Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady. Ann Lethbridge

have fallen. I wanted to see if the rent books gave any clue as to why. See which tenants are in trouble.’

      His uncle frowned. ‘They won’t tell you much.’ Garrick opened his mouth to argue. ‘But why not?’ his uncle said swiftly with a shrug. ‘Matthews collects the rents. I’ll ask him to bring them along, when he’s finished making this month’s rounds. How did you find the Applebys? All well?’

      A rather swift change of topic, given how badly Le Clere had wanted him to take an interest in the estate. ‘All in the pink of health, Uncle.’ Fortunately for Garrick, they lived far enough away so that Le Clere was unlikely to run into them. Garrick pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘They sent their regards.’

      The butler bustled in with a freshly filled toast rack, poured coffee in Garrick’s cup and left.

      ‘I have a rather unusual request,’ Garrick said, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the centre of his back.

      Le Clere put down his paper with a genial smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

      ‘I understand that you…er, rather that we, have called in the mortgage on a property in Hampshire? Castlefield Place.’

      Le Clere stiffened, his eyes narrowed, the expression in them piercing. ‘What do you know about Castlefield?’

      An oddly defensive response? Garrick maintained a relaxed expression. ‘Not a great deal, although the name sounds vaguely familiar. You must know of it.’

      Le Clere grunted.

      ‘Ellie told me the son is unable to pay.’

      ‘Ellie Brown?’ An odd expression flickered across his face.

      Blast. He hadn’t meant to mention her by name, but since Le Clere made it his business to know every tenant on the estate, he would soon work it out. ‘Yes, she was his servant.’

      His uncle’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘A servant, eh. Well, it’s a straightforward foreclosure. What else did you want to know?’

      Garrick’s jaw tightened under his uncle’s unblinking contemplation. ‘I want you to forgive the mortgage and put the man back in dibs.’

      ‘Is this some sort of jest?’ Le Clere’s laugh sounded incredulous. ‘Do you know the size of the debt? The estate needs those funds to maintain your extravagant lifestyle.’

      Garrick leaned forwards and locked eyes with his uncle. ‘Are you telling me we are facing ruin? Is that why the servants have dwindled and Boxted is going to seed? You’ve never mentioned it before.’

      Le Clere reared back. ‘Damn it, Garrick. Is that all the gratitude I get for looking after your welfare? It’s this bloody war of which you are so fond ruining everything. If you think you can do better, I encourage you to try.’

      Struck with remorse at Le Clere’s obvious distress, Garrick softened his voice. ‘I didn’t mean to criticise. You’ve worked harder than anyone for the estate, but my father would never have called in a loan if it meant throwing a friend’s family out on the street and you know it.’

      Le Clere sat silently for a moment, his expression pained, thoughts Garrick couldn’t read racing over his usually bland face. A smile dawned and he visibly relaxed. Unaccountably, Garrick’s hackles rose.

      ‘Finally,’ Le Clere said. ‘I suppose I have Miss Brown to thank for you taking a real interest in Beauworth. While it is not exactly as I hoped, it is an interest none the less.’ He leaned back, his lips pursed. ‘I have a proposition for you. I will do exactly as you ask, against my better judgement, I might add. As your trustee, I could refuse, you know. In return, do something for me. Remain here at Beauworth. Devote yourself. Dally with this young hussy, if you must, but get yourself married and produce an heir.’

      Garrick felt the room rock around him. ‘I hadn’t planned to marry for years.’ If at all.

      ‘Garrick, be reasonable. I must see you settled before I relinquish control of the estate. It will ease my mind to know I did my duty, left everything properly ordered. It is what your father would have wished.’

      He fought the guilt Le Clere invoked. ‘It isn’t what I want. Let Cousin Harry produce the next heir.’

      Le Clere’s eyes had a suspiciously moist glint. ‘You are Beauworth. If you won’t do it for me, do it for the family name.’

      How could he fight such devotion? ‘And the money?’

      ‘It goes against the grain, my boy. The estate is owed that money.’ He sighed. ‘But Beauworth needs its Marquess far more. Do your duty and, if you still want it when the title is secure, you’ll have your captaincy.’

      Until he was of age, he could not access his funds without Le Clere’s cooperation. And, damn it all, what was being asked of him was not unreasonable. ‘I’ll give you three months. That should be quite enough time to learn all I need to know about the estate. But no more talk of betrothals.’

      Le Clere narrowed his eyes. ‘What did Miss Brown offer in exchange? Her favours? Your women don’t usually last more than three weeks.’

      His skin crawled. How did Le Clere know so much? ‘That is my business. I need a thousand pounds to pay off some of her pressing debts.’

      His uncle blinked, clearly thunderstruck, but when he spoke his tone was soft and businesslike. ‘Very well. Come back in two hours and I’ll have it ready.’

      Garrick supposed it could have been worse. And three months would be more than enough time for Ellie Brown. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

      ‘Dear boy, you forget, I, too, was young once.’

      The oddly triumphant look on Le Clere’s face disturbed something low in his gut. He pushed the feeling aside. Why would he quibble? His uncle had given him everything he requested. Although at a price.

      The bigger question in his mind was what Ellie wanted.

      

      Nervous and restless, Eleanor spent her morning tidying up the cottage and baking. Then she washed her hair and coiled it neatly at her nape. She dressed in her finest gown, a sprigged muslin, one of the few she’d brought from home. Whatever the outcome of his visit, she would behave with dignity.

      A rap at the door. Her heart pounded. He was here. She smoothed her hair, took a deep, calming breath and opened the door.

      He looked wonderful. Clean shaven, his hair carefully ordered à la Brutus, his dark blue coat snug on his powerful shoulders. Wonderful yet stern, his jaw set hard, his dark eyes watchful, as if he suspected her of treachery.

      ‘My lord.’ She curtsied low and gestured for him to enter.

      ‘Good day, Miss Brown.’

      His demeanour was so serious, her heart beat a warning of impending disaster. ‘Please sit down, my lord. May I offer you some tea?’

      ‘Thank you.’ He took the wooden chair.

      She felt his gaze upon her as she moved around the tiny kitchen, setting out teacups and a plate of cakes on the cloth-covered table. He appeared stiff and ill-at-ease. It must be bad news. She handed him his cup and perched on a stool.

      He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Brown, yesterday you made a proposal with respect to the relief of your employer’s financial difficulties.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’ Her voice sounded strained and tight. From the heat in her face she felt sure it must be crimson all the way to her hairline. She managed a smile. ‘My lord, I believe that we discovered some warmer feelings for each other than mere acquaintance. Even though you did not recognise me in my other calling, I very much appreciated your kindness to me and my sister these past few days.’ She was pleased to note that her voice barely shook.

      He reached across and took her hand. Warmth travelled up her arm.