Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(9)

“I’ve come all the way up from Hampshire. How often do you have the pleasure of my company?”

“Pleasure is not what I usually call it,” Winterborne grumbled, and went to ring for a servant.

Ravenel grinned after him before leveling an assessing glance at Ethan. The mask of easy charm settled back into place. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the grouping of deep leather chairs.

Stone-faced, Ethan went to occupy one of the chairs. He leaned back with his fingers laced lightly across his midriff. As the silence stretched out, he deliberately focused on the rosewood-and-brass mantel clock.

“Counting the minutes, are we?” Ravenel asked. “Very well, I’ll go to the point as quickly as possible. Three years ago, my older brother unexpectedly inherited an earldom. Since he knew nothing about estate management, or God help us, farming, I agreed to move to Hampshire to help him make a go of it.” Ravenel paused at a knock on the door.

The conversation paused while a butler brought in a silver tray bearing a set of egg-shaped glasses and the bottle of Gautier. Ceremoniously the cognac was poured and served. After the butler had departed, Winterborne sat on the arm of a heavy leather chair. He held a glass of cognac in one hand, while using the other to lazily turn the globe as if contemplating which parts of the world he wanted to own next.

“Why would you change your life like that?” Ethan couldn’t resist asking. Leaving London for a quiet rural existence was his idea of hell on earth. “What were you trying to escape?”

Ravenel smiled. “Myself, I suppose. Even a life of debauchery can become tiresome. And I discovered that estate farming suits me. The tenants have to pay attention to me, and I’m easily amused by cows.”

Ethan was in no mood for light banter. Weston Ravenel reminded him of things he’d spent most of his twenty-eight years trying not to think about. The elation he’d felt after meeting with Garrett Gibson had drained away, leaving him surly and annoyed. After taking a swallow of the fine cognac and barely tasting it, he said curtly, “You have eighteen minutes left.”

Ravenel lifted his brows. “By all means, Chatty Cheerful, I’ll get to the point. The reason I’m here is that my brother and I have decided to sell some family property in Norfolk. It’s a large house in good condition, set on approximately two thousand acres. However, I just found out that we can’t do anything with it. Because of you.”

Ethan gave him a questioning glance.

“Yesterday,” Ravenel said, “I met with our former estate manager and family solicitor, respectively Totthill and Fogg. They explained that selling the Norfolk property is impossible because Edmund—the old earl—left it to someone in his will by means of a secret trust.”

“What is that?” Ethan asked warily, having never heard of such a legal device.

“A declaration, usually verbal, concerning a bequest of property or money.” Ravenel lifted his brows in a mocking expression of astonishment. “Naturally, we were all rather curious as to why the earl would have left such a generous gift to a man we’d never heard of.” After a long pause, he continued in a more serious tone, “If you wouldn’t mind talking to me about it, I think I know why—”

“No,” Ethan said stonily. “If the trust wasn’t written down, ignore it.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. According to English law, a verbal trust is absolute. It’s illegal to ignore it. There were three witnesses to the trust: Totthill, Fogg, and the earl’s longtime valet, Quincy, who has confirmed the story.” Pausing, Ravenel swirled the remaining cognac in his glass. His steady gaze met Ethan’s. “Totthill and Fogg tried to notify you about the trust upon the earl’s death, but you were nowhere to be found at the time. Now it falls to me to relay the happy news: Congratulations, you’re now the proud owner of a Norfolk estate.”

With great care, Ethan leaned to set his glass on a nearby table. “I don’t want it.” All the tricks he knew to control his emotions, the regulation of his breathing, the deliberate refocusing of his thoughts, weren’t working. He was appalled to feel a bloom of sweat on his face. Standing, he rounded the grouping of chairs and headed for the door.

Ravenel followed him. “Damn it, wait,” came his exasperated voice. “If we don’t finish this conversation now, I’ll have to go to the trouble of finding you again.”

Ethan stopped in his tracks, facing away from him.

“Whether or not you want the property,” Ravenel continued, “you have to take it. Because even though the Ravenels can’t do anything with the godforsaken place, we’re paying annual taxes on it.”

Ethan reached into a trouser pocket, pulled out a wad of pound notes, and flung it at Ravenel’s feet. “Let me know the balance of what I owe,” he snapped.

To Ravenel’s credit, if he were rattled by the gesture, he didn’t show it. Turning to Winterborne, he remarked casually, “No one’s ever showered me with cash before. I must say, it inspires feelings of instant affection.” Ignoring the scattered pound notes at his feet, he went to lean back against the billiards table. He folded his arms across his chest, leveling an appraising stare at Ethan. “Obviously you had no great liking for Edmund Ravenel. May I ask why?”

“He hurt someone I loved. I’ll not dishonor her memory by taking anything from a Ravenel.”