Without looking at him, she said, “I think I’ll send to Crupper in London and ask what he knows, and there are a few others locally who might have news.”
The groom approached leading their horses. Gervase caught her chestnut’s bridle. “I’ll send a query to my London agent, and I have a few friends in other tin mining areas who hold leases. It’s possible they might have heard something we haven’t.”
Mounting, Madeline picked up her reins; he swung up to Crusader’s back while she rearranged her skirts. Then she looked at him. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything to the point.”
He met her gaze. “I’ll do the same.”
She smiled then, a gesture that lit up her face, transforming it from serenely madonnalike to glorious. She didn’t see him blink as she wheeled her horse. “I’ll race you back to the cliffs.”
An hour later, Gervase returned home-sometime over the past three years Crowhurst Castle had become “home”-and sought refuge in his library-cum-study.
Sinking into his favorite armchair, he let his gaze travel the room. It was a comforting masculine precinct devoid of flowery touches, all solid, highly polished dark woods, leather in deep browns and greens, dark patterned rugs and mahogany paneling that seemed to enfold any occupant in welcoming shadows. It was a soothing place in which to ruminate on his progress-or, in this instance, the lack of same.
He’d thought getting to know Madeline would be a simple matter of spending a little time in her company. Unfortunately, the three hours he’d spent with her riding the downs had demonstrated that the reason he and all the other men in the locality, like Gerald Ridley, didn’t see her as a female was because she constantly kept a mask-no, more a shield-deployed between her and them. Although he’d looked, and damn carefully, he hadn’t been able to discern the female behind the shield at all.
All he’d seen was a lady focused on business-on her brothers’ business, to be precise.
Admittedly, the speed at which they’d ridden had rendered conversation impossible, yet he was accustomed to being able to read people more or less at will. Even those who employed social masks and veils; he could usually see past them, through them. But not with Madeline; it seemed a cynical twist of fate that the one female he actually wanted to get to know was the one not even he could readily read.
Naturally, he viewed that as a challenge; he knew himself well enough to understand his response. Yet as he did need to get to know her, his instinctive reaction happened to coincide with his rational plan-so he would, definitely, press harder, and find some way past her shield.
He’d also been somewhat disconcerted to discover that her appearance, which he’d categorized as handsome and striking, was-now he’d actually looked -more along the lines of alluring. Although it was difficult to judge a woman’s figure when it was disguised in a loose, mannishly cut riding dress, especially with trousers adding padding to her hips, he’d seen enough to have developed a definite curiosity; he was looking forward to examining Madeline’s attributes more closely when he caught her in more conventional attire.
He was curious-and just a little intrigued. He rather liked tall women, but more than that, Madeline possessed a certain vitality-an open, honest and straightforward appreciation of life-that he found attractive in a surprisingly visceral way.
She’d enjoyed their ride, and he’d felt drawn to her in that, as if the fleeting moment had been a shared illicit joy.
The memory held him for some minutes; when his mind circled back to the present, he realized a smile was curving his lips. He banished it and refocused on his goal: how to get to know the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, the woman, rather than her brothers’ keeper.
It had been a very long time-more than a decade-since he’d actively pursued a lady, but he presumed the facility would return to him easily, somewhat akin to riding a horse. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked and tocked as he evaluated various strategies.
Then a knock on the door heralded Sitwell.
“Luncheon is ready, my lord. Will you be joining the ladies in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray brought to you here?”
Perfect timing. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll join the ladies.” Rising, Gervase strolled to the door. “I believe it’s time we did some entertaining.”
If his sisters and Sybil were so keen for him to cast his eye over Madeline Gascoigne, they could do their part and be useful.
Later that afternoon, Madeline was ensconced in her office at Treleaver Park, steadily working through the most recent accounts from the home farm, when Milsom, their butler, appeared in the open doorway carrying his silver salver.
“A letter from Lady Sybil, miss.”
With a smile, Madeline waved him in. Milsom was one of the few who persisted in calling her “miss,” rather than “ma’am.” Presumably because he’d known her since birth, her advanced age of twenty-eight didn’t yet qualify her for the appellation normally accorded older spinsters in charge of a house. Her brothers had wagered with each other on how old she would be before Milsom changed his tune. She privately agreed with the youngest, Benjamin: Never-Milsom would die rather than be absolutely correct in the deference he accorded her.
He offered his salver and she picked up Sybil’s letter. Her brows rose as she realized it contained a card; breaking the seal, she unfolded the sheet and read the neatly inscribed lines, first on the sheet, then on the enclosed card.
Lowering the invitation, she hesitated, then asked, “Have my brothers returned yet?”
“I noticed them riding around to the stable, miss. I daresay they’ll be in the kitchen by now.”
“I daresay.” Her lips softened into a smile she shared with Milsom. “They’re no doubt fortifying themselves as we speak. Ask them to attend me here, please-they can bring their biscuits and scones if they wish.”
“Indeed, miss. Immediately.” Milsom bowed and withdrew.
Madeline read the card again, then laid it aside and returned to her figures.
She was shutting the ledger when a commotion in the corridor warned that her brothers were approaching.
Harry led the way into the office, his brightly burnished brown hair windblown, his rogue’s smile lighting his face. At fifteen, he was on the cusp of adulthood, poised between the carefree delights of boyhood and the responsibilities that awaited him as Viscount Gascoigne.
Edmond followed at his heels. A bare year younger, he was Harry’s shadow in all things. A trifle quieter, more serious perhaps, but the Gascoigne temperament-indomitable will and courageous if sometimes reckless heart- showed in his stride, his confidence as, alongside Harry, he grinned at Madeline and obeyed her waved command to settle in the chairs facing her big desk.
The last into the room was Benjamin, Ben, the youngest of the family and a favorite of all. Madeline held Ben especially close to her heart-not because she loved him any better than the other two but because he’d been a babe of mere weeks when Abigail, their mother, Madeline’s stepmother, had died, taken from them all by childbed fever.
With a tight grin for Madeline-his mouth was full of buttered scone-Ben, ten years old and with much of his growing yet to come, hiked himself onto a straightbacked chair and wriggled back, feet swinging.
Smiling-trying not to appear too obviously fond and doting-Madeline waited while they finished the last of their snack; she knew better than to try to compete with food for the attention of growing boys.
Her gaze rested on them, on the three faces alight with undimmed happiness, with the simple joy of living, and as she always did, she felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. Of conviction, of vindication. Of satisfaction that she’d done what she’d needed to do and had succeeded.
This-they-were her life’s work. She’d been barely nineteen when Abigail had died, leaving Ben to her care, with Harry a lost little boy of five and Edmond a confused four-year-old. Harry and Edmond had at least had each other, and their father. For virtually all of his life, Ben had known only her as a parent.
She and her father had been close; she’d been the older son he’d never had. Knowing he was ill, with Harry, his heir, so very young, her father had trained her to be the intermediary, a de facto regent-he’d taught her all she’d needed to know to run the estate, and left her to pass that knowledge on to Harry.
Struck down only months after Abigail’s death, her father hadn’t, as many people described it, lingered; he’d
