The Diabolical Baron (24 page)

He had no trouble believing either statement. He
vaguely assumed that vicars’ wives should be mild and
discreet. Lady Helen did not seem heavily endowed
with either of those rather boring virtues.

She added, “They are bound to be disappointed. I
still have a great deal of atonement to do before I am
ready to move on.” He wondered at the sins she was
making amends for. It was doubtful that she would
waste her guilt on the trivial.

They were interrupted by the entrance of the vicar. Silver-haired and frail, he had the luminous face of a man who spent much of his life on a higher plane and remembered his mundane duties only in passing. His
voice was soft, but had the carrying quality developed by decades worth of sermons. “Ah, there you are, my
love. Are you finished with the flowers so we can have
a cup of tea?” As his eyes adjusted to the dark church interior, he saw Richard and blinked doubtfully. “Do I
know you, sir?”

Richard rose and offered his hand. “No, Reverend Chandler, but I am having the pleasure of meeting your
wife.”

The vicar beamed as he shook hands. “Isn’t Lady
Helen splendid? The Lord sent her to take care of me in my old age. I can’t think what I have done to deserve two wonderful wives in one lifetime, but I give thanks every day for my good fortune.”

Since the good priest did not seem the sort to have had his two wives simultaneously, her ladyship must
have come late to the vicarage. That fact and her aristo
cratic title would explain the lack of docility.

The stern
face softened as she looked at her husband. The sweetness of faith he radiated must be a balm to her acerbic
nature.
“This is Captain Dalton, my dear. He is staying at the
great house. Perhaps we can persuade him to join us
for tea.”

The vicar turned to him hopefully. “Would you like
some tea, Captain? And perhaps a tour of the church
first? We have some splendid old things here.”

Richard smiled at him warmly. It would have been too cruel to deprive the old gentleman of the pleasure of showing off his beloved church. And the more he
learned about Wargrave, the better he would be able to
make the decision that must come soon.

The tour included memorials to sundry deceased
Davenports. It felt strange to see the impassive stone
face of Lord Hugh, dead in the Holy Land during the second Crusade; the brass plaque of Giles Davenport
with his three wives and numerous children next to
him; the stone inscription to Eleanor Davenport,
beloved wife and mother.

For all Richard’s desire to remain
detached, he felt a pull to learn more about his ancestors. Like it or not, their blood flowed in his veins and
gave him an anchor he had lacked since his parents’
deaths.

As the tour continued, he made interested com
ments to Reverend Chandler and filed his feelings
away for later examination.
After an amiable tea he rode slowly back to War-
grave Park, absently whistling “To Be a Farmer’s Boy”
as he pondered what he had learned.

The Chandlers’
conversation had added to his understanding of the
local situation, and even the perennial ache in his right
leg was forgotten as he weighed the potential good he could do as the local lord against the heavy burdens.

He had been a good officer but never really developed a taste for military discipline. If he accepted the
title, he would be losing his cherished new civilian free
dom.

The head of this miniature kingdom called War
grave would be trapped by more restrictions than the
youngest stableboy. There would be serious lessons to
learn about agriculture, law, and finance; a seat in the
House of Lords, with lawmaking responsibility for the
whole country.

Toadeaters and other such parasites
would seek him out to further their own interests.
Would he ever again be free to wander as he chose,
without being constrained by well-meaning depen
dents? To argue philosophy or politics without defer
ential agreement?

It had been easy to identify young noblemen in the Army. They were treated differently by those around him. He hated the idea of being perceived
as an earl rather than a man.

Richard tried to be objective about the compensa
tions. His life would not lack for purpose, even if free
dom were in short supply. The estate might take years
to return to full productivity, but even now there was
more income than he’d ever dreamed of.

He sighed. That
was an unconvincing advantage since money meant very little to him. A simple village cottage would be
luxury to him after these last years. He felt no great
need for anything more.

But he was deeply drawn to those lovely green hills with their morning mists and
hidden brooks. He didn’t know if it was an ancestral
call of the blood or his desire for their peace. Either way,
he could imagine a life among them.

And now there was a new factor, one that could
make all the difference in the world to his future

He was still trying to balance comfort against captiv
ity when he reached the stableyard, where a minor war
seemed to be in progress. A sporting curricle and a
trunk-filled carriage were pulled up in front of the rear
entrance to the house and an imperious voice was
yelling, “For God’s sake, you imbeciles, that is wine you
are unloading, not bricks! Gently!”

The crash of breaking bottles was followed by an ex
plosion of curses that would have done credit to a mas
ter sergeant. Richard pulled in Rakehell and listened
with deep appreciation. If his ears didn’t betray him,
Cousin Reginald had arrived.

As he rode around the wagon he found Reggie howl
ing at two bemused-looking Wargrave servants as a
superior valet and a bored groom watched. Clearly
they had come with his cousin and considered themselves above menial labor.

Reggie’s face was a good
match for the claret wine spreading across the cobbled yard. “You cowhanded loobies! I’ll have your jobs for
this! I’ll—”

His tirade broke off as he saw that his audience had
increased. He looked at Richard suspiciously and said,
“I’ve seen you before.” His eyes narrowed.
“It was at the lawyer’s office.
You were wearing a captain’s uniform. Ninety-fifth Ri
fles. What are you doing here? Did he set you to spy
on me?”

Richard answered mildly, “If Mr. Chelmsford knew
you were coming here, it’s more than he told me. Do you keep him informed of your movements?”

“Of course not!” Reggie snapped. “I didn’t know I
was coming myself until yesterday. Who are you, any
way?”

The captain bowed slightly from his horseback
height. “Richard Dalton. When you saw me, the lawyer
and I were discussing my coming here to inventory the
estate in preparation for winding up the trust. While
you and Mr. Chelmsford appear”—he paused deli
cately— “incompatible, I’m sure that you must ac
knowledge his conscientious care of the property.”

“He’s said to be honest enough,” Reggie said grudgingly. “Will you come down from that horse? I’m get
ting a sore neck from talking to you.”

Richard obligingly dismounted and turned to lead
the stallion to the stable. His cousin’s voice stopped
him. “You can subtract these two yokels from the in
ventory. They’ll be leaving today.”

Richard turned to face him. “
Since you have no authority to dis
miss them, they’ll be staying. I’ve found them to be
competent workers.”

He spared a glance for the miscre
ants. Not only were they looking entirely unashamed of their clumsiness, one of them actually winked at him as
he said mournfully, “It whar a sad accident, Captain
Dalton.”

“What do you mean, I have no authority? I’m the
next earl and I own this rock pile, and everyone in it!”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard that
freeborn Englishmen could be owned. And while you
may be Lord Wargrave soon, for the time being Mr.
Chelmsford is in charge and here I am his deputy.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I am not welcome in
my own ancestral home?” Reggie’s face was turning an
interesting shade of puce that clashed seriously with
his burgundy-colored coat.

“Not at all,” Richard said gently. “I understand that
you have not been allowed within its doors for some
years, and I am sure that you are anxious to become
reacquainted with the household. Doubtless it is an ex
cellent place in which to avoid creditors.”

Reggie gave a short bark of laughter at the words. “Perhaps you are not such a gapeseed as you appear.
I’ll admit the bailiffs had something to do with my de
sire to summer in Gloucestershire. Brighton would
have been preferable, but the plaguey bill collectors al
ways look there first. By the time they run me down,
my luck will have changed.”

“Perhaps. If you will excuse me, I need to rub my
horse down.”

“Gentlemen don’t rub their horses down,” Reggie
said flatly.

“Gentlemen might not. But soldiers do. A bad habit I
picked up on the Peninsula,” Richard said as he headed
toward the stable.

“Is that where you were crippled?”

Reggie’s raised
voice reached Richard clearly. He turned to face his cousin and said in his quietest tone, “No, that was Waterloo.”

Reginald paused suddenly. He was in a vile mood,
his head aching from too much Blue Ruin the night be
fore and his temper frayed from the longest spell of ill
luck with the cards he’d ever had. He had been quite
ready to pick a quarrel with this nonentity, years his junior and half a head shorter. But when Dalton turned
and looked at him in that cool way, he felt a dis
inclination to continue his baiting. “They say it was
quite a battle,” he said inanely.

“It was indeed.” Richard waited a moment to see if
his cousin had anything to add, then continued to the
stables. He had a feeling that if Reginald Davenport in
herited, half the servants on the estate would be off to
find new jobs. The man had a talent for un
pleasantness.

* * * *

Richard’s opinion of his rakish cousin moderated a bit over the luncheon that was served. Lacking clear direction to the contrary, the servants had laid the table
for two and called them at the same time.

Reggie was in a better mood, possibly from the discovery mat the
Wargrave cellars harbored some excellent claret to re
place the case that was broken. He made no attempt to
provoke, and his cynical comments were slyly amus
ing.

Peaceable as always, the captain listened and an
swered noncommittally. Privately he thought Reginald would have been a better man if he had been born with
less money or more responsibility. His natural gifts
were frittered away in drink and gaming while he lived
on his luck and his expectations.

Mentally Richard thanked his father for raising him away from War
grave’s long shadow. Better to know you were
poor than to hope you might someday become rich by
someone else’s death.

The meal was just finishing when Caroline hurried
into the dining room. “Somers said you were in here.
I...” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know
you had company.”

She made an enchanting picture as she caught her
breath. Her cheeks flushed a pale rose that matched her
dress and a nimbus of glossy dark blond curls framed her
face.

The men stood at her entrance. “Well, well, well,”
drawled Reggie. “Life in the country has more attractions than I remembered. Permit me to introduce my
self. I am Reginald Davenport, very much at your
service.” He made an elegant leg that would have been
a credit to any courtier.

Richard completed the introduction. “This is Miss
Hanscombe. She is staying at Wildehaven.”

Reggie’s mouth tightened, his pale blue eyes becom
ing overlaid with something darker. His voice retained its unctuous note as he said, “Then you would be Rad
ford’s fiancée. May I offer you my congratulations? He
must have been very difficult to catch.”