Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 33

West was silent for a moment, contemplating the man’s troubled expression. “You have my word,” he said in a way that left no room for doubt. And he extended his hand.
Kathleen stared at him in surprise. A handshake was only exchanged between close friends, or on an occasion of great significance, and then only between gentlemen of similar rank. After a hesitation, however, Strickland reached out and took West’s hand, and they exchanged a hearty shake.
“That was well done of you,” Kathleen told West as they rode along the unpaved farm road. She was impressed by the way he had handled himself and addressed Strickland’s concerns. “It was clever of you to put him at ease by trying your hand at field work.”
“I wasn’t trying to be clever.” West seemed preoccupied. “I wanted to gain information.”
“And so you did.”
“I expected that this drainage issue would be easily solved,” West said. “Dig some trenches, line them with clay pipes, and cover it all up.”
“It doesn’t sound all that complicated.”
“It is. It’s complicated in ways I hadn’t considered.” West shook his head. “Drainage is such a minor part of the problem that it would be a waste of money to fix it without addressing the rest.”
“What is the rest?”
“I’m not even sure yet. But if we don’t figure it all out, there’s no hope of ever making Eversby Priory profitable again. Or even sustaining itself.” He gave Kathleen a dark glance as she opened her mouth. “Don’t accuse me of scheming to have the estate sold.”
“I wasn’t,” she said indignantly. “I was going to say that as far as I can tell, the Strickland farm is more or less in the same condition as the other tenants.”
“‘Down horn, up corn,’” West muttered. “My arse. In a few short years, it’s going to be ‘Up horn, down corn,’ and it’s going to stay that way. Strickland has no idea that his world has changed for good. Even I know it, and I could hardly be more ignorant about farming.”
“You think he should turn to dairying and livestock,” Kathleen said.
“It would be easier and more profitable than trying to farm lowland clay.”
“You may be right,” she told him ruefully. “But in this part of England, breeding livestock is not considered as respectable as working the land.”
“What the devil is the difference? Either way, one ends up shoveling manure.” West’s attention was diverted as his horse stumbled on a patch of rough road.
“Ease up on the reins,” Kathleen said. “Just give the horse more slack and let him pick his way through.”
West complied immediately.
“Would a bit more advice be unwelcome?” she dared to ask.
“Fire away.”
“You tend to slouch in the saddle. That makes it difficult for you to follow the horse’s motion, and it will make your back sore later. If you sit tall and relaxed… yes, like that… now you’re centered.”
“Thank you.”
Kathleen smiled, pleased by his willingness to take direction from a woman. “You don’t ride badly. With regular practice, you would be quite proficient.” She paused. “I take it you don’t ride often in town?”
“No, I travel by foot or hackney.”
“But your brother…” Kathleen began, thinking of Devon’s assured horsemanship.
“He rides every morning. A big dapple gray that’s as mean as the devil if it goes one day without hard exercise.” A pause. “They have that in common.”
“So that’s why Trenear is so fit,” Kathleen murmured.
“It doesn’t stop at riding. He belongs to a pugilism club where they batter each other senseless, in the savate style.”
“What is that?”
“A kind of fighting that developed in the streets of Old Paris. Quite vicious. My brother secretly hopes to be attacked by ruffians someday, but so far, no luck.”
Kathleen smiled. “What is the reason for all of his exertion?”
“To keep his temper under control.”
Her smile faded. “Do you have a temper as well?”
West laughed shortly. “Without a doubt. It’s only that I prefer to drink my demons to sleep rather than battle them.”
So did Theo, she thought, but kept it to herself. “I like you better sober,” she said.
West slid her an amused glance. “It’s only been half a day. Wait a bit longer, and you’ll change your mind.”
She didn’t, however. In the fortnight that followed, West continued to remain relatively sober, limiting his drinking to a glass of wine or two at dinner. His days were divided between visiting tenant farms, poring over rent books, reading books on agriculture, and adding page after page to the report he was writing for Devon.
At dinner one night he told them of his plan to visit many more tenants to form a comprehensive understanding of their problems. With each new piece of information, a picture of the estate’s true condition was forming – and it wasn’t a pretty sight.
“On the other hand,” West concluded, “it’s not altogether hopeless, as long as Devon is doing his job.”
“What is his job?” Cassandra asked.
“Finding capital,” West told her. “A great deal of it.”
“It must be difficult for a gentleman to find money without working,” Pandora said. “Especially when all the criminals are trying to do the same thing.”