Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (8 page)

George shrugged. ‘People love to talk, especially here, where Heaven knows, there's hardly much else to do. If someone wants to pay a penny for brandy or some China silk, what business should it be of the government to tax it, when enterprising men can sail to France and obtain the goods much more cheaply? The free-traders are doing us all a favour, I say.'

‘Have you done much sailing, Mr Neville?' Mr Anders inserted. ‘Before my sojourn in the Navy, I'd never been out of sight of the coast. What majesty there is in the sea! All the awesome power of the wind, harnessed by a fragile expanse of sail. The whine of a wind in the ship's rigging, the vibration of the hull as she hangs upon a crest, then plunges into the trough, a tiny toy at the mercy of the restless, roiling deep.'

‘You make it sound wonderful!' Althea breathed. ‘How do the sails harness the wind?'

Amanda listened appreciatively as Mr Anders went on to answer her cousin's question. More wonderful than his descriptions, she thought, was the skilful way he'd steered the conversation away from the shoals of discord between her father and brother over the matter of free-traders…just as, she suddenly realised, he'd intervened to turn the tide when she and Althea appeared to be at loggerheads this morning.

She didn't think his intervention in either case was merely coincidental.

No, he
was
perceptive, as he'd been when he'd sensed her reservations about his association with Althea. And straight-
forward, to immediately acknowledge her concern and discuss it with her.

He was a good storyteller, too, she noted as he spun out his tale of sailing the blue-water ocean, from the icy Irish sea to the turquoise warmth of the Mediterranean off the African coast.

His conduct when he wasn't recounting sea stories was also just as it should be. Unlike some of the
parvenu
lace merchants her father had hosted upon occasion, Anders gave the footmen serving the meal just the right amount of attention, neither ordering them about nor ignoring them. He might have spent time as a common sailor, but it hadn't led him to treat the servants with familiarity, as if he felt himself one of them.

All further evidence he was exactly the gentleman his breeding would lead one to expect. So how had he ended up on the deck of a man-of-war?

Resting her curious gaze on him, she watched his expressive face and the play of candlelight over his lips as he wove his tale. What would it feel like to have that mouth pressed against hers?

Heavens, now he had her thinking of kissing again! Jerking her thoughts from that vision, she sighed in exasperation. Given his disconcertingly strong pull over her senses, Mr Anders's presence was a complication she didn't need during her last few weeks at Ashton.

How much easier it would have been had he proven to be a boor! Slurped his soup, dripped gravy on his cravat, gulped wine by the glassful so that by the end of the meal, he was sitting red-faced and stupid.

Instead of looking as he did now, so regrettably handsome, with such a beguiling smile and knowing green eyes that sparkled, inviting her to share some amusement. He tempted her to share a friendship, to build upon the warm rapport that had
sprung up between them…and the sizzling sensual tension just below the words.

But she must not give in to that inclination. Mr Anders was definitely not part of Mama and Grandmama's grand plan, a fact she would remind herself of hourly, if necessary. Tearing her gaze from his smiling face, she stood to lead the ladies out of the dining room.

As Amanda expected, her brother did not join them for tea. Mr Anders accompanied her father to the drawing room, but drank only one quick cup before excusing himself, citing the necessity to rest after his first full day out of his chamber.

From somewhere unbidden, the image flashed into her mind of him returning to his room, removing his garments, stretching out on the bed, all long strong limbs and bare skin… It was fortunate, she thought, flushing, that she'd soon be in London, all her efforts bent towards wedding and bedding, if a handsome face was going to keep turning her thoughts in that direction!

Before Anders left, Althea exacted his promise to go driving about the estate the next day—an invitation into which, to her cousin's obvious displeasure, Amanda had felt obliged to insinuate herself. Althea looked as if she wished to protest, but as Papa immediately agreed, telling Anders his daughter would be a prime guide, as she was intimately familiar with everything on the estate, from buildings to fields to manufactories, the younger girl could hardly object.

Had her father recognised the need to provide her cousin with a chaperon? She wasn't sure Papa even thought of his sister's little girl as a young lady with a reputation to protect. Alarming as the idea was, she'd have to remind him.

Once Anders left, Althea quickly deserted them too. Alone at last, Amanda smiled at her father. ‘Another cup of tea, Papa? Or perhaps some of that smuggled brandy?'

‘Perhaps a wee drop,' he agreed. ‘For all that I enjoy the wine, I am concerned about the source.'

‘The free-traders, you mean. There have been skirmishes, you said?'

‘Distracted as I've been by our…troubles, I know what's about in Beer and Branscombe. The talk among the tenants is that since last spring, Rob Roy's control of the coast has been contested by a group out of Sennlach in Cornwall, sailing under a captain they call “Black John” Kessel, who's known for ruthlessness and making high profits. I suspect some of our tenants near the coast are being pressured not just to help land cargoes, but also to offer lofts and sheds to store his contraband goods. It's even said there was a barn burned last summer by one who refused Black John's request.'

Lord Bronning sighed. ‘The increased activity worries me…especially with George home. The last thing an energetic young man wants is to rusticate here in the country.'

The sadness in his tone made Amanda want to throttle her brother on the spot. ‘He does value Ashton Grove, you know,' she said, patting her father's shoulder. ‘He's just…young.' And thoughtless. And careless. And unappreciative of all their father was doing for him.

Her father squeezed her hand. ‘I know. Love for the land will develop—how could it not? It's bred into him! But with George bored and out of sorts, getting mixed up in the smugglers' operations is just the sort of mischief that might attract him. If it were only Rob Roy, I'd not worry…but this new man is an entirely different sort, much more dangerous than George can credit.'

Privately alarmed, Amanda sought a soothing tone. ‘Mr Anders will be reporting to the Coastal Brigade soon. Why not ask him to check with the local officer? If there's anything dangerous afoot, they should know of it.'

Her father brightened. ‘That's an excellent idea.' A moment
later, he put a hand to his chest, grimacing. ‘I'm afraid I'm growing weary, my dear. Will you mind terribly if I abandon you?'

She'd just been about to broach the topic of Althea. But Papa did look tired and unwell, she thought with a pang of concern. Surely she could muddle along on her own a while longer. ‘Of course not. I was about to go up myself.'

After her father kissed her goodnight and left for his chamber, Amanda lingered only long enough to put out the candles. She needed her rest, too, for tomorrow, in addition to her other tasks, she'd have to fit in a tour around the property with Althea—and Mr Anders.

A flurry of anticipation buoyed her to her room. She couldn't quite convince herself that the sense of heightened expectation was due only to the pride she'd feel in showing off Papa's estate.

 

‘Mr Anders, you will truly enjoy this first site,' Miss Holton told him as he guided the gig down the Salters Bay Road. ‘'Tis the ruins of an iron-age fortification. The area has many of them, remnants of the ancient Dumnonii who inhabited this region before the Roman conquest. The hills are riddled with caves as well, one of the reason free-traders are eager to land goods here. If you would stop now, please?'

‘At your command, Miss Holton,' Greville said, pulling up the horses.

For the third straight day, he was touring Ashton Grove land with Miss Neville and her cousin. The first time, when he'd not been sure how long he'd be able to tolerate the jolting of a carriage, they had confined their explorations to the immediate vicinity of Ashton Grove manor. Perhaps mindful of his condition, Miss Neville had maintained a dawdling pace, stopping frequently at a series of small farms. At each one, she greeted the tenants by name, enquired about their families and asked
insightful questions about the condition of the fields and the current status of ploughing and planting.

Yesterday they'd travelled north, past velvety pasture land dotted with dairy cattle, up towards steeper, rockier ground where flocks of sheep grazed. Again, Miss Neville paused whenever they encountered men tending the animals, enquiring after them and their beasts. Farther north still, she'd told him, were tin mines in which her father had a controlling interest.

Today they were headed towards the coast at Salters Bay, where he meant to report for duty at the Coastal Brigade station.

After climbing out, Greville walked around the gig, buoyed with anticipation. One of the benefits of finally feeling well enough to take over the reins from Miss Neville, who had driven on each of their previous outings, was going to be the delight of lifting her down from the vehicle.

An instant later, she was in his arms. He revelled in this perfectly acceptable excuse to touch her…and if his fingers lingered a bit longer than absolutely necessary at her waist, allowing him to breathe in her light flowery scent and savour the sparking burn where his hands pressed against her—oh, that there were not so many layers of cloth and chamois between his skin and hers!—perhaps she'd attribute it to his not being recovered enough to complete the action swiftly.

Though her widened eyes and slight intake of breath as she looked up at him, standing motionless with his hands still upon her, hinted that perhaps she found the contact as stimulating as he did.

To his regret, she moved away, leaving his hands bereft. He turned to find Miss Holton staring at them curiously. ‘What would you know about smugglers, Miss Holton?' he asked.

To his relief, the query deflected her attention, just as he'd intended. With a tell-tale blush that would doubtless have struck fear in the heart of Lord Bronning, who was already
worried about his son's possible involvement in the trade, she said quickly, ‘Oh, only what anyone hereabouts knows.'

Miss Neville gave her cousin a sharp look, leading Greville to suspect she'd just been struck by the same disagreeable suspicion. He sent her a sympathetic glance over Miss Holton's head, chuckling softly when she rolled her eyes heavenwards.

Thank the Lord he was not responsible for trying to supervise the Holton chit!

‘The remnants of the hill-fort ramparts are this way.' Miss Holton turned back towards him, offering her hand. Obligingly he tucked it under his arm and let her lead him about the area, duly admiring the bits of stone and mounds of earth that excited her enthusiasm, Miss Neville trailing after them like a long-suffering chaperon.

Although the idea of the delectable Miss Neville as anyone's
chaperon
made his lips tremble with suppressed mirth.

Their inspection complete, they returned to the gig. ‘What else shall we see on the way to Salters Bay?' he asked Miss Neville.

‘First we'll pass the Trimmer, Smith and Mercer farms,' Miss Neville replied, ‘all planted in grain. More pastures, and the cottages of Mrs Enders and the Hill family, lace-makers. Honiton is the centre of the trade, but the lace is actually made at home by a number of individual craftsmen. Papa assists those who occupy Ashton land, taking their products to Honiton in lieu of rent.'

‘We're still on Ashton land, then?' he asked, surprised.

‘Yes. We will be, almost all the way to Salters Bay.'

‘I must say, the estate is vaster than I'd imagined,' Greville said.

‘It's the largest landholding in this part of Devon,' Miss Holton said proudly. ‘Nevilles have been here since the Conquest. The ruins of the original family dwelling, Neville Tour, sit on the cliffs just beyond where our road descends to Salters
Bay. With its commanding view from the sea to the mouth of the Exe, it was constructed by the first Baron Bronning, who'd been charged with keeping the King's peace from Exmouth to Exeter, from Honiton to Lyme Regis.'

‘Vast acreage, grazing of cattle and sheep, fields of grain, tin mines to the north, lace-making to the south…Ashton Grove estate is a most impressive property!'

‘It is indeed,' Miss Neville replied, giving him a warm glance. ‘It's a vast amount to handle and make profitable, too, especially these last few years since the war, with the price of corn so depressed. Papa is a very skilled manager.'

‘You are quite knowledgeable as well,' he said with sincere admiration.

Miss Neville blushed and Greville suppressed a smile. Apparently she really was unused to compliments, whether about her beauty or her talents. Once again, he found her unexpected humility endearing.

‘I suppose, having ridden about with Papa since I was big enough to hold on to his saddle bow, I've learned a few things.'

‘Far more than just a few!'

After his first two days of observation, Greville had concluded with chagrin that Lord Bronning's daughter knew far more about estate management than he had learned in nearly two years as titular manager of Blenhem Hill.

Even more surprising, he was finding himself actually interested in her observations about farming, flocks and fields.

Travelling about Lord Bronning's estate had opened his eyes to the truth he had somehow missed all the time he'd been Blenhem Hill's manager. Every interaction he observed between Miss Neville and the farmers demonstrated just how much a man of birth like Lord Bronning enhanced, rather than diminished, his stature and the respect in which he was
held by intimately involving himself in the life of his land and tenants.