BRIGHTON BEAUTY (9 page)

Only to pause once more. Truth to tell, if he had received the portrait Alayna had sent to him upon the announcement of their betrothal, he'd have been tempted to sail for England straightaway in order to be here for their wedding. And, for the honeymoon. Feeling an uncomfortable tightening sensation in his loins, he frowned.

Ridiculous!
He could not be falling in love with his cousin. Love only complicated matters and he'd not allow it. He'd have no part of Alayna's caperwitted scheme about living apart from one another either!

With decision, he turned again to his work.

* * * *

A
fter supper that evening, the three of them, Chelsea, Lady Rathbone and Rutherford settled themselves in a cozy sitting room to partake of a second cup of tea.

Lord Rathbone had spent nearly the whole of dinner relaying his findings in the account books to his mother.

Handing a fresh cup of tea to her now, he said, "It is imperative that we hire a trustworthy bailiff, Mother. I am amazed that things have not fallen to complete rack and ruin with only the housekeeper, Mrs. Phipps at the helm. That is not to imply that she is incompetent, but she is a woman, and women know very little of business matters."

Without thinking, Chelsea took umbrage at that. "Some women know a great deal about business!" she snapped.

Both Lord and Lady Rathbone fixed startled gazes on her. Surprised by her own outburst, Chelsea squirmed. "Er, what I mean to say is that . . . not all women are unschooled in such matters."

Lord Rathbone's lips began to twitch. "I see. And I take it you count yourself among the enlightened few?"

Chelsea sniffed . . . and realized she had no idea how to respond. Alayna knew absolutely nothing about estate affairs, and truth to tell, Chelsea knew little enough herself. But she'd had some experience with household records during her time with Lady Hennessey, and Mr. Merribone had put her in charge of purchasing thread and ribbon for the workroom of the shop. That all counted for something, did it not?

Lady Rathbone spoke up. "I believe Alayna has already exhibited a certain talent for taking things in hand, Rutherford. Why, she set matters to rights here in no time, I never saw such scurrying about and all of it to good purpose."

"So I've been told," Rathbone muttered.

Lady Rathbone wasn't done. "With the exception of Jared, the household servants had become quite slovenly and ill-tempered," she added. "Why, you can see for yourself, the change that's come over them."

Lord Rathbone's lips pursed. "The servants' attitudes are neither here nor there. Mother, what I am speaking about now is organizing the rent collections and reassigning tasks to the outdoor staff. It is clearly a job for a man."

Chelsea bristled, but said nothing further.

She noted when Lord Rathbone turned a calculating look on her. "Of course, if you'd care to assist me until I hire a bailiff, I would brook no objection, Alayna." He smiled coolly. "As my wife, you will be obliged to perform similar duties on the plantation."

Chelsea's lips tightened. Her own folly had ensnared her this time. Besides, to refuse him at this juncture would be the same as refusing to help Lady Rathbone. And if she were to survive once everyone had abandoned her again, she'd need all the help she could get. Anyone with half an eye could see that the tenants and castle staff had been taking advantage of the sweet old lady for years. To bring the entire lot under control was work enough for several people, and in view of what she had already accomplished, Chelsea was more than qualified to help.

She tilted her chin upward. "I will be happy to assist, Rutherford, however, that does not mean I have changed my mind about removing to Honduras. I shall never agree to live in such an uncivilized place as that.
Never."

She watched one of Lord Rathbone's dark brows lift, but all he said was, "I will be making an early start of it tomorrow, Alayna. You may join me at your leisure." Setting his empty teacup aside, he stood. "But be forewarned," he stepped past her, "everyone on the plantation rises early. Once we are there, the same will be expected of you."

A
wake at first light the following morning, Chelsea was torn between surprising Lord Rathbone with her eagerness to work or leisurely strolling in after a late breakfast. She could always make the excuse that she had simply forgot the assignation. It was certainly something Alayna would do. That the gentleman still refused to believe that she, or rather, that Alayna, did not mean to accompany him to Honduras was making her wonder if perhaps her portrayal of Alayna Marchmont lacked something vital.
What must she do to convince him?

Turning the puzzle over in her mind as she dressed, she toyed with the idea of pulling a tantrum and refusing altogether to join him in the library. She had often seen Alayna act in such a fashion. But going back on a promise was not in Chelsea's character and besides, she had agreed to help on Lady Rathbone's behalf. In the end, Chelsea's sense of honor won out.

In fact, she went the extra mile.

"What's this?" Lord Rathbone's head jerked up as the door to the library burst open and without preamble, Chelsea and two footmen barged in.

"You may place it just there," Chelsea said briskly, shepherding the two footmen, who carried a bulky load between them, into the book-lined room. "That's correct; beneath the window where the light is good."

"Alayna, what the devil . . . " Lord Rathbone sprang to his feet, his dark brows pulled together.

"No, position it face outward," Chelsea instructed. After the footmen had done her bidding, she waved them both away, then turned toward his lordship. "It's a rent table," she announced smartly. "I chanced upon it the day I found Aunt Millicent's Bath chair. It will make the new bailiff's job that much easier, don't you agree?"

"Well, I . . . I . . . " Lord Rathbone stepped from behind the imposing mahogany desk that dwarfed the center of the room, to move toward the smaller piece of furniture that sat beneath the window.

"As you can see, the days of the week and quarter days are still quite readable," Chelsea pointed out, a finger indicating the many labeled drawers marching across the front of the desk, "and the tenant's names can go right here . . . "

"I know what a rent table is, Alayna," Lord Rathbone snapped. "The marvel is that
you
knew what it was."

Chelsea nearly blurted out that she had often helped Lady Hennessey's housekeeper sort out collection notices at the end of the month, but catching herself, she merely said, "I told you I am not a complete dunce when it comes to household affairs."

The tall gentleman spun around. "I never said you were a dunce, Alayna."

Chelsea's lips pursed. "Well, then. What would you like me to do today?"

Regaining himself, Lord Rathbone set her to the task of entering tiny numbers into columns in the account books. Seeing that she was thusly occupied, he busied himself labeling the cubbyholes in the rent table with the names of the tenants who still maintained farms on the estate.

Twice, when Chelsea was unsure where to enter a figure, she had to ask Lord Rathbone for assistance. Each time, help was freely given. The third time, however, when he took the pencil from her hand in order to set down the number in his own bold, sure script, Chelsea became oddly aware of the gentleman's very masculine presence. In all her life, she had not had occasion to work so closely beside a man. As he leant over her, it was all she could do not to inhale deeply of the scents that engulfed him . . . a mixture of musk and the slight tinge of tobacco. Upon feeling his strong arm brush against her shoulder, she could not deny that a tingle of pleasure rippled through her. With alarm, she jerked away, but succeeded only in colliding with his massive chest as he leaned forward at her back.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, I did not mean to cause . . . "

Apparently as unperturbed by the encounter as she was unsettled, Lord Rathbone merely muttered, "No harm done." Laying the pencil aside, he straightened. "You've worked quite diligently this morning, Alayna, perhaps you'd like to rest a bit?"

He strode toward the rent table. "I had meant to drive into Chester today to post a notice for the new bailiff, and to order supplies for repairing the bridge. Perhaps you'd like to come along?"

Chelsea risked a glance his way.

But he merely turned to the window. "Wind appears to be getting up, I should like to get to Chester and back before it begins to rain." He turned toward Chelsea. "What do you say?"

At the moment, Chelsea wasn't sure she could say anything. What was happening to her? It was true. Lord Rathbone was a very attractive man, but . . . she had no interest in him, or he in her. He was betrothed to another. "N-no," she finally managed. "I-I promised I'd read to Aunt Millicent this afternoon."

"Very well, then." Lord Rathbone nodded, bending to gather up some papers on the desk before him. "I shall just be off. If you will be good enough to tell Mother where I've gone, and that I shall be back around tea time."

Chelsea watched the tall gentleman exit the room.
What had come over her?
Things were happening so fast she could barely keep up. Thinking again of his long, tapered fingers wielding the pencil as he leaned over her to write, she swallowed tightly. His hands appeared strong and graceful. They were the hands of a gentleman, to be sure, and yet . . . they were more. A disquieting breathlessness swept over her.
What did it mean?

Chelsea was still perplexed by the strange phenomena when that evening after dinner, the three of them again adjourned to the cozy sitting room. It had, indeed, begun to rain that afternoon, at first coming as a gentle mist. Now it was cutting up quite nasty, the insistent rumble of thunder constantly punctuated by the startling crack of lightning. The dismal weather outdoors made the intimacy of the red and gold fire crackling here in the grate that much more inviting.

Lord Rathbone had not made it back to the castle before the downpour began, for Chelsea had noted at table that his dark hair was still damp from the drenching he took.

"I'd have taken a carriage," he remarked to his mother as they all sat down now, "but every last gig in the carriage house is in need of some sort of repair."

"I seldom go out these days," Lady Rathbone said, by way of explanation.

"Nonetheless, it's important to keep something in good repair."

"You could have taken my coach," Chelsea offered, referring to the elegant Marchmont equipage that was also housed in the outbuilding.

In reply, his lordship sneezed, then he sneezed again.

"Oh, dear," Lady Rathbone fretted. "I daresay you've caught a chill, Rutherford. Go and stand by the fire."

"It's nothing, Mother." Lord Rathbone withdrew his handkerchief and began to dab at his nose. Folding the square of linen up again, he added laughingly, "I admit I am not accustomed to having a woman fuss over me."

"There are no women in Honduras?" Chelsea murmured incredulously.

Drawing his wing chair nearer the fire, Rathbone laughed again. "Of course there are women in Honduras, pea goose. There are men and women and children, the same as there are here."

After a pause, Lady Rathbone said, "I expect Alayna does not know a great deal about your home, Ford. Perhaps you could enlighten us both. I know I should like to hear more about it. Having spent all my life in England, I know very little of foreign climes."

Lord Rathbone looked thoughtful, then with a nod, he smiled, the action serving to soften the sculptured look of his jaw.

"As I said, we've plenty of rain in the tropics," he began, bending an indulgent smile on his mother. "But when it isn't raining, we've an abundance of sunshine. My house sits on a hill, surrounded on three sides by tall trees. I am not referring to the common low copse so prevalent here, but sweeping palms, and coconuts with branches that seem to touch the sky. And, of course, a profusion of mahogany."

"But, you do not cut the trees near your house," Chelsea put in quietly, finding the description of his home quite intriguing. She'd never seen a palm, or a coconut, tree.

"No," he shook his head, "indeed not. The trees for cutting lie deep in the forest. In full bloom, the forest is quite beautiful. We've two cutting seasons a year, one just after Christmas, another in July or early August. I expect cutting will begin this year soon after I return home. Summer is also known as our wet season." He grinned again at his mother. "Consequently, I am often caught in an unexpected shower."

"Well, I hope you change into dry clothes quickly!" Lady Rathbone admonished.

Lord Rathbone laughed. "Not when I am miles away from the house."

"But what do you do?" Chelsea asked,

He glanced at her. "Carry on, of course. One is often wet in the tropics, and not only from the rain."

"Wet?" Chelsea murmured.

"From the heat. On most days, the least bit of exertion is likely to . . ." he glanced again at Chelsea, perhaps wondering if he might be speaking too plainly for a lady's ears. "Produce a glow across one's brow," he finished, his lips twitching. "Even dressing can be somewhat of an ordeal, it being necessary to cool down between a shave and drawing on one's clothes. In the tropics, a man cannot leave his chamber in ten minutes as he does here in England. Not if he wishes to be presentable." He laughed good-naturedly.

"Do you not have a manservant, or a valet, to assist you?" Chelsea asked, not realizing she was becoming quite caught up imagining how it might be to live in such an extraordinary place.

"Indeed. There are plenty of servants, the bulk of them slaves."

"Slaves!" Chelsea sputtered, her eyes suddenly wide with horror.

He nodded. "A planter's slaves, both men and women, are highly valued property. Without them, and our indentured servants, the production and cutting of mahogany would come to a complete standstill."

"But . . . do you not feel guilty about . . .
owning
people?"