Ellen glared at her discombobulating interrogator. “Of course that’s occurred to me—and to Vickers, too!” She flung up her hands. “Why do you think we’re trying so hard to keep Uncle Humphrey’s condition a secret?”
Christopher-aggravating-Cynster tipped his head appeasingly. “Indeed, but do you know of any particular issue that’s likely to arise in managing the estate that will expose the fact that the estate is standing on shaky legal ground?”
She compressed her lips and studied him. She tapped one fingertip on the desktop while she considered how much to share. Eventually, she admitted, “Vickers and I discussed it. As matters stand, the only challenge we could foresee was if any of those agents with long-standing contracts for the estate’s produce push to renegotiate. We’d have to fob them off, because not even Vickers can act for my uncle with regard to such contracts.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Cynster nodded decisively. “That’s what I assumed.” He caught and held her gaze. “I wanted to assure you that, if you and Vickers find yourselves facing any challenge over your—or your brother’s or even Vickers’s—right to act for the estate, then in view of the long-standing connection between Bigfield House and Walkhurst Manor, the long association between my parents and Sir Humphrey, the Cynsters stand ready to discourage anyone who might feel inclined to take advantage of the situation.”
She blinked, hesitated, then bluntly said, “That’s a very bold claim—to be able to act in such a fashion.” She arched her brows. “Can you actually do so?”
His smile was all teeth. “Oh yes.”
Confidence rang in his tone.
When she continued to look questioningly at him, he smiled more gently and went on, “The Cynsters wield a great deal of influence in many spheres. I’m not talking solely of my parents but of the wider ducal family. We stand together—that’s something of a family badge of honor. If you take on one of us, you will be facing the might of the entire clan.” He paused, then lightly shrugged. “As it happens, any agents used by Sir Humphrey are likely to have contracts with us as well. Even if they don’t, a quiet word from us would cause serious problems for any agent wishing to do business in Kent, certainly enough to dissuade any agent from attempting to make the situation here difficult—more difficult than it already is.”
She heard the simple honesty in his tone, saw it in his expression, and reluctantly rejigged her opinion of him.
He appeared to be the quintessential London rake, possessing every telltale attribute, such as the way he walked into a room and instantly became the focus of attention, such as his invisible cloak of arrogant confidence, and the way he made women—even women like her—forget their names. Yet despite all such evidence, he wasn’t a typical member of the fraternity. He actually cared about what went on in this little pocket of the world.
He was offering her—and her brother, the estate, and most importantly, her poor uncle—a shield, a protection against the worst of her imagined and feared scenarios.
“Thank you.” The words fell from her lips without conscious direction; there really wasn’t anything else she could say.
As if he understood that, his elusive smile returned, lifting the corners of his mobile lips. He inclined his head to her. “If anyone causes problems, send word, and I’ll come, and we can discuss how best to keep the wolves from the door.”
She had to smile at that, yet the relief she felt was very real.
He considered her for a second more, then uncrossed his long legs and rose. “I’d better be getting on.”
She got to her feet, grateful he wasn’t seeking to prolong his visit. She could keep her mind on practical matters and away from dwelling on him for only so long.
He turned toward the door, and she fell into step beside him.
As they walked along the corridor to the front hall, he glanced at her. “As with the gypsies, if you stumble across anything about local farming practices that you don’t understand or are unsure of, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be fixed at the manor for the foreseeable future, and as I’ve mentioned, I and my family consider ourselves beholden to Sir Humphrey—we’ll happily do everything we can to ease any difficulties arising from his decline.”
Even if she hadn’t already decided that he was a great deal more reliable than she’d first assumed, that speech would have set the seal on it.
They reached the hall, and looking toward the open front door, he added, “And unlike your brother, I’ve been trained to manage estates such as this since I could walk.”
He halted before the doorway, and she stopped beside him. He turned to her and smiled—an entirely genuine and utterly charming expression.
Because it seemed the obvious thing to do, she returned the smile and held out her hand. “Thank you.”
His fingers closed around hers—and she very nearly startled.
His eyes locked on hers, and something shifted in the moss-and-caramel depths.
Her senses sparked, and her wits skittered; before she could summon sufficient will to reorder them, he raised her hand and, with his gaze holding hers, brushed a kiss—the faintest whisper of a teasing kiss—over her knuckles.
Heat flared; a frisson of sensation danced up her arm, and she felt distinctly giddy.
He smiled—a knowing smile, this time—then released her hand, nodded gracefully, turned, and walked out of the door.
Christopher descended the steps feeling thoroughly satisfied with the outcome of his visit.
A groom held Storm’s reins; Christopher accepted them, swung up to the saddle, and found himself battling a ridiculously pleased grin.
Pride came before a fall; he reminded himself of that. And there was little doubt that Miss Ellen Martingale wasn’t—even now—about to succumb to his charms.
She was quite remarkably resistant—far more so than any lady he’d previously encountered—especially given the intensity, the shocking power, of what had sparked to life between them.
As he turned Storm down the drive and urged the big gray into a canter, he reviewed all he’d learned about the situation at Bigfield House.
One particular conclusion stood out from all the rest.
It was one he found more and more intriguing.
Ellen Martingale might live her life weighed down with ribbons and rosettes, but beneath her frivolous attire, she was anything but a frivolous female.
After quitting Bigfield House, Christopher resumed his interrupted ride around the manor’s far-flung fields. It was late afternoon when he finally walked into the manor’s front hall and found Pendleby, the butler, hovering.
“Mr. Toby has arrived, sir. He’s waiting in the library.”
Christopher widened his eyes, then turned toward the library. As far as he knew, after the Summer Celebration at Somersham Place, his cousin Toby had headed back to Newmarket. With Pru now in Ireland, Christopher’s uncle, Demon Cynster, relied on his sons, Nicholas and Toby, to manage the famous Cynster racing stable and breeding stable respectively. Christopher couldn’t imagine any horse-related matter bringing Toby into the Weald of Kent.
Curious, Christopher strolled into the library, which also served as his study. It was a comfortable room, lined with bookshelves packed with leather-bound tomes and boasting a large fireplace before which were gathered numerous large armchairs and a long, well-padded sofa.