The Rogue's Reform

She thought he might be furious, having been kept standing so long, but his smile was pleasant.

“Forgive us for startling you, madam,” he said, sweeping her a graceful bow, “but we thought it best, given our news, to come north quickly. Allow me to introduce myself. Jerome Everard, at your service.”

His baritone dripped with genteel sophistication, and she could imagine its drawl in the glittering ballrooms of London. Still, the first name meant nothing to her, and he could easily have fabricated the last to match the name of her employer.

“Welcome to Dallsten Manor, Mr. Everard,” she replied with a quick dip that might pass for a curtsey. “You will not mind if I ask for some confirmation of your identity.”

His mouth held just the hint of a smile. “I regret that my uncle, Lord Everard, did not have the opportunity to introduce us properly. However, I have a letter from him I can share.” He stepped forward as if expecting her to move aside and let him in.

Adele held her ground and her smile, bracing one foot on the inside of the door, ready to slam it shut if needed. Could she reach Mr. Linton and his gun before this man and his companions breached the house? Did it matter? Somehow she didn’t think the elderly groundskeeper would scare any of them.

As if he knew her concerns, Jerome Everard held out his arm. It was a civilized gesture, a gentleman indicating his willingness to escort a lady into the house. It spoke of kindness, of protection.

“Let me in, please,” he murmured, clear blue gaze on hers. “I swear no harm will come to you.”

She wanted to believe him. His manners, his smile, his attitude all said he was a gentleman.

And if he wasn’t, she still had the upper hand. She knew Dallsten Manor better than anyone, every crooked passage, every family secret. If Jerome Everard wanted to cause trouble, she was ready for him.

She opened the door wider. “Certainly, Mr. Everard. Come in. Perhaps we can both find answers to our questions.”

Chapter Two

Jerome followed his hostess across the parquet floor of the entry hall. After his initial reception by the footman, he wasn’t sure why this lady had let him in or what he’d find.

But Dallsten Manor looked as respectable inside as it had out. The grand staircase rose to the upper story in polished oak magnificence, a brass chandelier with at least thirty candles gleamed overhead, and to their right, the white wall was draped with a massive tapestry of knights conquering a stag.

He could see his uncle here. A poet at heart, like Vaughn, his uncle would have delighted in the sweeping grandeur of the manor on a hill, the bold colors of the tapestry, the fine workmanship of the carved posts on the stair. Jerome had a more practical bent. He saw the dust dimming the rich fabric, the cracks marring the tall walls. He calculated to the last penny the cost of refurbishing and wondered how far the owner would go to see Dallsten Manor restored. Was that motive enough to steal another man’s legacy?

The footman came out of a corridor behind the stairs just then and pulled up short. “You let him in.”

The words were frankly accusatory. Jerome lifted a brow.

His hostess raised her dark head. “Yes, Todd. I let him in. That is what one generally does with guests.”

His eyes narrowed again, giving him a decidedly feral look. “His lordship never mentioned guests.”

Had he spoken with Uncle? Had Uncle tried to protect his secret kingdom from Jerome, even at the end?

His hostess’s rosy lips tightened in an unforgiving line. “He never mentioned the Prince Regent, either,” she said, eyes flashing, “but if His Royal Highness showed up at the door, I assure you I’d let him in, too.” She tugged down the long sleeves of her gown so that the soft lace at the cuffs brushed her wrists. “Now, I believe Mr. Everard had two companions?”

How did she know? Had she been watching? She glanced at him for confirmation, and Jerome kept a polite smile in place.

“My brother Richard Everard and cousin Vaughn Everard,” he supplied. He’d sent one to the stables and the other to reconnoiter.

She nodded and returned her gaze to the recalcitrant footman. “I suggest you find them and bring them to the library. And send Mrs. Linton to me there, as well. Now take Mr. Everard’s coat.”

Even the brazen footman, it seemed, would not argue with this woman. He inclined his head and strode up to Jerome. Jerome turned and felt the fellow lift the greatcoat from his shoulders. Before Jerome could question him, the footman had thrown the garment over one arm and stormed off down the corridor.

Ignoring the rudesby, his hostess motioned to a doorway at their left. “If you’d be so good as to attend me in the library, sir.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He bowed her ahead of him.

Who was she? he wondered as he followed her. She was too young to be the housekeeper or the mother of a girl ready to embark on a London Season, and too old to be his supposed cousin. And he couldn’t see her as a governess. He hadn’t met very many women in that position, but somehow he didn’t remember any of them as being this pretty and poised. She moved with the assurance of the lady of the house, and certainly the staff obeyed her.

She was equally as comfortable in the venerable library. Oak bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined one wall; crimson drapes hung on either side of a window facing the drive, the afternoon sun spearing through to warm the room and touch the Oriental carpet with fire. A landscape painting of a brook and willows graced the space over the wood-wrapped fireplace, elegant, calming. Another time he’d have been delighted to study it further. What drew his attention now were the papers that littered the surface of the desk. What he would have given for a look at them.

She didn’t offer him the opportunity. She slipped behind the desk and opened a drawer, and he thought he saw her palm something. The knife used to slice apart the pages of new books, perhaps? Did she think him so dangerous? With a quick glance his way, she settled herself near the empty grate on a blue velvet-backed chair, which looked suspiciously like a throne, then held out her hand. “The letter?”

Jerome gave her his most charming smile as he approached. “Of course.” From his coat, he pulled the letter his uncle had left each of them. Caruthers had indicated it extended to a line of credit to allow them to meet expenses until probate was finished.

He handed it to her and watched as she opened and bent over it. She looked nothing like his uncle, shadow to the Everard light. Her dark brown hair shone red in the light, pulled back from a heart-shaped face into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair as they moved back and forth in her reading. And her gray gown was of fine material, which gleamed along the curves of her figure.

Could she be his supposed cousin? Caruthers had said the girl was sixteen, but he might have been mistaken. This woman looked only a little younger than Jerome’s thirty years. Yet if she was his cousin and nearly his age, she would have been born when Grandfather was still alive. Was that the explanation for her being kept in secrecy? The old man had all but disowned Vaughn’s father for a misalliance. Perhaps Uncle had wanted to avoid a confrontation with his father. But if Uncle had somehow kept the marriage quiet, why hadn’t he revealed it when Grandfather had died? Uncle had been the heir then—he hadn’t shirked in making his desires known anywhere else.

The woman before him lowered the letter slowly and glanced up. Tears sparkled like diamonds on her thick, sable lashes. “Is he truly dead?”

Her voice was no more than a throaty whisper, and Jerome felt the clear pain inside himself as well. Though he had not meant to touch her, he found himself reaching out to press a hand to her shoulder. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, sucking in a breath. The urge to gather her in his arms, comfort her, was strong, but he tamped down the feeling. He could not afford to be attracted to her. At best, she was his cousin; at worst, a schemer out to steal his future. He forced himself to release her.

She bent her head back over the page, this time with a frown. “This letter is quite brief.”

Which made it as easily misunderstood as he’d hoped.

To Whom It May Concern, it stated. The letter you are reading is testament that I have shuffled off this mortal coil. The bearer of the letter, Jerome Everard, is an heir to my estate and should be accorded the courtesies thereby due. It was signed merely Arthur, Lord Everard.

“I’m certain my uncle hoped he’d have time to explain further before it was read,” Jerome replied.

Her frown deepened. “Did he leave no other instructions?”

Interesting. Could his cousin be ignorant of the contents of his uncle’s will? Jerome had intended to use every weapon in his arsenal—reason, charm, even intimidation if necessary to convince the household to give up the truth about this girl. How could they be the enemy if they knew nothing of the war?

“My uncle’s solicitor will follow in a few days for a formal reading of the will,” Jerome told her. “I’m sure he can further enlighten you. In the meantime, we wanted to come meet my uncle’s daughter, comfort you in your grief.”

She glanced up at him, lovely face still troubled. “How kind, but you must realize that comfort will take some doing. He was much admired here in the valley.” She paused as if expecting him to admit how much he had admired his uncle.

She would have a long wait. Only Vaughn admired Uncle in the way she seemed to mean, with a keen devotion and unbridled respect. Jerome could find no common ground on which to build such admiration.

His uncle had been an ungrateful son, driving Grandfather to an early grave. Uncle had been no help in guiding Jerome, in teaching him what it meant to be the heir to such vast holdings, from sailing ships to lands in six counties. In fact, the man had ever tried to be playmate, never parent, another reason Jerome found it impossible to believe his uncle had wed, much less been a devoted father.

Still, he could see why his uncle would want to show the most flattering sides of his nature to this woman. Hers was a soul-deep beauty, from the hollows under her high cheekbones to the graceful way she handed back the paper to him. After only a few moments in her presence, he found himself wondering what dragon he might slay for her.

As if she weren’t the dragon he needed to slay.

“Were you close?” she asked him as the silence stretched.

Not close enough, apparently. “He had charge of me and my brother after our parents died,” Jerome replied.