Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow. Bronwyn Scott

on speculation and hearsay for years in regards to him. He’d hear the reading of the will, consult the steward who’d been running the estate for ages, give him instructions along with an address of contact and be on his way in two days—tops, the pretty woman across the grave site notwithstanding. Still, two days was a long time to be alone when one was Killian Redbourne.

      Chapter Two

      “I, Rutherford Michael Redbourne, fifth Earl of Pembridge, being of sound mind and body on this day, the fifth of September, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty, bequeath my earthly estate and all its entailments to my nephew and heir, Killian Christopher Redbourne…”

      Killian tapped impatient fingers on the small table beside his chair in the private study of Pembridge Hall, seat to the Pembridge earls for five generations. With an eye to expediency, he’d requested the solicitor read the will immediately following the funeral. The sooner everything was signed and the title officially transferred the better. His uncle had never liked him, nor he his uncle. There was no need to stand on the pretense of grief and delay realities.

      Killian had no title of his own, his father being a second son. But he’d never coveted Pembridge for himself, never wanted to trade places with his cousin, Robert, who’d grown up with the assurance of a place in society. Killian was proud to have made his own way in the world, his birth allowing him to straddle a delicate fence between the world of the ton and the world of trade. Now, his inheritance firmly entrenched him on one side of that fence. At the age of four and thirty, he was an earl, whether he wanted to be or not. If his uncle could have chosen, he would have preferred not. It was grim consolation to imagine his uncle turning in his grave at the thought of his black-sheep nephew inheriting lock, stock and proverbial barrel.

      The solicitor stopped reading, the ensuing silence drawing Killian’s attention. “Is that all? Are you finished?” Killian inquired. The solicitor was looking at him oddly over the rims of his wire spectacles as if he were expecting some kind of reaction. Admittedly, Killian had not given the reading his entire attention; he had saved some of that for introspection on his uncle and some of it for the lovely woman at the ceremony. But what he had heard was all as expected, quite de rigueur as wills went: a listing of assets to be considered as the entail and an outlining of debts requiring payment.

      The man coughed. “Mr. Redbourne,” he began, then hastily corrected himself, “Lord Pembridge, I said the estate is penniless.”

      That got his full, undivided attention. Killian raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I beg your pardon?”

      “The estate, milord, is, in the common vernacular, without a feather to fly with.”

      Killian sat back in his chair, letting the unexpected news penetrate. Those were words no businessman liked to hear. He had not anticipated this. He’d always imagined Pembridge as he’d known it during the infrequent visits of his youth: vibrant with bustle and consequently financially viable. “How is that possible?”

      The solicitor steepled his hands and assumed the tone of a bored schoolteacher re-explaining basic principles to an errant student. “Harvests have been poor these last few years and there hasn’t been enough work available. Tenant revenues have decreased and cottage rents have gone up to compensate for the loss. Workers have been displaced and ‘living in’ on the larger farms has faded out in these parts. It has not helped that your uncle invested heavily in farm machinery that limited the need for laborers. There simply hasn’t been enough money in rents to keep the estate running beyond a minimum. Surely, you’ve noticed such economic changes even in London?” The last was said with a patronizing tone that Killian did not like. He did not care for the solicitor’s obvious perception that he did nothing more than fritter away time and money in debauched city living. In fact, his life was quite the opposite. He was up early most mornings and to bed late, overseeing his shipping line. His recent hunting trip was a rare exception to the usual hustle of his day.

      Killian fixed the solicitor with a hard stare. Politics over the succession of the new king and the subsequent election that needed to follow had kept him in London all summer. He was all too aware that without new reforms, the situation facing rural England was only going to get worse. “Mr. Connelly, I am well aware of the social and economic situation facing the country these days. I was, however, unaware of how those conditions had affected Pembridge. My uncle—” Killian gestured meaningfully to the papers spread on the desk. “—did not communicate with me on such matters.”

      Duly reprimanded, Mr. Connelly made a great show of shuffling papers and ahemming. “Quite so,” he said, regaining his composure. “However, the fact remains that the estate hasn’t a penny once the bills are settled.”

      Killian dismissed the concern. When something in business cost more than it was worth, it was minimized or sold off. Since entail prevented selling, that left minimizing. “No matter, I don’t plan to stay here. We’ll shut the house up and that will decrease expenses immensely. I have my own funds, which are considerable in their own right, to fill in any gaps.”

      Mr. Connelly gaped at him. “But milord, what about the tenants? What about the farm? They will be penniless too. As the lord goes, so does the peasantry.”

      Ah yes, noblesse oblige. Killian sighed. He’d never cast himself in the role of a peer before, not even after Robert had died last spring. But surely his business skills would be suitable for remedying the circumstance. “I’ll tour the estate and assess their needs. I’ll see what I can do to provide for them.” Even if it means dipping into my own reserves. He was a businessman, but that didn’t mean he was heartless.

      In his mind, the situation was easily resolved. He would take care of the remaining tenants, see them off to a new life or make provisions for them to continue here, and be away, not in two days, alas, but surely within the week. With Peyton here to help him, it would go quickly, but they were both strangers. Gaining an entrée with the locals might be tricky given the reputation that preceded him.

      Inspiration struck. “Is there anyone here who is well-acquainted with the people? Perhaps someone who could ease my way with the tenants and villagers?” The last thing Killian wanted was to come up against the stubborn pride of farmers. It would slow him down immensely.

      The solicitor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. At last he said, “Mrs. Janeway would be able to do that, milord. She’s run things here pretty much for the last two years since the old earl stopped going out on account of his bad leg. She knows everyone, visits the sick, takes food to the shut-ins, runs her own farm since her husband passed. Best apples in the county.”

      A paragon indeed and a widow to boot. Killian could imagine what this Lady Bountiful looked like right down to the eternal widow’s weeds and steel-gray hair scraped back into a no-nonsense bun. Lovely. Not only had his uncle interrupted his hunting season, he’d saddled him with a broken estate and now a bossy Mrs. Janeway.

      He’d been wrong—his uncle wasn’t turning over in his grave. No, his uncle was laughing his bony arse off.

      Chapter Three

      There were worse days for a ride. The wind of yesterday had died down and the sun had deigned to shine. With a blue sky overhead and the crispy crunch of fall leaves beneath the gig’s wheels, Killian was happy to be out of doors, even if it meant he was on his way to collect Pembridge-on-the-Wye’s model citizen, the Widow Janeway.

      The estate’s gig could only seat two and Peyton, no doubt seeing a way to avoid the task of going, had generously volunteered to stay behind and look over the books. Killian turned at the fork in the road and tooled the gig down the short drive leading to the Janeway grange.

      In the drive, he pulled the gig to a halt in front of a neat, well-kept brick-and-timber house and jumped out, reminding himself the day was beautiful even if Mrs. Janeway was not.

      A knock on the heavy door of the grange brought his fears to fruition. A stout, gray-haired woman answered the door, wiping her hands on an apron.

      “Mrs. Janeway?” Killian inquired