How to Ruin a Reputation

On his suspicions, a bore hole dug four years ago on the outskirts of Bedevere land had produced a promising sampling of lignite, indicating a rich deposit of coal beneath the land. It stood to be the most plentiful coalfield in Audley, a piece of Staffordshire known not only for its hops and gardens, but for its coalfields as well. The possibility of attaining such wealth demanded extraordinary effort and the men he’d partnered with weren’t afraid to go to extremes. But so far, the extremes were all his. Aside from the money Trent’s cartel had put up, the risks had all been his. They hadn’t spent a year currying favour with the old earl, nor were they now facing a forced marriage.

He had to keep his eye on the goal. He would go courting today and keep in mind the purgatory of those consequences would last only a short while.

It had been a hell of a day and it was only two o’clock. Ashe pushed a hand through his hair, not caring that the action caused his hair to stand on ruffled ends and leaned back in the leather chair. At least here in the study he had the privacy he needed to think. There was so much to think about, it was hard to know where to start.

He’d spent the morning going over the estate books, trying to get a sense of where to start first, assuming he’d come up with some funds. Did he start outside with the gardens or inside with the most-used rooms? Maybe he didn’t start with the house at all. Maybe he should start with the tenant farmers in ways that would generate income.

Ashe sank his head into his hands. He didn’t know the first thing about managing an estate and there was no one to ask, unless one counted Henry. It would be a cold day in hell before he took that option. Ashe shut the leatherbound ledger. The numbers in the columns didn’t add up and there were bills to pay. Surely the horses listed as sold last autumn hadn’t gone for so little. The value posted in the ledger was half their worth. His father had kept prime cattle and knew their value.

Ashe pushed back from the desk. The morning hadn’t been an entire waste. He’d done what he could with regard to bills, which had amounted to writing assurances to those who held Bedevere’s outstanding accounts telling them all would soon be remedied. He wasn’t sure how he would see it remedied, but they didn’t need to know that.

He’d also sent off letters to London. One was a private message to his closest friend, Jamie Burke, asking him to look into Genevra Ralston’s background on the off chance that someone had heard of the American. That much money surely wouldn’t go undetected by society no matter what its nationality. If he was required to marry her, he wanted to know who she was and if there was any detrimental scandal attached to her name. It wouldn’t have been hard to hide such a thing from his father, but Mrs Ralston would find he was a bit more worldly than his father.

The second was about money as well. He’d enquired about the potential of a loan, as futile as such an enquiry seemed. Ashe was under no illusions. If he could not prove he was the predominant regent, no bank would advance him any funds.

Why does it matter? ventured the devil on his shoulder. If you don’t get the estate, why do you care if it goes to rack and ruin? If Henry wants it, let Henry figure out a way. If Mrs Ralston wants it, let her buy your shares and be done with it.

Because it’s the right thing to do, regardless, answered the angel on the other.

Because it’s my home, Ashe thought. Because he’d spent his life proving his father wrong. He wanted to prove his father was wrong here, too. His father and he had had their differences. Those differences had driven him away years ago, but he could not believe his father hated him that much, believed in him that little, to wrest Bedevere from him. Then again, his father had not planned on losing Alex. There’d never been a need for his father to consider leaving Bedevere to him. If only he could talk to his father one more time, try to explain why he’d had to go.

The devil on his shoulder wasn’t satisfied. If you want to save Bedevere stop brooding over books you can’t make sense of and start wooing that pretty heiress at Seaton Hall. You need money and she’s got ‘piles’ of it.

Genevra Ralston.

All his thoughts seemed to come back to her. In and of herself, she was enough to keep a man busy with all her mysteries. Woman in hiding or brazen fortune hunter, it hardly mattered which. Both spelled trouble. It was a matter of how much trouble he was willing to tolerate along with her money. And trouble was a surety. Last night had established that without equivocation.

He’d not dreamed she’d respond so ardently to his advances. He’d meant to warn her that she played with a man who was out of her league. He knew women and he knew their games. Just because he loved women didn’t mean he trusted them. They were as brutal as men when it came to getting their way.

His head ached. The estate wasn’t the only thing that needed sorting out. There were emotions he hadn’t expected to feel, and answers he desperately wanted. What had really transpired at Bedevere in his absence? What had really happened to his brother? He would have to find time to see Alex soon, although the prospect was one he dreaded.

A knock interrupted his thoughts and Melisande poked her head around the door. ‘There you are, Ashton.’ Only his aunties called him that. Not ‘Ashe’ like the ladies in London, who claimed he could burn them to cinders with one smouldering look of his green eyes.

‘You’ve been cooped up in here for hours.’ She clucked disapprovingly. ‘You should go for a ride. You never know when the weather will take a turn for a worse this time of year.’ She settled herself in a chair across from him at the desk. The chair was large and gave the impression of swallowing up his petite aunt. Old age had made her appear even smaller than he remembered, but no less sharp. She eyed the ledgers.

‘Are you making sense of it all?’ There was hope in the question. She wanted to hear that all would be well, that things would be better. She wanted to hear he’d found a hidden cache of money or a mistake in the ledger that suddenly rendered them wealthy again. He didn’t fault her for it. It was what he’d hoped, too, when he’d sat down with the books that morning, still in disbelief that the Bedevere largesse could all be gone.

Ashe offered her a warm smile. ‘There were no miracles in the ledgers. But we’ll make our own miracles, I promise.’ He would find a way to keep this promise, never mind the string of broken, half-kept promises that littered his past. He had a lot to make up for. He was only just beginning to understand he wasn’t the only one who’d borne the consequences of his choices.

‘Genni will be our miracle, Ashton,’ Melisande said with a straightforward confidence that bore none of Ashe’s own cynicism on the subject.

Ashe didn’t wish to argue with his aunt, neither did he know how much they knew regarding the will. Was this a comment she made because of their less-than-subtle matchmaking efforts, or because she knew ‘Genni’s’ business acumen would save the estate? Ashe merely shrugged.

The non-committal shrug wasn’t enough for his aunt. Melisande leaned forwards and said with force, ‘Genni. We all like her and your father thought highly of her. She’s the one we want.’ He’d never heard his delicate flower of an aunt sound so demanding. At least the outburst had confirmed her motives. She was strictly about matchmaking. She didn’t know about his father’s arrangement, only her own.

‘She might not want me,’ Ashe ventured.

‘She will. You can be irresistible when you choose, Ashton.’ That shamed him. Aunt Melisande meant it with all the goodness of her heart, remembering the pretty child and the handsome youth. She had no idea how ‘irresistible’ the man had become or how he’d bartered those charms for a price.

Melisande pushed a soft package in brown wrapping paper across the desk at him. ‘Since you’re going for a ride, I thought you could take this to Seaton Hall. It can be your reason to visit and then you can apologise.’

‘Apologise for what, Aunt?’ Ashe drawled obtusely.

‘For whatever you did to her last night. She’s too much of a lady to say anything, but she left so quickly we knew something had happened. I hadn’t even had time to give this to her.’ A scolding and guilt all rolled into one.

Melisande patted his hand. ‘A good apology is never wasted on a woman’s heart, Ashton. Your great-uncle could always turn my head with one. Women are capable of great forgiveness if men ask for it.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Ashe teased, taking the package.

Melisande winked. ‘Then we’re capable of a great many other things.’ She rose and made to leave. ‘I’ll tell the groom you’ll want your horse brought around in twenty minutes.’

She shut the door behind her and Ashe let out a laugh. He’d been thoroughly manoeuvred by his seventy-three-year-old aunt. So much for delicate and fragile.

Twenty minutes later, Ashe swung up on Rex. Seaton Hall wouldn’t have been his destination of choice after last night. But, Ashe thought with a touch of mischief, it would be rather interesting to see how the stunning Mrs Ralston would follow up last night’s slap.

He spurred Rex into a canter and gave the big horse his head through the meadows. He took a jump over a stone fence and revelled at the wind in his face. He took another and let loose a cry of pure enjoyment. There weren’t fences like this in London. Anyone could ride in London as long as they could walk a horse through Hyde Park, but this kind of riding across open fields took an accomplished rider.

Ashe came to the road leading to Seaton Hall and reined Rex to a walk. No one in London thought of him as a country gentleman. It had been a long time since he’d thought of himself that way, but, buried and ignored, that was the stifled truth. Behind the fancy clothes and elegant manners, he was a product of the quiet rural lands of Staffordshire. Like himself, Staffordshire often struck him as a place of contradictions. The land was riddled with mining and industry, yet a large part of the land had also maintained its rural nature with fields for farming, and its proclivity for beautiful gardens; a proclivity Bedevere had apparently let slide in the last few years, but one that Seaton Hall had embraced with success from the look of things. Roles had been reversed. Under Genevra Ralston’s money and careful eye, Seaton Hall had emerged as the belle of the county while the once-elegant Bedevere strangled in weeds.

Ashe turned up the drive, noting with an appreciative eye the trimmed grass of the parkland, the organised flower beds showing early shoots of spring flowers poking through the soil. In a few months, those beds would be vivid with colours. Bedevere had looked like that once. Jealousy stabbed. He wanted Bedevere to look like that again. But that was foolishness, at least this year. One did not waste efforts on pretty gardens when there were bills to pay and mouths to feed. Perhaps if he could get a loan. Right now, everything hinged on money, even his own potential marriage. On his own, with no funds to speak of, what he could do was extremely limited. Once married to Mrs Ralston, an infinity of possibilities lay open to him—one more reason to sell himself in this marriage of his father’s choosing.

Ashe sighed. The reasons for marriage were mounting. His desire for freedom, to make his own choice when the time came were starting to look petty and stubborn next to the gains the marriage would give him.

At the door he was told Mrs Ralston was in the back gardens and was shown to a brightly done sitting room at the front of the house where he could wait. If the room was indicative of Seaton Hall’s recent fortunes, the American was doing very well for herself indeed. The creamy-yellow paint was fresh, the white-plaster moldings newly painted. Dusky-blue curtains framed the long windows overlooking the front drive. The pillows on the blue-and-yellow sofa were invitingly plump. Best of all, there was a pianoforte along the wall.

Ashe ran his hands along the keys experimentally, noting the full, mellow tones. It must be new if it had the Babcock strings. Curiosity piqued, Ashe gently lifted the lid of the case and peered inside, the old excitement rising. Ah, yes, the soundboard was cross-strung. He couldn’t resist.

Ashe sat down and began to play. It felt good, it felt liberating. There was no one to judge, no one to impress. This was just for him.

Chapter Six

Bedevere was here. The very thought brought a flutter to her usually stable stomach. What did one say to a man one had previously slapped? ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘I hope your cheek isn’t terribly sore today?’ Obviously the slap had not achieved the desired effect. He’d come to Seaton Hall, clearly undeterred. And here she was, gardening in an old gown in a desperate attempt to forget last night had ever happened.

If she was going to face Ashe Bedevere, she had to look decent. Genevra slid one of her favourite afternoon gowns over her head, a green-and-white sprigged-muslin affair that made her feel pretty and confident. She gave her hair a quick brushing to get rid of any garden debris she might have acquired. It wouldn’t do to give that green-eyed rogue a reason to touch her hair again, even if it was under the auspices of picking out a leaf.

Genevra was still trying out possible greetings on the stairs when she heard the music. It was lovely. Perhaps a lieder? It was far beyond anything she could produce. No one had mentioned Mr Bedevere had brought a guest.

At the doorway, Genevra halted in surprise. There was no guest. The musician was Bedevere himself. His back was to her and she took advantage of it, reacquainting herself with the broad shoulders and wavy black hair that skimmed decadently over his collar, too long and too full for fashion’s dictates, but just right for him.

The piece ended and Genevra clapped. He started at the intrusion and turned on the bench. ‘Please, continue.’ Genevra took up a seat on the sofa, relieved that the music had offered a neutral entrée into their meeting. She could smoothly avoid any awkwardness over last night now.

‘I am afraid the piano doesn’t get much use, but I thought I should have one anyway for musical evenings. Although I must confess, we haven’t had one yet for all our good intentions.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve played enough. It’s a fine instrument. It’s new, I can tell from the strings. Do you play, Mrs Ralston?’

‘Only moderately,’ Genevra confessed. ‘But I am glad the instrument is a good one.’

‘Come here, and I’ll show you how good it is.’ Bedevere moved to the side, gesturing for her to join him. She crossed the room, unable to refuse the irresistible excitement that hummed about him as he peered into the case. He smelled of wind and vanilla, an entirely intoxicating combination when associated with a man.

‘These strings are Babcock’s. He patented them a few years back. They’re thicker than the old strings, allowing for increased volume.’ Bedevere plucked a string inside the case for demonstration. ‘And now piano makers are cross-stringing the soundboards to create more resonance.’

With hands like that, she should have guessed. ‘You’re very accomplished, Mr Bedevere. I didn’t know.’

‘Please, call me Ashe if you don’t mind.’

Genevra recognised the dangerously quiet tones from last night. ‘Of course.’ She decided not to enquire. She didn’t want to spoil this pleasant truce after last night’s unpleasantness. ‘Will you stay for tea?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She went straight to the bell pull. This was England. Everyone stayed for tea.

‘I must apologise for dropping by unexpectedly, but I have something for you.’ Ashe took a seat and handed her a soft package.

A gift from him? An apology, perhaps, for his prior conduct? Certainly a gentleman would make the effort. A little flutter took up residence in her stomach as she played with the string. In the daylight, he seemed so civilised.

‘Melisande asked me to bring it.’

‘Of course.’ The flutter disappeared. Naturally it wasn’t from him. He was no gentleman and slapped men didn’t bring gifts. Genevra smiled to cover her mental error.

‘It must be Melisande’s latest embroidery pattern.’ Genevra held up the cloth. ‘Tell her it’s lovely. It will do well at the markets this spring.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ This time he was the one caught off guard and it did things to his face. His dark brows winged upwards, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Genevra folded the cloth up. ‘She and your other aunts sell their handiwork at the local markets. Cook even sends some jams. They did quite well last summer.’

‘My aunts sell crafts at the market?’ The look on Ashe’s face was incredulous bordering on furious. ‘Like merchants?’

Genevra replied evenly, ‘Yes, like merchants. Like most of the normal world, in fact. Not all of us live in such rarefied circumstances as a British gentleman, dashing around London looking for entertainment.’

A tight tic began to pulse low on Ashe’s jaw. Whatever tenuous truce they’d had over the music had evaporated. ‘Whose idea was this?’ he ground out, thankfully choosing to overlook the other insinuations she’d so carelessly made.

‘It was mine,’ Genevra said, grateful for the arrival of the tea tray to derail this line of conversation.

But Ashe wasn’t ready to let it go like a self-respecting gentleman. ‘Why ever would you suggest something like that?’ His disbelief was tangible as he took a tea cup from her. She took care to make sure their fingers didn’t touch.

‘They had no money and you were nowhere to be found.’ Genevra allowed her temper to spill over. ‘They had to do something and it was a very good something. They were too proud to take so much as a farthing from me. If you must know, people like to buy things that represent the peerage. It’s a good advertising angle. It’s far more exciting to buy a handkerchief embroidered by a real lady.’

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