Taming Rafe (7 page)

“Oh, hush,” she answered, settling down to finish her own breakfast.

“Well, are you a solicitor, or aren’t you?”

The man seated opposite Rafe in the small, second-floor office fidgeted once more with his ink blotter. “Of course I am. It’s just that—”

Rafe leaned forward. “It’s just that what?”

“Well, this is highly irregular, Mr…. Mr. Bancroft. You must understand, I am a part of this community. I would never—”

“You would never stoop to selling an estate without the owner’s permission or knowledge, which would both be illegal and in very poor taste.” Rafe tapped the estate title resting on the young man’s desk. “I applaud your decency and the rigor with which you defend your fellows. But I
am
the owner of Forton Hall, blast it all.”

The dark-haired man began stammering again, and Rafe stood to pace the narrow, cluttered office. It had been difficult enough to explain his presence and his eighteenth-century apparel. Once he’d claimed ownership of Forton Hall, he’d had to tell the whole damned tale all over again. At least young Mr. Gibbs had been to London and knew that the Duke of Highbarrow had two sons, though he apparently hadn’t decided whether Rafe was one of them.

“Look. I am not going to sell Forton Hall until Nigel Harrington returns and we can settle this in a reasonable manner. When he does return, though, I want to be able to make a sale posthaste. All I’m asking is that you begin a discreet—and I repeat,
discreet
—search for a buyer.” He had no wish for Felicity to find out what he was doing, whether it was perfectly within his rights or not.

Somehow, over the past two days, Felicity had become someone he didn’t want to upset—and it wasn’t out of fear of her tea kettle. When she had smiled that morning, it had stirred something unexpected in him. And selling Forton Hall out from under her and May would take away his opportunity to find out what that something was.

John Gibbs’s eyes followed him as he paced back and forth, and he tried to curb his impatience while the solicitor weighed Rafe’s statements and his own awe of the titled Bancrofts against whatever monetary and moral responsibility he felt toward the Harringtons.

Finally Gibbs nodded. “Very well. I don’t see anything illegal in simply looking about—unless and until I hear differently.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I’ll be by in a few days to check on your progress.”

That done, he set out from Pelford to ride the borders of Forton Hall. He had a strong desire to see exactly what it was that he’d won.

Half-wild cattle grazed along the banks of Crown Creek and stampeded when he approached. The sheep dotting the field on the far side of the waterway didn’t even bother looking up as he and Aristotle passed. That property belonged to another landowner, the Earl of Deerhurst, and Rafe looked upon the well-kept fields and fences with some envy.

A dozen small tenant farms were spread out along either side of the road east of the manor house, all but three of them abandoned to the elements. A splendid crop of weeds rose to his thighs as he rode across two of the fields. Tumbled fences
and rotting sheds and barns bespoke a neglect that had begun years, rather than months, ago.

Forton Hall was a mere trifle compared with the sprawling magnificence of Highbarrow Castle or Warefield Park, but it was larger than he had realized. In good condition, the place would have seen him comfortable for the remainder of his life, wherever he chose to spend it. As it was, he’d be lucky to keep the stake with which he’d begun.

“Ho, there!” A sharp voice came from the shrubbery off to his left. Immediately following the shout, the unmistakable sound of a musket being primed brought Rafe up short.

“Ho there, yourself,” he said to the bushes, keeping his hands in clear view and wishing he hadn’t left his pistol wedged beneath the boards of the stable.

“You have business here?” the gruff voice asked.

Rafe didn’t relish the thought of a musket ball piercing his heart. His mother, and scads of London ladies, would be terribly upset. “No, not really. I’m an old friend of the Harringtons. Do you know them?”

“Aye.” A moment later the bushes rustled and parted. The barrel of the musket emerged, followed by a short, sturdy-looking man in his mid-forties. “Nice horse.”

“My thanks. Nice musket.”

The older man chuckled and lowered the weapon. “You’re a cool fellow.” He stepped forward. “Name’s Greetham.”

Rafe dismounted and held out his hand. “Bancroft.”

Greetham had a firm grip, and with a wince Rafe wondered how many broken bones he’d end up with before he finished his business in Cheshire.

“This your farm?” He gestured at the field of weeds behind them.

“Aye. Damned shame, ain’t it? Rain ruined the spring crop, and Mr. Harrington couldn’t get new seed for his tenants to put in. I left the weeds in to keep the topsoil from washing down the creek before the fall planting season.”

Rafe nodded, impressed. “You like the Harringtons, Greetham?”

The farmer squinted one eye, assessing the stranger. “Like Miss Harrington and little May fine.”

That was direct. Rafe looked right back at him. “You know, I think we can make a trade.” And perhaps at the same time, impress a lovely, dark-eyed lady who seemed rather uncertain about her houseguest.

“What sort of trade?”

“The Harrington ladies have a roof that needs repairing. You have no crop to tend, and I could use another pair of hands.”

Greetham looked at him for a minute. “Miss Harrington would never ask for charity.”

“
She’s
not asking. And then maybe we can discuss your weed problem.”

“Another pair of hands.” The farmer held his right one out again. “You’ve got them, Bancroft.”

“Your first instinct was correct. He’s obviously deluded, and you should have sent for the constable. In fact, it’s not too late to do so.”

Felicity looked across her teacup at Squire Talford. She’d decided not to tell anyone about Rafe, mostly because she didn’t want to hear any more speculation about her brother’s lack of common sense. Nor could she adequately explain why she’d let a complete stranger—and a man, at that—stay
on at Forton Hall. Unfortunately, though, Mrs. Denwortle had already seen to it that the entire community knew both that Rafe Bancroft was staying at Forton Hall and that he was paying their grocery bills.

“Actually, Charles,” she said, “I feel…sorry for him. I’m not entirely certain May and I haven’t compounded whatever mental injury he already had.” “Sorry” wasn’t quite the right word, but it certainly sounded better than “infatuated.”

The squire sat back, tapping the underside of his tea saucer with his long, knobby fingers. What hair he had was silver, but his wits were as sharp as ever. Squire Talford had always seemed more of a father to her than her own ever had. Since her parents’ death, he had become her dearest companion and confidante. So it surprised her that she was so reluctant to discuss her new houseguest—stable guest—with him.

“No one can fault you for protecting yourself, Felicity. He could be dangerous.”

“Rafe’s not dangerous.” May looked up from the corner of the parlor, where she sat laughing with a mound of foxhound puppies wriggling across her lap. “He’s smashing.”

Felicity looked down at her tea to hide her smile. “May adores him,” she said, glancing at her companion. “And I haven’t detected anything menacing about him. In fact, he seems quite willing to be helpful.”

“Even so—”

“Even so, I am keeping my eyes open. He’s sleeping in the stable, and I’ve put him to work repairing the roof to keep him out of trouble. When Nigel returns, we’ll give him a few quid and see him on his way.” She took another sip of tea, then set the cup and saucer aside. “And that will be the
end of that. Now, on to a more urgent matter. What was this about Mr. Wenvers needing a new atlas for the school?”

Charles’s kind gray eyes studied her for a moment. “All right, handle him as you will. But you needn’t do everything on your own, you know.”

“I don’t need a knight in shining armor,” she returned firmly.

He chuckled. “I’m a bit rickety for that, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Nonsense.” For the first time she realized that the third member of their education committee was missing. “Where is Lord Deerhurst this afternoon?”

“I believe he had business in Chester. He wasn’t certain if he’d return in time to join us.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

In truth, she was rather relieved that James Burlough was absent today. He was absurdly protective of her, and he would never understand her allowing Rafe to stay.

They made plans to send to London for a more current atlas, which Charles insisted on purchasing himself before she could even worry about the expense. Paying for one-third of Mr. Wenvers’s salary was already stretching her funds to the utmost, but educating the children of east Cheshire was one thing she could not, and would not, give up.

As she rose to leave, Squire Talford put a hand on her arm. “You could stay here until Nigel returns. I know I’ve offered before, but—”

“Charles, please.” Fond as she was of him, Felicity was beginning to tire of everyone assuming she needed help. “I am perfectly able to take care of myself. And if I’m here, I can’t get Forton back in order.”

Gentleman though he was, the squire couldn’t
keep a skeptical expression from his face. “All right, all right. I surrender. But at least let my coach take you home.”

May scattered puppies off her lap and stood. “It’s a lovely day, Charles, and we like to walk,” she said.

The squire laughed. “You’re going to grow up as stubborn as your sister, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

The two-mile walk back to Forton was lovely, though the clouds hanging over the foothills to the east didn’t look as though they intended to wait much longer before drenching them all again.

“Lis, look at that.”

Felicity followed May’s gaze to their house. Rafe stood on the roof, bare-chested, handing shingles to Dennis Greetham. They’d laid out nearly one whole corner of the roof, and piles of old, half-rotted shingles lay scattered on the ground below.

“Hello, Rafe!” May called, waving. “Hello, Mr. Greetham!”

Grinning, Rafe swept a bow to the two ladies, and gave an additional salute to Felicity. She supposed a properly bred London lady would be expected to faint in shock at the sight of a shirtless gentleman, but he looked far too delicious for her to close her eyes.

With supreme effort she tore her gaze from him to look at his companion. “Mr. Greetham, I didn’t expect to see you here.” In fact, she’d thought that the only reason Dennis Greetham was still on Forton land was that he was too stubborn to be forced off by something as trivial as starvation. Never would she have thought to see him voluntarily helping his landowners.

The stout farmer smiled. “Bancroft and I made a trade.”

She lifted one hand to shield her eyes against the sun. “What sort of trade?”

“That’s between us bargainers,” Rafe interrupted loftily.

For a moment she contemplated pressing one of them for an answer, but the odds were fairly good that it would end up being connected to more of Rafe’s nobility nonsense, which would then make her feel obliged to send Mr. Greetham home. And Forton Hall could use the assistance, whatever the source. “Would you care for something to drink, then?”

“Lemonade would be smashing,” Rafe returned, wiping at the sweat glistening on his brow.

May giggled. “I’ll make it,” she called, and skipped into the kitchen.

“Where did you find the new shingles?” Felicity called up to Rafe. “I know we didn’t have any lying—”

“Whoa, there!”

She started as a phaeton rounded the corner of the manor at high speed and came to a precise stop beside her. A tall, dark-haired gentleman of impeccable dress smiled at her as he hopped down from the carriage.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry to have missed our meeting,” Lord Deerhurst said a little breathlessly, doffing his beaver hat and taking her hand.

She smiled back at him. “The only thing we discussed was an atlas.”

He brushed her knuckles with his lips and then released her fingers. “Then I shan’t chastise myself for being so late.”

“
You’re
Squire Talford?”

Felicity jumped again as Rafe’s deep voice came from right behind her. Reflexively she turned to look up at him—and was completely unprepared
for the rushing tingle of electricity that ran down her arms. Rafe had pulled his shirt back on, but it hung loose and untucked down to his thighs. Damp blond hair clung to his forehead and his neck. He was simply…beautiful. She’d seen handsome men before—Lord Deerhurst, for one—but none had ever caused her to tremble merely by their nearness. Swiftly she clasped her hands together before she could do something as absurd as flinging herself upon him.

“No, I’m not Talford. I am James Burlough, the Earl of Deerhurst.” The earl’s pleasant smile capsized into not-quite-polite puzzlement. “And who might you be, sir?”

Felicity blinked and looked at her neighbor. “Oh. Forgive me. My lord, this is Rafael Bancroft. An…” She looked at Rafe again, sidetracked as she wondered if his lips would taste salty with sweat. “Ah, an old, ah…family friend.”

The earl frowned, though he offered his hand to her stable guest. “That’s odd. I’ve never heard Felicity or Nigel speak of you.”

Rafe delayed a moment before he stripped off one of his heavy work gloves to return the handshake. “Never heard of you, either.”

The earl hadn’t removed his driving glove, and somehow—even though she couldn’t quite determine why—that seemed significant. And it spoke in Rafe’s favor as a gentleman, if not as a nobleman. “Well,” she began, “we haven’t—”

May opened the kitchen door. “Rafe, it’s too heavy!” she called.

Her stable guest nodded curtly at the earl. “Deerhurst.” His sea-green eyes turned to Felicity as he pulled off the other glove and tossed the pair of them into the back of Greetham’s wagon. “Lis.” Then he strolled away and walked into the kitchen
just like—well, just like he owned the place.