The Rogue's Reform

She opened the door wider. “Certainly, Mr. Everard. Come in. Perhaps we can both find answers to our questions.”

Chapter Two

Jerome followed his hostess across the parquet floor of the entry hall. After his initial reception by the footman, he wasn’t sure why this lady had let him in or what he’d find.

But Dallsten Manor looked as respectable inside as it had out. The grand staircase rose to the upper story in polished oak magnificence, a brass chandelier with at least thirty candles gleamed overhead, and to their right, the white wall was draped with a massive tapestry of knights conquering a stag.

He could see his uncle here. A poet at heart, like Vaughn, his uncle would have delighted in the sweeping grandeur of the manor on a hill, the bold colors of the tapestry, the fine workmanship of the carved posts on the stair. Jerome had a more practical bent. He saw the dust dimming the rich fabric, the cracks marring the tall walls. He calculated to the last penny the cost of refurbishing and wondered how far the owner would go to see Dallsten Manor restored. Was that motive enough to steal another man’s legacy?

The footman came out of a corridor behind the stairs just then and pulled up short. “You let him in.”

The words were frankly accusatory. Jerome lifted a brow.

His hostess raised her dark head. “Yes, Todd. I let him in. That is what one generally does with guests.”

His eyes narrowed again, giving him a decidedly feral look. “His lordship never mentioned guests.”

Had he spoken with Uncle? Had Uncle tried to protect his secret kingdom from Jerome, even at the end?

His hostess’s rosy lips tightened in an unforgiving line. “He never mentioned the Prince Regent, either,” she said, eyes flashing, “but if His Royal Highness showed up at the door, I assure you I’d let him in, too.” She tugged down the long sleeves of her gown so that the soft lace at the cuffs brushed her wrists. “Now, I believe Mr. Everard had two companions?”

How did she know? Had she been watching? She glanced at him for confirmation, and Jerome kept a polite smile in place.

“My brother Richard Everard and cousin Vaughn Everard,” he supplied. He’d sent one to the stables and the other to reconnoiter.

She nodded and returned her gaze to the recalcitrant footman. “I suggest you find them and bring them to the library. And send Mrs. Linton to me there, as well. Now take Mr. Everard’s coat.”

Even the brazen footman, it seemed, would not argue with this woman. He inclined his head and strode up to Jerome. Jerome turned and felt the fellow lift the greatcoat from his shoulders. Before Jerome could question him, the footman had thrown the garment over one arm and stormed off down the corridor.

Ignoring the rudesby, his hostess motioned to a doorway at their left. “If you’d be so good as to attend me in the library, sir.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He bowed her ahead of him.

Who was she? he wondered as he followed her. She was too young to be the housekeeper or the mother of a girl ready to embark on a London Season, and too old to be his supposed cousin. And he couldn’t see her as a governess. He hadn’t met very many women in that position, but somehow he didn’t remember any of them as being this pretty and poised. She moved with the assurance of the lady of the house, and certainly the staff obeyed her.

She was equally as comfortable in the venerable library. Oak bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined one wall; crimson drapes hung on either side of a window facing the drive, the afternoon sun spearing through to warm the room and touch the Oriental carpet with fire. A landscape painting of a brook and willows graced the space over the wood-wrapped fireplace, elegant, calming. Another time he’d have been delighted to study it further. What drew his attention now were the papers that littered the surface of the desk. What he would have given for a look at them.

She didn’t offer him the opportunity. She slipped behind the desk and opened a drawer, and he thought he saw her palm something. The knife used to slice apart the pages of new books, perhaps? Did she think him so dangerous? With a quick glance his way, she settled herself near the empty grate on a blue velvet-backed chair, which looked suspiciously like a throne, then held out her hand. “The letter?”

Jerome gave her his most charming smile as he approached. “Of course.” From his coat, he pulled the letter his uncle had left each of them. Caruthers had indicated it extended to a line of credit to allow them to meet expenses until probate was finished.

He handed it to her and watched as she opened and bent over it. She looked nothing like his uncle, shadow to the Everard light. Her dark brown hair shone red in the light, pulled back from a heart-shaped face into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair as they moved back and forth in her reading. And her gray gown was of fine material, which gleamed along the curves of her figure.

Could she be his supposed cousin? Caruthers had said the girl was sixteen, but he might have been mistaken. This woman looked only a little younger than Jerome’s thirty years. Yet if she was his cousin and nearly his age, she would have been born when Grandfather was still alive. Was that the explanation for her being kept in secrecy? The old man had all but disowned Vaughn’s father for a misalliance. Perhaps Uncle had wanted to avoid a confrontation with his father. But if Uncle had somehow kept the marriage quiet, why hadn’t he revealed it when Grandfather had died? Uncle had been the heir then—he hadn’t shirked in making his desires known anywhere else.

The woman before him lowered the letter slowly and glanced up. Tears sparkled like diamonds on her thick, sable lashes. “Is he truly dead?”

Her voice was no more than a throaty whisper, and Jerome felt the clear pain inside himself as well. Though he had not meant to touch her, he found himself reaching out to press a hand to her shoulder. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, sucking in a breath. The urge to gather her in his arms, comfort her, was strong, but he tamped down the feeling. He could not afford to be attracted to her. At best, she was his cousin; at worst, a schemer out to steal his future. He forced himself to release her.

She bent her head back over the page, this time with a frown. “This letter is quite brief.”

Which made it as easily misunderstood as he’d hoped.

To Whom It May Concern, it stated. The letter you are reading is testament that I have shuffled off this mortal coil. The bearer of the letter, Jerome Everard, is an heir to my estate and should be accorded the courtesies thereby due. It was signed merely Arthur, Lord Everard.

“I’m certain my uncle hoped he’d have time to explain further before it was read,” Jerome replied.

Her frown deepened. “Did he leave no other instructions?”

Interesting. Could his cousin be ignorant of the contents of his uncle’s will? Jerome had intended to use every weapon in his arsenal—reason, charm, even intimidation if necessary to convince the household to give up the truth about this girl. How could they be the enemy if they knew nothing of the war?

“My uncle’s solicitor will follow in a few days for a formal reading of the will,” Jerome told her. “I’m sure he can further enlighten you. In the meantime, we wanted to come meet my uncle’s daughter, comfort you in your grief.”

She glanced up at him, lovely face still troubled. “How kind, but you must realize that comfort will take some doing. He was much admired here in the valley.” She paused as if expecting him to admit how much he had admired his uncle.

She would have a long wait. Only Vaughn admired Uncle in the way she seemed to mean, with a keen devotion and unbridled respect. Jerome could find no common ground on which to build such admiration.

His uncle had been an ungrateful son, driving Grandfather to an early grave. Uncle had been no help in guiding Jerome, in teaching him what it meant to be the heir to such vast holdings, from sailing ships to lands in six counties. In fact, the man had ever tried to be playmate, never parent, another reason Jerome found it impossible to believe his uncle had wed, much less been a devoted father.

Still, he could see why his uncle would want to show the most flattering sides of his nature to this woman. Hers was a soul-deep beauty, from the hollows under her high cheekbones to the graceful way she handed back the paper to him. After only a few moments in her presence, he found himself wondering what dragon he might slay for her.

As if she weren’t the dragon he needed to slay.

“Were you close?” she asked him as the silence stretched.

Not close enough, apparently. “He had charge of me and my brother after our parents died,” Jerome replied.

Her dark brows drew downward again. “Odd. He never mentioned you.”

Better and better. He decided to dribble out a little information of his own. “Equally odd he never mentioned you.”

She blinked. “He told you nothing?”

“Not a word. Mr. Caruthers revealed your existence after my uncle died.” He cocked his head, watching her. “Do you know Mr. Caruthers?”

“The solicitor? Certainly. He’s been to see us several times, and we correspond on a regular basis. He has been very helpful about seeing that the bills are paid.”

Her face was impassive, but he thought he detected annoyance in her straight spine and could even guess at the reason. “My uncle was easily distracted from mundane matters like finance. I’m sure you noticed.”

Her lips tightened. “Indeed.”

“It must have been difficult for you,” he pressed, “with so little contact with Lord Everard.”

She let out the smallest of sighs. “Well, he did visit several times a year, whenever Parliament was out of session. Most would commend him for taking his duties so seriously.”

Jerome nearly choked. Uncle had gone to Parliament once, the day he took his seat, then denounced it as the pastime of fools and indigents. “Commendable indeed,” he managed.

She rose. “You must be tired from your journey, Lord Everard, but…”

Lord Everard? She truly didn’t know! By dashing off to the northern wilds, they’d beaten Caruthers far more than Jerome had planned. Finding this so-called proof would be child’s play. He kept the triumph from his face. For once, his uncle’s love of secrecy was going to go in Jerome’s favor.

He held up a hand. “Mr. Everard. I have not yet ascended to the title.”

She inclined her head. “Of course. I merely wanted to say how kind it was for you all to come tell us the news. You must have ridden far today, with a great deal on your mind, but have you considered Samantha’s future? She was going to be presented this year, you know. Will you honor that, what with mourning her father?”

He felt suddenly at sea. “Samantha?”

“Your cousin. You didn’t even know her name?” She drew herself up, brows gathering in a thundercloud, eyes flashing like the lightning inside. “I find this highly unusual, Mr. Everard. Exactly what did you expect to find in Cumberland?”

A little girl with designs on their legacy, an aging governess conniving to help her, the secret that would prove the end to them both. “Frankly, madam,” Jerome said, “I’m no longer sure. I thought you were my cousin.”

Instead of taking the wind from her sails, the statement only caused her to raise her chin higher, as if she prided herself on her position. “I’m her governess, Miss Walcott.”

The governess. The woman to whom Uncle had entrusted his precious daughter. The woman who might know all his secrets. Unfortunately, she was also the one who, if Jerome didn’t manage to prove the girl a fraud, would stand as judge over him, Richard and Vaughn to grant or deny them their inheritances.

She held their future in her hands.

“Miss Walcott,” he said with a sweeping bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Tell me everything about how you came to be my cousin’s governess. Leave nothing out.”

Adele blinked. Leave nothing out? After a long journey, after admitting that their entire world had been thrown in disorder, he wanted a discourse on her qualifications?

He was smiling encouragement, all charm. She could not feel so easy about the situation. Why hadn’t he known about Samantha? Was Lord Everard ashamed of his daughter? Was that why he hid her here in the wilds of Cumberland instead of bringing her to London with him? Or was Samantha’s father so unsure of his nephews?

She began to suspect the latter. That red-haired fellow looked as if he should be hiding along hedgerows, waiting to ambush the next coach. The other one seemed used to relying on his sword. And as for their leader, Jerome, one moment he was nothing but soft charm, the next all hard decisiveness. And he seemed adept at giving answers that were no answers at all.

But she could play that game, if that’s what it took to reach her goal. For the last ten years, her life had been spent planning for one moment: when Samantha Everard took her rightful place in Society. It hadn’t been easy. Samantha was a rare handful. One moment, she poured over fashion plates, and the next, played catch-me-who-can with little Jamie Kendrick on the estate next to theirs. Still, she was a dear girl, full of warmth and generosity. She was every part of what had been bright and good in her mother and nothing, nothing of the bad. Adele had made sure of that.

And unlike her mother, Samantha was destined for a wonderful life: one or two marvelous Seasons in London, a sweet courtship, marriage to a proper gentleman and a life of happily ever after. They were so close to achieving that dream, Adele could almost smell the wedding cake baking.

She was not about to let Lord Everard’s untimely death hinder Samantha’s future. As negligent as he’d been about seeing to the management of Dallsten Manor, she was almost afraid to hear what he might have left Samantha as a dowry or independence. She must convince these men to honor the girl’s right to a Season, for only by being properly introduced to Society did Samantha stand a chance of making a good match.

Adele would have to go carefully. Some things were best left unsaid, family secrets she dared not share with anyone. Already Jerome Everard doubted her. Why else ask how she’d come to be Samantha’s governess? She’d been worried about Samantha’s future, but perhaps she should have worried for her own. If Mr. Everard took her in dislike, she could very well be sent packing.

“Pardon me, Miss Walcott.”

Mrs. Linton’s strident voice had never been more welcome. Adele rose and hurried to where her housekeeper stood in the doorway. Mrs. Linton had been caring for Dallstens and Dallsten Manor since before Adele was born. Her figure might be motherly and her braided hair nearly white, but her gray eyes were sharp, and her rosebud mouth was tightened in protest that her normal routine had been disturbed without appropriate notice.

“Mrs. Linton,” Adele said, keeping her tone calm, though her palms were starting to sweat, “we have been given bad news. Lord Everard has passed on.”

The housekeeper clutched the chest of her gray gown. “No!”

“I fear so. This is Mr. Jerome Everard, the heir. He and his brother and cousin will be staying with us. They will need rooms.” She glanced at Jerome. “Perhaps you could provide the details. I should go to Samantha.”

She was afraid he’d argue, but he merely inclined his head. “Of course. I look forward to meeting my cousin soon.” He offered her a bow, as if she were a great lady instead of his cousin’s governess. Well, perhaps all was not lost. He certainly didn’t act as if he were considering sacking her.

She curtsied with all the grace her mother insisted upon, and the folio knife she’d taken earlier for protection slid from the sleeve of her gown to fall to the carpet with a soft thud. It lay there, pearly handle gleaming in the light.

Adele stared at it. Jerome stared at it. Mrs. Linton washed as white as her hair.

“Ah,” Adele said, word ending in a squeak despite her best efforts. “I’d wondered where that had gotten to.” Without another look at Jerome, she retrieved it, handed it to her housekeeper and fled from the room.

She heard a step behind her, and her heart beat faster. Don’t look, don’t look. She had to look. He was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her climb the stairs. Her breath caught once more. Why was he watching? Did he doubt her so much?

Did he admire her so much?

Unseemly thought! Yet it raised gooseflesh along her entire body. Ridiculous! He was her employer. He would admire her no more than a soft chair, a polished floor. Certainly that’s all she’d been to Lord Everard. Even Gregory Wentworth had rejected her when she’d been forced into service, and she’d been certain he loved her.

But if her new employer thought so little of her, why was he watching her every movement as if she were an eagle soaring up a mountain and not a very confused governess plodding up the well-worn staircase?

Catching her gaze on him, he grinned, and she stumbled on the last step at the landing. Cheeks heating once more, she hurried up the stairs to the schoolroom.

Chapter Three

Jerome smiled as he turned from the doorway. An interesting woman, this governess. She was elegant, she was refined, yet one glance from him flustered her. He did not think it was an act. Could it be she was merely a pawn in his uncle’s game? Or was Caruthers more of a liar than Jerome had suspected?

Next to him, the little housekeeper bobbed a curtsey. “How long will you be staying, then, Mr. Everard, you and your family?”

Now here was a determined female if he’d ever met one. Her silvery eyes were narrowed, her snowy head cocked, and he’d have guessed she had already taken his measure and found him lacking. Still he smiled at her. “I’m not certain, Mrs. Linton. A week at the least. I hope that won’t be too much trouble.”

Her annoyance was evident in the way she tightly clasped her plump hands. “Certainly not, sir. We generally have dinner at six. Will that suit you?” Her look pinned him in place as if daring him to countermand a sacred tradition.

He generally ate much later in town, but he saw no need to enforce his requirements here so soon. Besides, eating at six would still give him a few hours for some reconnaissance of his own. “Perfectly. Thank you. In the meantime, perhaps you’d be so good as to point me to the estate records.”

With those thick, white brows, her frown was nearly as fierce as her gaze. “Records, sir?”

“Yes. Someone must keep track of the goings on here at Dallsten Manor. Where does the steward keep his information?”

She snorted. “Dallsten Manor has no steward. If it’s facts you want about the estate, you’d best speak with Miss Walcott. Now, I’d better see to those rooms you’ll need. Will there be anything else, sir?”

So Miss Walcott kept the records. An odd role for a governess, but then maybe everyone here at Dallsten Manor performed more than one function. Still, records had to be kept somewhere. Perhaps he could find them while Miss Walcott was busy.

He thanked the housekeeper again, and she hurried from the room as if she couldn’t wait to do his bidding or leave his presence. She passed Richard and Vaughn in the entry hall, pausing long enough to eye them and then move on, shaking her head. The footman trailed just behind them, for all the world as if he’d been herding them like a sheep dog.

“Thank you, Todd,” Jerome said as his brother and cousin crossed into the library. “That will be all.” He had the satisfaction of shutting the library door in the fellow’s face.

“Not very welcoming, are they?” Richard drawled before going to seat himself in the chair Adele Walcott had vacated. “The horses are stabled. The groom seems competent enough.”

“There’s a kitchen door and a side door from the south tower,” Vaughn reported. “Both were locked. The footman caught up with me in the back garden.” He fingered the hilt of his blade as if wishing he’d made better use of it.

“Well done,” Jerome said, glad Vaughn hadn’t been granted that wish. He returned to the desk. At least he could start with these papers. Rifling through them, he saw they were loose pages from the most recent estate book, the income and expenditures marching down the page in neat rows. He bent closer.

An orderly hand had written these, nothing like his uncle’s ungainly scrawl. The notes chronicled wool sheared from sheep and sold at profit, tithes received from tenants, costs for candles, for food. And what was this? New gowns for the governess? Didn’t the cost to gown a governess generally come out of the governess’s wages? And since when did governesses require silk and fine wool?

“How long do we plan to rusticate here?” Richard asked. Jerome looked up to find his brother watching him with a frown.

“Until we learn the truth,” Vaughn reminded Richard, prowling around the room like a lion on display in the Tower Zoo. “You know I’ll only stay until we can see the estate secured in the proper hands. Then I can go after whoever killed Uncle.”

“We do not know anyone killed Uncle,” Jerome said with what he hoped was a mix of determination and compassion.

Vaughn shook his head, causing several strands of pale blond hair to come loose from his queue and hang on either side of his narrow face like moonbeams. “It was murder, Jerome. He told no one where he was going. We have only the word of the doctor who returned the body that he’d been in a duel. And if it was a duel, don’t you think he would have had me second him?”

Richard stretched his legs closer to the fireplace as if finding even the throne too small. “Uncle made some enemies over the years. That’s hard to deny.”

Vaughn paced from shadow to light and back again. “So many that his valet fled in fear the night of his death, and I have yet to find the fellow. I should be in town, hunting him down.”

“But your family needs you here,” Jerome reminded him. Vaughn’s temper had been running hot since Uncle’s death. While Jerome hoped to be able to wrap up matters quickly, he still intended to see to it that they stayed away from town long enough for that temper to cool.

“Have you learned anything yet?” Richard asked.

“Very little,” Jerome replied, leaning a hip against the corner of the mahogany desk. “I’ve met the governess, Miss Walcott. She seems oblivious to the requirements of Uncle’s will.”

“She can’t be,” Vaughn put in. “She must have a part in this. Why name her in the will otherwise?”

Jerome shrugged. “I agree with you that she should seem more pleased by uncle’s demise if she was behind the change in the will, but she seemed sincere in her grief. She says he was much admired. According to her, Uncle was a doting father who visited several times a year.”

Richard’s frown deepened. “Impossible. He was never away long enough to get to Cumberland and back.”

They had cause to know. The three of them had ridden hard for over three full days, changing horses as they went, to reach Carlisle and make enquiries, a good part of another day along rutted country roads to find the manor. Jerome had no doubt that when Benjamin Caruthers realized they’d headed north without him, he’d be right behind, but he wasn’t a young man, and couldn’t maintain the same pace of travel. Besides, he’d come in a heavy traveling coach that was slower than a man on horseback.

“We weren’t with Uncle every minute,” Jerome reminded his brother. “He could have sired an entire family of daughters while we were away at school. And the last few years, he tended to keep to himself more and more.”

“You mean you avoided him more and more,” Vaughn said. He stopped in the sunlight, a dark figure against the brightness. “You never could appreciate his habits.”

Richard exchanged glances with Jerome before turning to eye their cousin. “His habits included every possible indulgence, with little regard for legality or even decency. You’ll pardon me for wanting better.”