were facing each other across a wooden table polished by years of sliding crockery and hard scrubbing. A good number of customers shared the beamed taproom and sent curious glances their way. All of the men were local and knew the eccentric Miss Weston, and they could surely guess who her companion was. They kept a respectful distance from the new master of Strickland.
Davenport polished off the last crumbs of an excellent beef and onion pie, then refilled his tankard with ale from the pewter pitcher. “Will you tell me the whole story of the pottery, or will I have to drag the information out of you a piece at a time?”
Alys finished the last bite of her own meat pie. It was time to tell the whole story, because if he had to dig for the facts, it might ruin his expansive mood. “You know about the problems caused by discharging so many soldiers after the war. There wasn’t enough work to begin with. To make matters worse, the new machinery reduces the need for farm laborers.”
When he nodded, she went on, “For example, the estate could never have managed without one of the new threshing machines. There simply weren’t enough laborers during the later war years. Now that the machinery has
