was of only average height with medium brown hair, hazel eyes, and an open, pleasant countenance. However, the young earl was the best swordsman Reggie had ever seen, and Reggie had never liked him better than on the occasion when Wargrave had lost his temper and demonstrated that fact.
The earl interrupted Reggie’s musings, saying, “Your allowance was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”
So he was going to cut his scapegrace cousin off with a shilling. Well, it was not unexpected. Reggie wondered what kind of position he might find to support himself if gambling proved too unreliable a source of income. Many shirttail relations of the nobility held government posts such as Warden of the Port of Rye or Postmaster of Newcastle, but nobody in his right mind would give such a post to Reggie Davenport. Even government officials had some standards.
Perhaps he could open a shooting gallery like Manton’s. Or, he thought with an inward smile, he could start charging women for his services, rather than giving them away for free. Coolly he said, “And the other reason?”
“Caroline and I are expecting a child in November.”
“Congratulations.” Reggie kept his face carefully expressionless. It was typical of Wargrave to personally transmit the news rather than let his heir find out through casual gossip. Well, it hardly came as a shock; to heir was human. Though Reggie was technically heir presumptive to the earldom, he’d always known that a healthy, happily married man eight years his junior would likely be starting a family. Politely he added, “I trust that Lady Wargrave is well?”
Wargrave’s face lit up with a smile that his cousin uncharitably described as fatuous. “She feels wonderful and is playing the piano so much that the child will probably be born with a music score in its hand.” His expression sobered. “However, that news is not the main reason I asked you to call on me.”
“Ah, yes, you were about to cut off my allowance before we got sidetracked on the subject of your progeny,” Reggie said, his voice even more drawling than before. He’d be damned if he’d grovel for money to the head of the family.
“Ending your quarterly allowance is only part of what I had in mind.” Wargrave opened a drawer and removed a sheaf of papers. “I decided it was time to make different provisions for you. As an interim measure, I had continued the allowance granted by the old earl, but it strikes me as . . .” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “as inappropriate that one adult male should be dependent on the goodwill of another.”
“It’s not that uncommon in our world,” Reggie said with elaborate unconcern. He had been surprised when Wargrave had continued the allowance after the two men had so nearly killed each other, but the earl must have felt he had a responsibility to support his heir. The prospect of a child diminished that obligation.
“I wasn’t raised in the tight little world of the ton, and I daresay I shall never understand all the underlying assumptions. In the unelevated circles in which I was raised, most men prefer to have something that is truly their own.” The earl tapped the legal papers. “Which is why I am going to sign over to you the most prosperous of the unentailed Wargrave properties. I’ve cleared the mortgage, so the property should produce about twice the allowance you’ve been receiving.”
Reggie straightened in his chair, as startled as if the earl had hit him with the brass candlestick. Having his allowance cut off would have been no surprise. This was.
Wargrave continued, “The estate’s prosperity is due largely to the steward, a man called Weston, who has been there for several years. I’ve never met him—the one time I visited, he had been called away by illness in the family—but he’s done an excellent job. His records were impeccable, and he has increased the productivity enormously. Since Weston is honest and competent, you can live in London off the rents if you don’t want to get involved with the management yourself.” His expression hardened. “Or you can sell the property, or gamble it away. Whatever you decide, this is all you will ever get from the Wargrave estate. If you have serious debts, I’ll help you settle them so you can start with a clean slate, but after this, you are entirely on your own. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear. You have such a gift for expression, Wargrave.” Reggie’s insolence was instinctive, an attempt to disguise his confusion. “As it happens, Lady Luck has been smiling recently, so your assistance will not be required.” Struggling to regain his balance, he asked, “Which estate are you giving me?”
“Strickland, in Dorset.”
Bloody hell, Strickland! Since Wargrave owned only two or three unentailed estates, the news was not quite a surprise, but Reggie still felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. “Why that particular property?”
“Several reasons. First, because it would support you most comfortably. Second, I understand that you lived there as a boy, and I thought you might be attached to the place.” Wargrave bridged a quill pen between his fingers, a frown on his face. “Judging by your expression, perhaps I was wrong.”
Reggie’s face tightened. One of the many ways in which he failed to fit the ideal of a gentleman was in his too-visible emotions. A true gentleman would never show chagrin, or anger, or even amusement, as Reggie was all too prone to do when he wasn’t concentrating. He was not incapable of maintaining a properly impassive face, but too often his countenance mirrored his every feeling. As it did now, when he would rather have concealed the complex emotions that Strickland raised in him.
“There is another, far more compelling reason why I chose Strickland,” Wargrave continued. “It should have been yours in the first place.”
Reggie took a deep breath. Too many surprises were being dropped on him, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. “Why do you say it should have been mine?”
“The house and majority of the land were owned by your mother’s family, not the Davenports. As your mother’s sole heir, legally you already own the bulk of Strickland.”
“What the devil!”
“According to the family solicitor, your parents met when your maternal grandfather offered to buy a small property adjacent to Strickland,” Wargrave explained. “Your father went to Dorset to discuss the matter on his brother’s behalf, met your mother, and ended up staying. The Davenport land was added to Strickland, and your parents lived there and managed it as one estate. According to the marriage settlements, Strickland was to go to your mother’s heirs.”
Reggie swore viciously under his breath. So the old earl had deliberately and illegally withheld Strickland from his nephew—one more tactic in their long-running war.
“I had no idea, or you can be sure I would never have let the old devil get away with it,” Reggie said with barely controlled fury. During all the years his uncle had condescended to give him an allowance, that money and more should have been his by right. If the old earl had been present and alive, Reggie might have done murder. A great pity that his damned uncle was now beyond justice.
“Perhaps the old earl never separated Strickland from the rest of the properties because he assumed the title and entire estate would come to you eventually,” Wargrave said in a neutral voice. “After all, you were his heir for many years.”
Reggie said icily, “Your generous interpretation stems from the fact that you didn’t know him. I assure you that he withheld Strickland from the basest of motives. The income would have made me independent of him, and he would have hated that.”
For the same reason, perhaps, the old earl had resented his
