Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(10)

“I pity them, if they’re sent out into the world without a man’s protection.”

“That’s not my concern.” Devon reached for the carafe of wine and refilled his glass, trying not to think of what would become of them. The world wasn’t kind to innocent young women. “They were Theo’s responsibility. Not mine.”

“I believe this is the part in the play,” West mused, “when a noble hero would appear to save the day, rescue the damsels, and set everything to rights.”

Devon rubbed the corners of his eyes with the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “The truth is, West, I couldn’t salvage this damned estate, or save the damsels, even if I wanted to. I’ve never been a hero, nor do I have any wish to be.”

“… in light ofthe late earl’s failure to provide legitimate male issue,” the family solicitor droned the next morning, “according to the legal rule of perpetuities, which renders the devise of entail void for remoteness, the settlement has expired.”

As an expectant silence filled the study, Devon looked up from a pile of leases, deeds, and account books. He was meeting with the estate agent and solicitor, respectively Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg, neither of whom appeared to be a day under ninety.

“What does that mean?” Devon asked.

“The estate is yours to do with as you please, my lord,” Fogg said, adjusting his pince-nez to regard him owlishly. “At present, you are not bound by entail.”

Devon’s gaze shot to West, who was lounging in the corner. They exchanged relieved glances. Thank God. He could sell the estate in parts or in its entirety, pay off the debt, and go on his way with no further obligation.

“I will be honored to assist you in resettling the entail, my lord,” Fogg said.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Both the estate manager and solicitor looked perturbed at Devon’s reply.

“My lord,” Totthill said, “I can assure you of Mr. Fogg’s competence in such matters. He has twice assisted in resettling the entail for the Ravenels.”

“I don’t doubt his competence.” Relaxing back in his chair, Devon propped his booted feet on the desk. “However, I don’t want to be limited by an entail, since I intend to sell the estate.”

A shocked silence greeted his pronouncement.

“What portion of it?” Totthill dared to ask.

“All, including the house.”

Aghast, the two men burst out with protests… Eversby Priory was a historic inheritance, won through the service and sacrifice of his ancestors… Devon would have no respectable position without retaining at least a fragment of the estate… Surely he could not mean to disgrace his future offspring by leaving them a landless title.

Exasperated, Devon gestured for the pair to be silent. “Trying to preserve Eversby Priory would involve far more effort than it’s worth,” he said flatly. “No rational man would conclude otherwise. As for my future offspring, there won’t be any, since I have no intention of marrying.”

The estate manager cast an imploring glance at West. “Mr. Ravenel, you cannot support your brother in this folly.”

West extended his hands as if they were a set of weighing scales, and compared invisible counterbalances. “On one hand, he has a lifetime of responsibility, debt, and drudgery. On the other, he has freedom and pleasure. Is there really a choice?”

Before the elderly men could respond, Devon spoke briskly. “The course is set. To begin with, I want a list of investments, deeds, and interests, as well as a complete inventory of every item in the London house and the estate. That includes paintings, tapestries, rugs, furniture, bronzes, marbles, silverware, and the contents of the glasshouses, the stables, and the carriage house.”

Totthill asked dully, “Will you want an estimate of all the livestock, my lord?”

“Naturally.”

“Not my horse.” A new voice entered the conversation. All four men looked to the doorway, where Kathleen stood as straight and rigid as a blade. She stared at Devon with open loathing. “The Arabian belongs to me.”

Everyone rose to his feet except for Devon, who remained seated at the desk. “Do you ever enter a room the ordinary way?” he asked curtly, “or is it your usual habit to slink past the threshold and pop up like a jack-in-the-box?”

“I only want to make it clear that while you’re tallying the spoils, you will remove my horse from the list.”

“Lady Trenear,” Mr. Fogg interceded, “I regret to say that on your wedding day, you relinquished all rights to your movable property.”

Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “I’m entitled to keep my jointure and all the possessions I brought to the marriage.”

“Your jointure,” Totthill agreed, “but not your possessions. I assure you that no court in England will regard a married woman as a separate legal being. The horse was your husband’s, and now it belongs to Lord Trenear.”

Kathleen’s face went skull-white, and then red. “Lord Trenear is stripping the estate like a jackal with a rotting carcass. Why must he be given a horse that my father gave to me?”

Infuriated that Kathleen would show him so little deference in front of the others, Devon stood from the desk and approached her in a few strides. To her credit, she didn’t cower, even though he was twice her size. “Devil take you,” he snapped, “none of this is my fault.”