down, she added with approval, “You’ve grown tall, like your father.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the tenant farms was worked by a Herald.”
“Aye, I married Robbie Herald. We’re at Hill Farm.”
“The house is in excellent condition.” Reggie spoke absently as his eyes scanned the morning room. The proportions were pleasant, and there were large mullioned windows on two walls. His mother had always particularly liked it here.
“Aye. It was leased to a retired naval captain for a good few years. He maintained the place well enough, but never bothered making changes. It’s been vacant since about the time the old earl died. I’ve kept an eye on things, watching for leaks and dry rot so the estate carpenters could make repairs as it was needful.”
“You’ve done a good job.” Over the years, Reggie had learned the value of an appreciative word, and Mrs. Herald beamed at the compliment.
“I’m glad you think so, sir. We’ve done our best.” She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “We’re all ever so glad to have a Stanton here again. It’s not right, the way Wargrave ignored this place for so many years. The old earl never once set foot here, just took money out and put naught back in.”
She blushed then, remembering that the old earl had been her new master’s uncle and guardian, but Reggie only said mildly, “I’m a Davenport, not a Stanton.”
“Your mother was a Stanton, that’s what counts in Dorset,” she said with a firm nod. “There have always been Stantons at Strickland.”
Her words reminded Reggie of the way a judge pronounced a sentence. After a moment’s reflection he asked, “You’ll think this a foolish question, but do I have any Stanton relations?”
“The closest would be Mr. Jeremy Stanton at Fenton Hall. He was your mother’s cousin, and he and your father were good friends. He’s getting along in years now, but a fine gentleman.” Mrs. Herald shook her head with regret. “Your mother, Miss Anne, was an only child. Pity that her branch of the family had dwindled down to just her. If there had been any nearer relations, they never would have let the earl take you away after . . .” She stopped, then decided not to continue that sentence. She finished with, “The Stantons always took care of their own.”
Perhaps that’s why they died out, Reggie thought cynically, but he kept the words unsaid in the face of Mrs. Herald’s vicarious family pride. Aloud he said, “My man will be along in a day or so with my baggage, but I came by myself.”
“Shall I be putting your things in the master bedchamber?”
A vivid image of the room flashed in front of Reggie. His parents had unfashionably shared it, sleeping together in the carved oak four-poster. It seemed wrong to sleep in their bed. “No, I’ll take the room above this one. The blue room it was called, I think.”
“Very well, sir. Would you like something to eat? The house is all at sixes and sevenses, but my sister-in-law Molly Barlow is down in the kitchen, cleaning and stocking the pantry. She could do a cold collation quick enough.”
“Later, perhaps. Now I’d rather see Mr. Weston. Do you know if he’s in the estate office, or is he out on the property somewhere?”
Mrs. Herald paused, her normal garrulity temporarily deserting her. “It’s hard to say, sir. The steward is very active. Could be most anywhere.”
“I’m told Weston is very good.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Davenport. There isn’t a better steward anywhere,” she said with an odd, guilty expression.
Reggie eyed her curiously, wondering why mentioning Weston had such an effect. Maybe the housekeeper was having an affair with the steward? Or didn’t country folk have such vices? If they didn’t, Dorset would prove dull indeed.
He left the morning room. As he made his way through the house, he caught sight of two girls polishing wood and scrubbing floors. They stared with open curiosity, giggling bashfully and bobbing their heads when he nodded at them. An odd feeling, being lord of the manor.
The side door led to a wide cobbled yard surrounded by buildings of the same golden-gray stone as the manor house. It was all so familiar. He glanced up, and remembered the day he’d climbed the ladder left by a man repairing the roof. He’d skittered happily around on the slates, having a wonderful time, until his mother appeared and ordered him to come down right now. Having no conception of what a fall to the cobbles would do to his life expectancy, he had been surprised by her alarm, but he’d come down readily enough.
He had been obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.
His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite side of the yard. The door opened silently under his hand, and he stepped inside. The room seemed dim after the bright afternoon sun. Behind the desk a man stood in front of a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn’t hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.
Reggie’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”
She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he’d ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.
Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn’t imagine how he’d mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.
His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.
He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “I’m Weston.”
Chapter 4
Alys stared at the stranger, frozen with shock. Of all the ill luck . . . ! She hadn’t expected Davenport to arrive so soon. She had no doubt whatsoever about the man’s identity—he’d entered the office with the easy confidence of ownership.
She read the London papers regularly to monitor the world she had fled, and Reginald Davenport’s name was one that turned up regularly. He was a Corinthian, one of a sporting set known for racing, roistering, and raking. Now the man in front of her confirmed her worst fears.
He might have been handsome if his aristocratic nose hadn’t been broken and reset somewhat
