Louise Allen - Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

‘What do you think of the Wilstone estate?’ he asked, an idea coming to him as they reined in to inspect the effects of liming on a stubbornly sour field.

‘That was a good purchase, my lord,’ Barrington said judiciously. ‘Needs work, of course, it had been neglected, but in time it could be very productive. There are fine stands of timber and it borders the new canal—I think you could build wharfs there, a timber yard. It would repay the investment with all the building going on in London. But I had thought you were intending to sell it on.’

‘No. I think we will keep it.’ The idea was taking more concrete shape as the estate manager talked. ‘Make it a special project, Barrington; give it, say, three years and see what you can make of it.’

‘What about the house?’ Barrington looked interested. ‘Sell and just keep the land? The last owner neglected it badly, what with all his debts and so forth. But it is quite sound—just shabby.’

‘No, don’t sell it. Get it into order. I’ll give you a free hand—think what you’d like if it was yours, but stay within the income from the lands.’ They moved off, satisfied with the state of the field, the expression on the steward’s face showing he was already thinking about the prospect of reviving the rundown estate that Ashe had bought as a speculation the year before. Ashe waited a few minutes, then added, as if the idea had just come to him, ‘See if my sister would like to help with the house.’

‘Miss Frederica?’

‘Yes,’ Ashe agreed. ‘Frederica.’

If things worked out, then he would give Frederica the estate as part of her dowry and if Barrington couldn’t manage to found his fortune from there, then he was not the man Ashe thought him.

‘Thank you, my lord, I will get right on to it.’

‘Reynard,’ Ashe corrected, a warm feeling blossoming inside as he contemplated the possible outcome of his matchmaking. All this talk of love—he must be getting soft. ‘But don’t neglect everything else,’ he added severely, wiping the grin off the younger man’s face.

‘No, of course not, my…Reynard.’

Hopefully that would take care of Frederica. Anna, he had no doubt, would sail serenely into society and find herself an eminently suitable beau without his help, and as for Katy—well, there were at least four years before he had to face that nightmare, and perhaps one could hire Bow Street Runners as chaperons.

Bel could advise him; he would enjoy talking to her about his sisters. She would take an interest. He could imagine her grey eyes lighting up at the thought of all the alarming things women appeared to find so fascinating: shopping, gossip, matchmaking. But he was trying to matchmake now himself—what had come over him?

‘…coppicing?’

‘Hmm?’ Damn, he was daydreaming. His hack was standing next to Barrington’s and the man had apparently been holding forth for some time about the overgrown woodland in front of them.

‘Absolutely,’ Ashe said firmly. ‘I quite agree it is the best thing.’

‘Which? Clear felling and replanting or coppicing?’

Damn again, the man must think him quite buffleheaded. ‘Coppice,’ he decided at random, finding he was staring into the dense thicket and assessing it as cover for marksmen. Or you could put a field gun just there and cover the whole of the little valley, sweep it with grapeshot. He shivered. No. No more fighting, no more violence, no more gripping a sweaty palm around the butt of a pistol and waiting for death. Peace, growing things, love. That must be it, he was feeling dynastic as a result of seeing all that death and destruction.

‘Where to next?’ Ashe stretched, standing in the stirrups, suddenly aware of the warmth of the sun on his back, the scent of flowers and hay, the sheer delight of the English countryside in summer. For the first time in a very long time—other than when he was making love to Bel—he was aware of his body and of feeling pleasure in it and its reaction to everyday things.

‘The Home Farm?’ Barrington suggested. ‘I need to talk to you about reroofing the long barn.’

‘Race?’ Ashe did not wait for a reply, but turned the gelding’s head towards home, conscious of the power gathering itself between his thighs, of the muscled curve of the animal’s neck as it strained against the bit. ‘Get up!’ As the hooves beat a tattoo along the packed chalk of the track, Barrington’s dapple grey thundering behind, he found himself wondering if Bel would enjoy this, whether she enjoyed the countryside, whether he could, after all, hold a house party and invite her.

He beat his estate manager into the yard by a length and reined in, laughing. ‘I’m thinking of holding a house party, Barrington. What do you think?’

‘Lady Dereham would be delighted, I image,’ the other man responded, swinging down out of the saddle and looping his reins through a ring on the wall.

Yes, she would and there was the rub. It was madness to contemplate bringing Bel here. He could not hope to hide their relationship from close scrutiny by his family, especially as his mother would probably consider her a most eligible candidate for his hand. And besides, they were due to go down to Brighton soon. It would cause endless speculation if he reversed those plans.

Sobered, he put his hands in the small of his back and craned to study the sagging ridgeline of the barn roof. ‘Before Christmas, perhaps. This roof, now, is in a poor state,’ he commented. ‘It’ll either have to be done now, quickly, before we want to bring the harvest in or it’ll have to wait the winter out.’

It would surprise Bel if she could see him now, standing in a farmyard and worrying about barn roofs and the harvest. What was she doing? he wondered.

Bel was, for once, not thinking about Ashe. She stood in the middle of Madame Laurent’s elegant dress shop and sighed in exasperation. ‘But don’t you want a new gown Elinor?’

‘I do not need one.’ Elinor set her mouth stubbornly. ‘We came to shop for you, not for me. What use do I have for a full dress outfit? I never get invited to that sort of occasion.’

‘Then buy a half-dress ensemble and work up to it! Something that is not fawn or beige or taupe for a change.’

‘They are practical colours,’ Elinor said calmly.

‘Not for evening wear.’

‘I do not need evening wear.’

They were going around in circles. Madame Laurent had tactfully withdrawn her assistants to the back of the shop when it was obvious that a fullscale debate was about to ensue between one of her most favoured new clients and her drab companion.

‘How are you ever going to meet men if you do not attend evening functions?’ Bel asked in a whisper, driven to a frankness she had intended to avoid.

‘I meet men at lectures and during the day on business. I meet quite enough of them for my purposes—which do not include marriage!’

‘Don’t you want to get married?’ Bel exclaimed, keeping her voice down with difficulty.

‘No. I do not. And you don’t either, you say, so why are you trying to persuade me?’

‘Because I do not think you are happy at your mother’s beck and call and, just because my marriage left me disinclined to repeat the experiment, there is no reason why you should not find a husband you could like.’

What was the matter with her? She wanted to matchmake, to set to couples—yet Elinor was quite correct, she most certainly did not want to remarry herself. But, of course, she had the best of both worlds: the freedom of a widow and the attentions of a lover.

‘I am sorry,’ she said pacifically. ‘I am getting carried away. Perhaps a husband is a step too far. But I am so fond of you and I hate to see you wasting your looks so. Why not wear colours that suit you? Clear greens, ambers, strong, rich browns. Red, even.’ It seemed outrageous that her cousin with her striking colouring should look so drab. ‘Madame?’