Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(25)

Chapter 9




The morning after the wedding, Phoebe waited with her father and son in the front receiving room. Despite her reluctance, she had decided to go on the farm tour after all. There were few other options: it was still quite early, and the houseguests would all be sleeping for hours yet. She had tried to stay abed, but her brain was too restless, and it took more effort to keep her eyes closed than open.

The bed was comfortable but different from the one at home, the mattress stuffing a bit softer than she preferred.

Home . . . the word summoned thoughts of her family’s wide, airy, low-slung house by the sea, with arbors of pink roses over the courtyard entrance, and the holloway in the back leading down to the sandy beach. But soon she would have to start thinking of the Clare estate as home, even though when she returned, she would feel nearly as much of a stranger as she’d been on the day Henry had brought her there as his bride.

She was uneasy about the condition of the land and farms. According to Edward, who sent her quarterly reports on estate business, rental income and crop yields had gone down for the second straight year. And grain prices had fallen. He’d told her that even though the estate had hit a rough patch, everything would eventually go back to the way it had always been. These things were cyclical, he’d said.

But what if he was wrong?

Justin charged across the room on his wooden hobbyhorse, made of a wooden stick with a carved horse head on one end and a little set of wheels on the other. “Gramps,” he asked, prancing and trotting around Phoebe’s father, Sebastian, who sat at a small table reading correspondence, “are you very graceful?”

The duke looked up from the letter in his hand. “Why do you ask, child?”

The wooden horse reared and turned in a tight circle. “Because everyone always talks about your grace. But why?”

Sebastian exchanged a laughing glance with Phoebe. “I believe you’re referring to the honorific,” he told Justin. “People call a nonroyal duke or duchess “Your Grace’ as a term of respect, not as a reference to personal qualities.” A reflective pause. “Although I do happen to be quite graceful.”

The child continued to dash about on the hobbyhorse.

Hearing the metal wheels knock against a table leg, Phoebe winced and said, “Justin, dear, do be careful.”

“It wasn’t me,” her son protested. “It was Splinter. He has too much energy. He’s hard to control.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t behave, you’ll have to stable him in a broom closet.”

“I can’t,” Justin said regretfully. “There are no holes in his ears for the words to go in.”

As Phoebe watched her son romp out of the room into the entrance hall, she said, “I hope Splinter doesn’t knock over a housemaid or overturn a vase.”

“Ravenel should be here soon.”

Phoebe nodded, picking restlessly at a bit of frayed upholstery on the arm of her chair.

Sebastian’s voice was soft and interested. “What’s troubling you, Redbird?”

“Oh . . .” Phoebe shrugged and smoothed the upholstery threads repeatedly. “For two years, I’ve let Edward Larson have free rein in managing the Clare Estate. Now I regret not having taken more of a hand in it. I have to start thinking like a businesswoman—which is about as natural to me as singing opera. I hope I’ll prove equal to the job.”

“Of course you will. You’re my daughter.”

She smiled at him, feeling reassured.

West Ravenel entered the room, dressed in a sack coat, well-worn trousers, and a collarless shirt. The leather boots on his feet were scuffed and scarred to a condition that no amount of polish could ever restore. The sight of him, big and handsome in the rough casual attire, caused a breath to stick in Phoebe’s throat.

That long, luxurious, strangely intimate dinner now seemed like a dream. She’d been so animated, so chatty—it must have been the wine. She remembered behaving foolishly. Laughing too much. She recalled telling Mr. Ravenel that she no longer took pleasure in eating, after which she’d proceeded to devour a twelve-course meal like a starving London cab horse. God, why hadn’t she behaved with her usual restraint? Why hadn’t she guarded her tongue?

Her face turned hot, the skin of her cheeks smarting.

“My lady,” he murmured, and bowed. He turned to her father. “Kingston.”

“Have you been working already?” Sebastian asked.

“No, I rode out to the east side to have a look at the quarry. We’re mining a rare deposit of hematite ore, and—” Mr. Ravenel paused as he caught sight of Justin ducking behind a settee with the hobbyhorse. Resting most of his weight on one leg in a relaxed stance, he said with feigned regret, “Someone’s let a horse into the house. What a nuisance. Once they’re inside, it’s impossible to get rid of them. I’ll have to tell the housekeeper to set out some traps and bait them with carrots.”

The wooden horse peeked out from behind the top edge of the settee and shook his head.

“Not carrots?” Mr. Ravenel asked, advancing stealthily toward the settee. “What about apples?”

Another shake.

“A lump of sugar?”

“Plum cakes,” came a small, muffled voice.