Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(21)

“Has anyone said what Lord and Lady Trenear were arguing about that morning?”

Bloom was expressionless. “I couldn’t say.”

There was no doubt that the man had some idea as to the nature of the conflict between Theo and Kathleen. Servants knew everything. However, it would be unseemly to persist in questioning him about private family matters. Reluctantly Devon set aside the subject… for now.

“Thank you for your help with Lady Trenear,” he told the stable master. “If she decides to continue training Asad, I’ll allow it on condition of your oversight. I trust your ability to keep her safe.”

“Thank you, milor’,” Bloom exclaimed. “Tha intends for the lady to remain at Eversby Priory, then?”

Devon stared at him, unable to answer.

The question was simple on the surface, but it was overwhelmingly complex. What did he intend for Kathleen? For Theo’s sisters? What did he intend for Eversby Priory, the stables and household, and the families that farmed the estate?

Could he really bring himself to throw them all upon the mercy of fate?

But damn it, how could he spend the rest of his life with unimaginable debt and obligations hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles?

He closed his eyes briefly as the realization came to him: It was already there.

The sword had been suspected above him from the moment he’d been informed of Theo’s death.

There was no choice to make. Whether or not he wanted the responsibility that came with the title, it was his.

“I do,” he finally said to the stable master, feeling vaguely nauseous. “I intend for all of them to stay.”

The older man smiled and nodded, seeming to have expected no other answer.

Exiting through the wing of the stables that connected to the house, Devon made his way to the entrance hall. He had a sense of distance from the situation, as if his brain had decided to stand back and view it as a whole before applying itself to the particulars.

The sounds of piano music and feminine voices drifted from one of the upper floors. Perhaps he was mistaken, but Devon thought he could hear a distinctly masculine tone filtering through the conversation.

Noticing a housemaid cleaning the stair rails of the grand staircase with a banister brush, he asked, “Where is that noise coming from?”

“The family is taking their afternoon tea in the upstairs parlor, milord.”

Devon began to ascend the staircase with measured footsteps. By the time he reached the parlor, he had no doubt that the voice belonged to his incorrigible brother.

“Devon,” West exclaimed with a grin as he entered the room. “Look at the charming little bevy of cousins I’ve discovered.” He was sitting in a chair beside a game table, pouring a hefty splash of spirits from his flask into a cup of tea. The twins hovered around him, busily constructing a dissected map puzzle. Sliding a speculative glance over his brother, West remarked, “You look as though you’d been pulled backward through the hedgerow.”

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Devon told him. He turned to the room in general. “Has anyone been corrupted or defiled?”

“Since the age of twelve,” West replied.

“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking the girls.”

“Not yet,” Cassandra said cheerfully.

“Drat,” Pandora exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, “I can’t find Luton.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” West told her. “We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it’s an improvement.”

“They are said to make fine hats in Luton,” Cassandra said.

“I’ve heard that hat making drives people mad,” Pandora remarked. “Which I don’t understand, because it doesn’t seem tedious enough to do that.”

“It isn’t the job that drives them mad,” West said. “It’s the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term ‘mad as a hatter.’”

“Then why is it used, if it is harmful to the workers?” Pandora asked.

“Because there are always more workers,” West said cynically.

“Pandora,” Cassandra exclaimed, “I do wish you wouldn’t force a puzzle piece into a space where it obviously does not fit.”

“It does fit,” her twin insisted stubbornly.

“Helen,” Cassandra called out to their older sister, “is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?”

The music ceased briefly. Helen spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano. Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious. “No, dear, in the Irish Sea.”

“Fiddlesticks.” Pandora tossed the piece aside. “This is frustraging.”

At Devon’s puzzled expression, Helen explained, “Pandora likes to invent words.”

“I don’t like to,” Pandora said irritably. “It’s only that sometimes an ordinary word doesn’t fit how I feel.”

Rising from the piano bench, Helen approached Devon. “Thank you for finding Kathleen, my lord,” she said, her gaze smiling. “She is resting upstairs. The maids are preparing a hot bath for her, and afterward Cook will send up a tray.”