Samantha James (3 page)

But they were the dreams of children, for nothing had turned out as planned…. Both father and mother had died, and their care was given over to their mother’s sister Gertrude; it was under Aunt Gertrude’s guidance that he and Giles had grown to manhood. So it was that with their father’s death, Giles’s dreams had ended, for he was the new Earl of Deverell. Instead he—Damien—was the one who had sailed the seas while Giles went off to Cambridge; he had traveled to America and left the business of the earldom in the hands of his elder brother, Giles.

His mouth a grim, straight line, Damien spurred his mount onward. He ducked beneath
the low-hanging branch of an oak tree, then veered around the bottom of a grassy knoll. His jaw was clenched tight, as if to do battle. Indeed, he had to remind himself that his battle was not with Miss Heather Duval…

She was but the means to her father.

It was then that Lockhaven Park came into view. Without realizing it, Damien reined in his mount and came to a halt. As he’d been when he’d first seen it, he couldn’t help but admire such an impressive sight. Towering, stately trees paved the lane that swept in a wide half-circle toward the manor house. Verdant lawn surrounded the house in every direction. With a red brick facade and gleaming white portico, the house itself was simple yet aristocratic. Indeed, he reflected almost reluctantly, Lockhaven reminded him more than a little of Bayberry, his home in Virginia.

With a touch of his heel, once again he urged Zeus forward. Within a few short minutes, he stood before the huge double doors. An ornately carved brass knocker in hand, he rapped sharply on the paneled facade.

The sound of footsteps echoed within. A stoop-shouldered butler opened the door wide; there was an air of shabby capability about him as he fixed inquiring eyes upon the visitor.

“May I help you, sir?”

“You may indeed.” Damien’s tone was brisk. “I am Damien Lewis. I have an appointment to see Miss Heather Duval.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Lewis.” The butler’s gaze swept
the length of him as he spoke. He must have passed muster, for the butler’s lined face relaxed into a warm smile. “Miss Heather is expecting you. Please, come in.”

Damien stepped into the foyer. The butler closed the portal, then gestured down a long corridor. “I am Marcus, by the way. Please, follow me. Miss Heather is in her study.”

Damien fell into step beside him, slowing his stride to match that of the elderly man beside him. They passed the drawing room and the music room; he caught a glimpse of glossy floors, tall, paneled walls lined with windows, awash with sunlight and filled with soft, inviting divans and chairs. Some strange emotion seized hold of him, something that bordered on anger, for he was reminded once again of Bayberry—yet he didn’t want to like anything whatsoever about Lockhaven Park. Not the grounds. Not the furnishings. Most certainly not its mistress…

“Here we are, sir,” Marcus said cheerfully. He opened the last door on the right and stood aside so Damien could pass through. “Perhaps we’ll be seeing you again soon.”

Damien caught his eyes. “One can only hope,” he murmured. Smiling slightly, he moved past the old man into the study. Marcus gave him a wink, then withdrew. As the door closed behind him, Damien raised his head. His every nerve coiled tight within him as he prepared to confront Miss Heather Duval, daughter of his brother’s murderer…

But it was a painting on the wall that captured
his attention. It was dark and ominous—a hunchback stood upon a hilltop. Above his head, across the bleak horizon, he was surrounded by masses of black, seething clouds.

The hunchback had no face.

“Mr. Lewis?”

His gaze veered. His mind registered a massive mahogany desk that dominated the far corner. A diminutive figure was seated behind it, her hands folded just so before her.

He reeled.

It was she. His gypsy from this morning. There could be no mistake. Her worn, faded dress had been exchanged for one of crisp, gray muslin; she’d caught her hair up in a prim little bun atop her crown. Oh, she looked older, to be sure. But those exquisitely sculpted features were the same. And those huge, violet eyes gazed mutely into his.

He allowed the merest trace of a smile to curl his lips, for he must reveal no hint of the turmoil that roiled within him.

“So, Alice,” he murmured, “we meet again.”

She didn’t return his smile. “So we do,” she observed, “a meeting I suspect neither of us expected.” Her voice was quiet and calm, yet her regard had once again turned wary.

He gave a slight shrug. “You may well be right.”

He watched as she gestured across from her. “Please,” she said, her tone coolly formal, “sit down.”

So. This is how it would be. Damien’s manner
grew chill. He battled an acid hatred. She should have been ugly. Grotesque. God, but he wished she were! After all, she carried the same blood as a murderer.
Stop it
, reproved a voice in his head.
You judge too harshly and too soon
.

His stride unfaltering, he crossed the room. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am not only rude, I’ve been remiss.” He now stood before her. “I am Damien Lewis.”

Boldly he reached for her hand; his own, deeply bronzed and much larger, seemed to swallow hers up. As he released her fingers, he saw her looking down at his hands. He was suddenly very glad that his palm was calloused and rough, for he often worked alongside his own men in the fields. If the lady believed he were a city dandy, the game might well have been lost before it was even begun.

He seated himself in a burgundy leather wing chair directly across from her; there was a wooden cane propped against the side of her desk, with a handle of beaten, engraved silver. In some far distant corner of his mind, he registered the feeling that it seemed a bit out of place….

He crossed his booted feet at the ankles and slanted her an easy smile. “I confess, this is a bit awkward. Will your husband be joining us?”

“I have no husband, sir. You see before you the sole mistress of Lockhaven Park.”

If he’d hoped to discomfit her, he failed abominably, for her reply was swift, her manner as unruffled as his own. What devil had seized hold of him, Damien couldn’t say, for he already
knew what her answer would be even before she spoke. The lady had no husband. Indeed, he knew quite a lot about Miss Heather Duval—that she’d been raised under the wardship of Miles Grayson, Earl of Stonehurst, who lived not five kilometers distant. He didn’t know why—perhaps because her father had spent the last twenty years in Newgate.

But now it was she who regarded him with keen aplomb. “I trust this poses no problem for you, Mr. Lewis? I know there are some who might consider it an affront to be in the employ of a woman. So I will understand if you wish to discontinue the interview—”

“On the contrary, Miss Duval. Please, let us proceed.” There was a glint in his eye; he had the feeling that was what she wanted.

Slim, supple fingers seemed to tense, then visibly relax. Yet her words were the complete antithesis of what he expected. “Then let us get down to business,” she said softly. She reached for a small sheaf of papers on the corner of the desktop. “I must admit, Mr. Lewis, I was quite impressed with the letter you sent. It seems you have a good deal of experience to commend you.”

His tobacco holdings in Virginia had prospered greatly over the last ten years; ego notwithstanding, Damien liked to think it was because he involved himself in every aspect of the business. “At the risk of sounding rather arrogant, Miss Duval, I believe I do.”

She contemplated him, her head tipped to the side. A faint frown flashed across her features.
“Your accent,” she murmured. “’Tis rather unfamiliar.”

He chuckled, striving to be at his most charming. “No doubt it’s a bit of a mixture. You see, I was born in Yorkshire and spent most of my youth there.” Notably absent was the fact that he’d been born the second son of an earl. He must tread carefully, lest his true identity be revealed. Oh, no, he was not about to disclose who he really was, for he could trust no one…

Especially not her.

“When I was sixteen,” he went on, “I decided to go in search of fame and fortune, and landed in America.”

“Sixteen!” She was clearly aghast. “But that’s so young to be on your own! Surely someone traveled with you?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said lightly. “But I was big for a lad and pretended to know quite well the ways of the world. I settled in Virginia and went to work for a plantation owner. Eventually I came to be in charge of the daily operations there.” A roundabout way of putting it, but true nonetheless.

“I see.” Her gaze was fixed on his face. He could almost see her mind working, gauging him, weighing and measuring. “Could you describe your duties in more detail?”

“Certainly, Miss Duval. I was the sole keeper of the books, and I was responsible for supervising the planting and harvest of the plantation’s chief crop—tobacco. I bought and ordered supplies, and saw to the housing and welfare of those who worked in the fields.”

She nodded. “I’m curious, however, Mr. Lewis. What brought you back to England?”

He gestured vaguely, pretending to ponder. “Despite the years I spent in America, this is home,” he said at last. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s Lancashire or Yorkshire. I returned for a visit and…’twas a precipitous decision, I admit. Thus I fear I carry no letters of recommendation with me.” He held his breath and waited.

She nodded, yet he sensed her hesitancy. “I must be honest, Mr. Lewis,” she said slowly. “I need a man who is not an ogre, for I will not have an estate manager whom my tenants fear. At the same time, I require someone who is able to perform his duties with a firm, capable hand. Thus far I’ve had precious little luck finding a suitable replacement for Robin, and time grows short. But we are not growing tobacco here in Lancashire, Mr. Lewis. We raise sheep and cattle, and grow what crops are needed to sustain the estate and its tenants.”

“I am hardly ignorant of such matters,” he said quickly. “My aunt’s farm in Yorkshire is very similar to your estate, and it was there that I spent much of my youth.”

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “’Tis not that I doubt your ability—”

“Then I have an offer, Miss Duval. If you will engage me as your estate manager, I shall work without wages for the first month.” He was driven by desperate purpose, but he dared not let her know it. “Should you be dissatisfied with me, or should my work prove inadequate in any way,
you may dismiss me at the end of that time. With all respect, Miss Duval, it would seem to me that you have nothing to lose.”

She was tempted; hope flared within him, yet he didn’t dare risk pushing her further. With naught but the hold of his eyes, he sought to convince her. Time stretched out endlessly. But just when he thought his plan futile, she rose to her feet behind the desk. For the first time, that lovely mouth softened in a faint smile.

Damien felt he’d been punched in the belly. He’d thought her lovely before, but God above, now she stole the very breath from his lungs.

“You are a persuasive man, Mr. Lewis. I agree to your proposal—but on one condition. I will not cheat you by withholding wages for services given me. In addition to your salary”—she named a figure that was more than generous—“the estate manager is entitled to the use of the house near the east pasture. ’Tis a modest dwelling, but I hope you’ll find it adequate. Is this agreeable to you, sir?”

Damien stood as well. “It is indeed, Miss Duval.”

“Good,” she pronounced. “When would you like to move your things?”

“Tomorrow would be fine, Miss Duval. I can begin after that.”

“Excellent, then. If you’ll meet me at the stable at ten o’clock, I should like to show you the estate.”

“I shall look forward to it.” He reached around to retrieve his hat. When he glanced
back, he saw that she was still standing. But he had the sensation there was more she wanted to say.

He arched a brow. “Was there something else, Miss Duval?”

“Yes. Yes, actually there is.” For the first time since this morning, she seemed almost flustered. “Mr. Lewis, you’re quite certain this is what you want? I ask because…well, it occurs to me that you may find Lancashire quite tedious. Our village is small and—”

He cut her off, yet there was no sting in his tone. “If I were in search of city life, Miss Duval, I’d have gone to London.”

His gaze was unrelenting, yet those unusual violet eyes never left his. “You take my meaning well, Mr. Lewis.”

A single step brought him directly across from her. Reaching out, he took her hand. It was small and dainty and feminine, and all at once he found himself torn by conflicting emotions. He fought the urge to crush her hand in his, the way her father had surely crushed his brother. Yet even as he wanted to conquer and defeat all that she was, he longed to rip the pins from her hair, to feel it tumble over his fingers, all warm, dark silk as he urged her rose-tinted mouth to his. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted to see her walk to him, her form all fluid, perfect and agile gracefulness….

“I wish to make my home in a quiet restful place such as this, Miss Duval, so, please, trouble yourself no further.” His tone was soft. He brought her fingers to his lips, a fleeting touch
that was over almost as soon as it was begun. “I promise you, I shall be quite satisfied here at Lockhaven, for I am just a common, hardworking man like any other.”

With that, he bid her farewell and strode from the study. His plan had been set into motion.

Now all he could do was wait.

He was not a man like any other. Nor was he common.

Heather had never been more certain of anything in her life.

Slowly she lowered herself to her seat once more. Her legs felt peculiarly unsteady. And her heart was knocking wildly, the way it had when he’d come upon her this morning.

She chided herself for her foolishness, yet she could not dismiss it so easily. Indeed, his presence was still a palpable force in the room.

He’d kissed her hand. Why.
Why?

He’d been treading on dangerous ground, for it was a presumption both bold and blatant. And then there was the way he’d looked at her that morning. His gaze had wandered over her unbound hair, the bareness of her shoulders, lingering on her breasts. An odd feeling tightened her middle. Strange, but she wouldn’t have said his attention was brazen or even impudent, so much as it had been just…intent.

It was unsettling, that’s what it was.
He
was unsettling. Since the moment they’d met, he’d scarcely left her thoughts. It wasn’t just his looks, though never had she encountered a man so strikingly pleasing to the eye. No, it wasn’t that at all….

There had been something compelling about him—a glimpse of some elusive emotion shuttered deep in his soul, and it was that which had drawn her to him. It was that which she had sought to capture in her sketch.

Heather couldn’t help it. Her hand stole to the top drawer of her desk. Paper rustled as she pulled the sketch from its hiding place.

Her teeth dug unconsciously into her lower lip. She stared at her depiction of his profile…the firm, square jaw, patrician brow and chiseled lips were almost flawlessly classical.

She’d never dreamed he was Damien Lewis, the man she was to interview that very day.

Slowly she let out her breath, lowering the sketch to the desktop. A frown furrowed the smoothness of her brow. Had she made a mistake in hiring him?

In all honesty, there had been only a handful of applicants for the position. Most men were too proud—too lofty, in her mind—even to consider working for a woman. She’d begun to think she would be forced to place an ad in the London daily in order to find a replacement.

Having just reached the age of five-and-twenty, Heather was well aware that she was considered “on the shelf.” In truth, she’d always known she would never marry. No matter how hard she
tried—no matter how she used to wish otherwise—she’d resigned herself to spinsterhood when she was still a child. She’d known that her life could never be the same as those of other young women of her age and station. ’Twas a simple fact of life, for she could not change what she was. She would always be…different.

But she was lucky. On the occasion of her twenty-first birthday, Mama and Papa had bestowed on her a most unusual gift—Lockhaven Park. It was their way of giving her the means to attain both prosperity and her own self-esteem. From the start, Heather had been determined not to disappoint them. She had promptly discovered that being a landowner was no easy task. Being a woman, especially one such as herself, made it doubly hard.

But Lockhaven had prospered and flourished under her care and toil. She had made it what it was today, and she had done it solely on her own.

That was something that could never be taken from her.

Still, Robin’s death had been a blow. He had been an old, trusted friend whom she’d known almost her entire life, and she still missed him dreadfully. But her estate manager was also essential to Lockhaven itself. Robin had been a crucial pair of hands—perhaps, more aptly, a pair of legs—for she simply could not travel about the estate as she might have wished.

Papa had hinted that he would be happy to help her find a new estate manager, but, as always, Heather was determined to manage on her own. Some might have said it was stubborn
pride, but Heather didn’t think so. True, Papa had offered advice from time to time, but he hadn’t interfered, and for that she was grateful.

Small fingers curled around the edge of the sketch. Yes, she told herself firmly. Damien Lewis was the right man. Despite her few misgivings, she could feel it. What did it matter that just looking at him made her feel all strange and fluttery inside? He was confident—oh, he was most certainly that! Arrogant? Perhaps a trifle, but there were times when that was not such a bad thing. But it was neither of those things that inspired her decision.

No, she reasoned slowly. It was more a feeling that he would be forthright and honest no matter the cost, a man she could trust implicitly.

Just then the study door burst open. With a swirl of skirts and a flurry of movement, her sister Beatrice rushed in.

At sixteen, Beatrice was a beauty on the verge of full bloom. Slim and petite, her hair a mass of golden-blond curls, Bea was the image of her mother, Victoria Grayson, Countess of Stonehurst.

In truth, Heather was in no way related to the Graysons. But she had grown up the ward of Miles Grayson, the Earl of Stonehurst, and they were the only family she had ever known, for she remembered neither her mother nor her father.

She’d been very young, scarcely four, when she’d come under the care of the earl. Heather didn’t remember the carriage accident that had claimed the lives of her parents; she had been the only survivor. The accident had occurred just
outside Stonehurst, and the earl had taken her in while she recovered. Indeed, all she remembered of that time was being held safe and warm in the strong and comforting embrace of the man she’d always known as “Papa.”

Miles hadn’t been married then. He’d met—and married—his wife, Victoria, several years later in London. Heather would never forget the first time she’d seen Victoria—she’d thought her a fairy princess. But Victoria was warm and loving, and from the start there had been a bond between them that nothing could erase. Victoria had had no qualms about taking in another’s child as her own.

Heather hadn’t been an only child for long, however. Within a year of their marriage, Miles and Victoria had had another daughter. Heather had been eight when Bea was born. Two other children had followed over the years as well. Christina was twelve, and Arthur, as dark as his sisters were fair, had just celebrated his eighth birthday.

Oh, there had been times when Heather had felt a pang of guilt that she could remember nothing of her parents. But Miles and Victoria, Beatrice, Christina and Arthur were her family now. She loved them as much as they loved her. It was as simple as that.

And as usual, Beatrice was her normal, vibrant self. “Heather! I just passed the most divine-looking gentleman riding down the lane. Never say he came from here!”

Heather had quickly shoved the sketch back into her drawer. Now she leaned back in her
chair, her expression indulgent. “As a matter of fact, Bea, he did.”

“He did?” Beatrice squealed and dashed across the floor. “Oh, Heather, who is he? And whatever was he doing here?”

“I’ve just hired him as my new estate manager. His name is Damien Lewis.”

“
He
is your new estate manager? Oh, Heather, he tipped his hat to me and wished me good day, and I thought I would swoon!” Beatrice pressed her hand to her forehead and pretended to do exactly that, sinking back onto a small settee.

Heather suppressed a smile. Beatrice was a great reader of novels and full of all things romantic. Little wonder that she was smitten with Damien Lewis.

Beatrice popped up an instant later. “He’s smashingly good-looking, don’t you think?”

Despite herself, Heather’s heart lurched. Yet her tone was aplomb itself. “I really hadn’t noticed, Bea.”

Beatrice clasped her hands to her breast. “But his eyes were so blue, Heather.”

“His eyes were gray, love.” Her tone was absent.

Bea slanted her a glance. Wicked amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Ah, so you did notice!”

“Of course I didn’t!” Heather objected strenuously.

“Oh, come, Heather. He is surely the handsomest man in all England, and if I were you…why, I would hire him, too!”

“Of course he isn’t! And I’ll have you know, young miss, I hired him for his qualifications—
and because I believe he’ll do an excellent job.” Even as she spoke, Damien’s visage flashed through Heather’s mind—high cheekbones, a smooth-shaven jaw, his gray eyes arresting and keen.

“I suppose you’re right. Of course you hired him for his qualifications—and not his looks.” Bea gave an airy laugh. “Why, the notion that you, of all people, would do so is really quite silly, isn’t it?”

Heather’s mouth opened and closed. She couldn’t stifle the pang that swept through her. Just because she’d never had a suitor in her life didn’t mean she was completely unmindful of the male race. Most of the time she didn’t mind that there wasn’t a man alive who would spare her more than a passing glance. But for the blink of an eye, a faint wistfulness overtook her.

Lord, had she ever been as young as Beatrice? When Bea came out next Season, she would soon have the world at her fingertips—clothes, parties, gentlemen who would dote on her every word and write poetry about her beauty. Bea had so much before her, so much that she would never have…

Bea leapt up from her chair with a snap of her fingers. “I have it! I shall talk Mama and Papa into planning a ball. I’ve begun dance lessons, you know.” She pulled a face. “We can invite Mr. Lewis. And of course you shall come, too, Heather—”

Heather interrupted with gentle firmness. “Bea, Damien Lewis is surely almost twice your age.”

“A man of experience! I should like that, I think.” It was as if Bea heard nary a word she spoke. She spun around the room, one wrist delicately bent as if resting on the shoulder of an imaginary dance partner.

“I think you read far too many novels, Bea.” Heather’s tone was dry. She rose, grimacing a little. Her knee was rather stiff today. Too much sitting, she decided, reaching for her cane.

Beatrice pouted playfully and made another face. “Mama says ’tis because you were always telling me stories when I was a child.”

You are still a child
, Heather nearly retorted.

“So if I do,” the girl went on loftily, “’tis because of you.”

“And if I did,” Heather said with a chuckle, “’tis because Mama told
me
so many stories.”

Bea swirled to a halt. Darting forward, she seized Heather’s hand. “’Tis a glorious day, is it not? And far too warm to stifle here inside. Why don’t we go out? Christina and Arthur will soon be along. I’ll ask Marcus to bring us tea and cookies out on the terrace.”

Heather sighed, but it was a halfhearted sound. “Bea, I have work to do.”

Bea dismissed her protest airily. “Oh, pooh. You work too hard, Heather. Even Mama and Papa say so. So you may as well come, for I won’t leave until you do.”

Heather sought to fix her sister with a sternfully reproaching look. She failed abominably, and they both burst into laughter.

But it seemed that Beatrice would have the last word after all. Bea looped her arm through hers
as they passed through the doorway. She cast Heather a sidelong glance through curling blond lashes.

“He is, you know.”

Puzzled, Heather tipped her head in silent query.

“Damien Lewis,” Bea said demurely. “He
is
the handsomest man in all England.”

Damien did not return straightaway to the Eppingstone Inn. Instead he rode south and east, to the town of Willoughby. There was a small tavern near the river. Long tables were lined with men, their boisterous laughter and booming voices bouncing off the low ceiling. Tobacco smoke spiraled lazily upward. But in the corner by the door, a man sat alone, his back resting against the wall as he surveyed the scene before him. He was slender and unassuming, dressed in drab brown wool, not at all the sort of man one was apt to take notice of unless pointed out.

Damien opened the door to a burst of laughter and smoke-filled air. The echo of his boots was lost amidst the din as he strode toward the bar. But before he was even halfway there, his elbow was seized by a buxom wench with curling brown hair and a generous, crooked-toothed smile.

“Looking for a spot o’ale this fine evening, sir?”

Damien inclined his head. “That I am,” he replied.

“Then you’ve come to the right place.” She nodded toward the barkeep. “Douglas brews the best ale in Lancashire.”

“Then I’m all the more eager to sample it.” Judging from the laden smell of her breath, she’d had more than her own share already.

The wench grinned. “Maybe you’d like some company to go along with your ale, eh?” She ran her hand down his forearm and thrust her breast against his side; it was an unmistakable invitation.

Damien’s eyes wandered over her upturned face. Her cheeks were ruddy and full, her lips chapped but wearing a ready smile. The wench was eager, her body warm and full and soft. It spun through his mind that this was not what he’d come for, but perhaps later…But no, for his own body was patently unresponsive—and despite the fact that it had been weeks since he’d lain with a woman, he suspected it would remain so.

He retrieved a coin from his pocket. Pressing it into her palm, he gave a faint shake of his head. “Another time,” he said softly, then proceeded on his way.

The man in the corner watched quietly as the barkeep filled a tankard with ale and handed it to Damien, who turned and retraced his steps to the door. Neither glance nor words passed between the two, but a moment later the man in the corner rose from his chair. His ale in hand, he slipped outside where it was quiet, where they wouldn’t be noticed…where they could talk.

Damien stood with his back to the tavern, his posture rigidly upright, one booted foot braced against the rough bark of an oak tree. The man from the corner approached, the damp ground
muffling the sound of his footsteps. He halted several feet away from Damien but spoke not a word.

It was Damien who broke the silence, his voice terse. “I got the position.”

“Good. That will put you close to her. You’ll be aware of everything that goes on.”

Cameron Lindsey’s voice held a note of quiet satisfaction. It was more than just money, though he was being amply paid. In all his years as an investigator, he’d never seen a man more driven than Damien Lewis Tremayne. But what was truly his quest? Vengeance? Justice? Satisfaction? It could have been any of these things…