Charity and The Devil (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 11) Page 6

  “Alas, you are unlucky once again, Miss Kendall,” Mr Ogden replied, his words filled with sympathy. He at least understood her situation. “I’m afraid the viscount has returned to London. He intends to remain there until….”

  He hesitated, and Charity gave a derisive snort.

  “Until they have dealt this unpleasant situation with for him,” she finished, gritting her teeth.

  Mr Ogden held out his hands, his expression pained. There was no use being angry with him, she knew that. He was as much at the viscount’s mercy as she was. He dismissed the butler and offered her his arm.

  “Will you take a turn about the garden, Miss Kendall?”

  Charity didn’t much want to do anything of the sort. Her thoughts were not pleasant and making polite conversation rather too much of an effort. However, she did not wish to be rude, so she pasted a smile to her face and took his arm as Mr Baxter glowered at her from the cart. Well, he’d just have to wait.

  The gardens at least were a joy, something of a balm to her jagged thoughts. As the days passed and their impending eviction grew ever nearer, she felt increasingly out of control. It was a sensation she despised. If there was something she could do, action she could take, then she could at least be useful. There was nothing worse than being forced to sit and watch while those you loved….

  She forced the old memories away. There was no point dwelling, and she’d always been a ‘live for the day’ kind of woman. She knew first-hand how short and fragile that day could be in a cruel world. It had been her vow to ensure that the rest of her family lived long and happy lives, untainted by such worries and fears as seemed to prowl her heart in the early hours of the morning. Yet Kit’s health was already fragile and now this.

  Stop it, she commanded herself, blinking back tears.

  “If there was anything I could do.”

  Charity looked up, startled from her maudlin thoughts by the sincerity of the man beside her. She blinked and forced that fake smile once more.

  “I know that, Mr Ogden, please don’t reproach yourself. You’ve been nothing but kind.”

  “Kind and useless,” he said, with a heavy sigh as he guided her down a neat gravelled path. “But my employer is a fickle, vain and selfish man, and no amount of pleading your case would move him. I must confide he became dreadfully angry with me. I feared he might strike me at one point, ranting and raging as he did. I though perhaps he would dismiss me entirely.”

  Charity gasped, appalled not only that the man had taken such risks on her behalf but also shocked that he would betray his employer in such a manner. “But Mr Ogden, I… I had no idea. Oh, my dear sir! I beg you will not put your employment in such jeopardy. My goodness, if you had lost your job on our account….”

  Guilt rolled over her as Mr Ogden returned a serene smile and patted her hand.

  “If I could have swayed his decision, it would have been worth it.”

  Charity swallowed, noting the look in the man’s eyes with dismay and turning away from him. Oh, dear. His admiration was growing marked and she didn’t know how to deflect his attentions without causing him hurt or embarrassment. Though she knew she ought to be flattered and pleased by his consideration of her, there was something about the man that made her uncomfortable. Try as she might she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. He was educated, kind and had good prospects and yet … he made her skin crawl. Why was that? He certainly wasn’t unpleasant to look at.

  She’d had no dealings with men before, being sheltered at the farm and too taken up with keeping everyone fed and raising the children so she couldn’t be sure. Not understanding what else to do, she simply ignored the tender look in Mr Ogden’s eyes and pretended she hadn’t seen it. Was she being foolish though? Selfish even?

  If she married well, at least she could keep John and Jane safe and at her side and afford the best care for Kit when he fell ill again. It was what Kit had wanted her to do though he had at least hoped she would find a love match. Marrying Mr Ogden did not give her such heady ideas. Love would not be found with a man like him, though perhaps she could find security and maybe even contentment if she tried hard enough.

  The thought made her heart flutter in a not altogether pleasant manner.

  She stole a glance at the man at her side. He was at least fifteen years her senior, but she could not deny he was a good-looking man. Not precisely handsome, not like their aggravating house guest, but well made with strong, even features. He was taller than her and broad though, to her irritation, she compared him once more to the ill-mannered lout occupying the spare bedroom. Naturally the fiend was taller and broader. Thinking of the man made her temper flare to life again. Had the devil been planning on seducing her last night? The thought made her heart thud; no mere fluttering for that wretch, but rather a full-on military tattoo that erupted in her chest.

  “I’m afraid all this upset has made you unwell, Miss Kendall. You look quite flushed.” The worried tone of Mr Ogden only made her flush harder as she dragged her thoughts from their disturbing path.

  “I think you must be right, Mr Ogden,” she muttered, lying through her teeth and grasping the opportunity to quit his company. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get out of the sun and go home. I… I find I’m feeling rather faint.”

  Being a gentleman, Mr Ogden was adamant about escorting her back to Mr Baxter and the cart and would have insisted on conveying her back to the farm himself in the viscount’s own carriage if Charity hadn’t put her foot down. There was something about his solicitous nature that got under skin and made her want to shout at him. She couldn’t fathom why as he’d been nothing but kind, but he made her feel like a delicate flower who might wilt in a sudden gust of wind, and it drove her mad.

  Delicate she wasn’t.

  Short tempered, pig-headed, stubborn, and rash were all words that could be rightfully flung in her face. Delicate? She was about as delicate as a hammer. Charity snorted while Mr Ogden grew smaller in the distance, and the cart rumbled its way back home.

  ***

  “He needs to go,” Kit said, his voice insistent now.

  “That’s all well and good,” Charity replied, ladling boiling hot jam into jars and trying not to scald her fingers. “But how can you throw a man out who doesn’t even know who he is, or where he lives? It’s not exactly an act of charity, is it?”

  Kit pulled a face at her and stuck his finger into the blob of jam she’d dripped onto a cool plate to see if it would set. “Charity be damned,” he said, smirking at her as he licked his finger clean.

  Charity dropped the ladle into the pan and mimed clutching at her sides with hilarity. “Ha-ha,” she said, deadpan, retrieving her ladle before it sank into the sticky red mixture and disappeared. She sighed, wondering where they would be when they ate this year’s batch of strawberry jam. Somewhere, scrabbling for survival? Uncle Edward had pledged to help them, but he had five daughters of his own and was far from a wealthy man.

  Kit sighed. He sat back in his chair and studied the kitchen table as though it held all the answers.

  “Why are you so keen to get rid of him anyway?” Charity asked, frowning at her brother. “I mean, apart from the fact he’s rude, obnoxious, and the most unlikable man it’s ever been my misfortune to come across?”

  She watched as Kit glanced up at her, something in his expression she couldn’t decipher which was troubling. Usually she could read her twin like a book. He shrugged and looked away from her.

  “Well, for a start I don’t like the way he looks at you so make sure you’re never alone with him.”

  Charity raised her eyebrows at him, wondering if he’d run mad. The man couldn’t stand her. Yet then she remembered his seductive tone of voice the other night. The one that has so unnerved her, before she’d thrown something at his head at least.

  “There’s something about him I don’t like,” Kit continued. “Something….” He let out a breath, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t know, per
haps Mr Baxter is right for once and he’ll bring us trouble?”

  Charity snorted and returned a scathing expression. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day,” she muttered, making him laugh.

  “True enough.” He sat forward and reached for the loaf of bread he’d brought to the table earlier, before the jam had even finished cooking. He cut a thick slice, buttered it, and then gave Charity an expectant look, all puppy dog eyes. She sighed at him.

  “You’re worse than John!” She dripped a little more onto the china plate and Kit lost no time in transferring it to his bread. Charity shook her head, laughing. “It’s still hot, it will melt the butter and you’ll burn your mouth.”

  Kit shrugged and bit into the bread anyway, sucking in a breath and fanning his hand in front of his mouth as she’d predicted. She snorted, amused. Kit always had been the impatient one, wanting everything now, vibrating with the desire to see, to experience, to know. Full of vinegar, her father would have said. A smile curved her mouth, though it was a sad one, full of regrets.

  “Don’t look like that, Charity,” Kit said, his voice low. “It breaks my heart.”

  Charity rearranged her face and glanced at Kit. “I was just trying to remember if I’d fed the pigs this morning,” she retorted, lying again.

  Kit sighed, and she turned away, knowing he didn’t believe a word. That was the trouble with being twins; he knew her mind as well as she knew his.

  “Something smells divine.”

  They looked around as their nameless guest appeared. Charity bristled, all her senses on alert as his large frame filled the doorway.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice scathing. “You’re up are you?”

  “So it appears,” he replied, smiling at her.

  At least, he bared, white, even teeth looking like he might rip her throat out, but she assumed he’d meant it to be a smile.

  “Have some bread and jam,” Kit invited, pulling out a chair and ignoring the look of fury Charity sent his way.

  Typical of Kit. He didn’t trust the man or want him here, but he’d not lose the opportunity to talk to someone new.

  Charity watched out of the corner of her eye as the man sat himself down and then waited, expecting to be served. She frowned, biting back her annoyance. He was someone used to being waited on. His accent spoke of culture and money as clearly as the clothes they’d found him in. Once again, she wondered what he’d been doing out here in the middle of nowhere. Surely, he’d been on his way to see the black-hearted viscount?

  With a huff, she cut him two slices of bread, as he was obviously incapable, and threw them on a clean plate, sliding it towards him. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  That unsettling baring of teeth was given again and she shivered, remembering an illustration of a tiger in an encyclopaedia she’d studied as a child.

  “Are you feeling better?” Kit asked him as he managed to butter his own bread without the help of a valet or a butler or something.

  She hoped he spilled jam down his shirt, then she remembered it was Kit’s shirt and she’d have to wash the blasted thing.

  He scraped what was left of the jam off the plate and nodded, though he looked a little ill at ease now.

  “I… I am,” he said, glancing up at Kit and nodding his thanks. “In fact, I remembered a little about myself.”

  Hallelujah.

  Kit brightened considerably at this information, sitting up and giving the man his full attention.

  “Not much,” the fellow added, apologetic as all their hopes crashed to the ground. “But I remembered that my name is… David.”

  “David?” Charity repeated, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t look like a David.”

  There was a flash of ire as he returned a quelling look which likely terrified chamber maids and footmen alike. “Nevertheless.”

  “Well, that’s… a start,” Kit said, glancing at Charity who knew he was inwardly cursing just as loud as she was. “Nothing else?”

  Nothing helpful, he didn’t say, though she could hear the words hanging in the air.

  “A last name, perhaps? Or where it was you were going to, or coming from?”

  David shook his head and held out his hands in a defeated manner. “I’m terribly sorry, but no,” he replied, not looking nearly sorry enough to Charity’s mind. “Nothing else.”

  “Do you know Viscount Devlin?” Charity demanded, folding her arms and glaring at him.

  There was a flash of something in his eyes, but she couldn’t say what. Recognition, maybe?

  He was quiet for a moment and she assumed he was considering the question.

  “I know of him, yes,” he replied, the words a little cautious. “But no, I don’t believe I know him personally.” He paused, taking an inordinate amount of time to spread a perfect layer of jam into every corner of his bread. Once satisfied, he cut the slice in half and raised it to his mouth. “I hear he’s a devilish fine fellow,” he mused, studying the slice with a nonchalant air. “Quite a one for the ladies.”

  “Devilish,” Charity sneered. “Now that I can believe.”

  Despite herself she watched as he bit into the bread, closing his eyes with pleasure as he chewed. Her gaze slid to his jaw where his beard was coming through heavily now. Kit had lent him his shaving gear but perhaps the useless man couldn’t do it by himself. She imagined sliding a razor down the strong line of his throat and felt her mouth grow dry. As she forced her gaze from him she caught Kit staring at her in consternation. A blush prickled up her own throat and she turned away, annoyed with herself.

  Charity scraped the last of the jam from the pan and decided she’d do well to keep as far from David as possible.

  ***

  Dev, or David as he’d now styled himself, hung about the kitchen and generally made a nuisance of himself for the rest of the morning. If he was to avoid Blackehart there was no other option but to stay until the farm sold. It wasn’t for much longer at least. If a sliver of guilt wormed its way into his heart at the fact the Kendalls were sheltering the instrument of their doom, he did his best to suppress it. Everyone had their troubles. They’d make a new life somewhere else.

  Why, though, had no one come looking for him? Why wasn’t the countryside full of stories of the missing viscount. It was more than a little odd. He wasn’t popular, especially with his staff. Dev was not such a fool as not to know it, but surely someone would have missed him? Unless perhaps the news had been kept quiet? But why?

  Kit had left them to go off and write poetry or something dreary and Dev found himself left with the women. Despite feeling he ought to be appalled by slumming it in such a fashion, he found it all rather fascinating.

  Miss Kendall was clearly infuriated by his presence but Mrs Baxter, who had bustled in with a basket of eggs and had made him welcome, fussing over him and giving him samples of the tarts she was making and asking him for his opinion. This only aggravated Miss Kendall all the more, which amused him no end.

  It was the first time he’d really had the opportunity to watch her. She always seemed to be out about the farm, occupied with something or other. The young woman was always in motion, though, and he found his eye drawn to her as she moved around the kitchen. It was no wonder her hands were so rough. Looking after their family was not something she would leave for Mrs Baxter’s sole care. It seemed there was work enough for more than two as they spoke of an endless list of jobs that needed attention. As soon as the strawberry jam was done, and the jars left to cool, Miss Kendall washed and prepared a huge basin of gooseberries. Dev had always been rather partial to gooseberries and wondered if they were all destined for jam.

  He’d never in his life spent time in the kitchens before, never even considered the work involved in preparing a single meal, let alone thinking ahead about preserving stores for the winter. His food simply appeared on the table and he ate it with little thought for the time and effort it might have taken. He knew, of course, that his ow
n home had substantial kitchen gardens and hot houses for the more exotic fruits, like pineapples. Nothing so unusual would ever have been seen here, that was for sure.

  Mr Baxter appeared at one point and was roundly scolded by his wife for tracking dirt into the kitchen. Mrs Baxter handed him a cup of tea and then him ushered out again as fast as possible, as he muttered about the likelihood of the sow birthing her litter in the next few days. Dev smirked as Mrs Baxter shut the door on her husband with a huff of annoyance, and then wished he hadn’t as she caught his expression. Narrowing her eyes at him, she fetched a sharp knife and a large basin of potatoes.

  “If you’re going to clutter up the kitchen, you’d best make yourself useful instead of sitting there looking ornamental,” she said, a challenging glint in her eyes.

  Dev opened his mouth to protest but caught the look of disgust in Miss Kendall’s eyes. She’d already made several scathing comments about his unshaven state, which he had to admit was annoying the hell out of him too. Not that he couldn’t do it, only that he couldn’t do it well. He was damned if he’d come down the stairs cut to ribbons. That she thought him useless and unable to fend for himself was as irritating as it was ridiculous. He was a gentleman for heaven’s sake! He had a valet for such menial tasks and he’d never lifted his hand to work a day in his life.

  Gentlemen didn’t.

  There were rules about such things. Yet, the idea rankled, and so he picked up the knife and a potato with a grimace.

  “Not that much!” Mrs Baxter exclaimed, shaking her head and tutting at him. “There’s more potato for the pigs than for us if you cut that much off!”

  Chastened, Dev glowered a little, ignoring Miss Kendall’s snort of amusement, and set about improving his skills.

  Chapter 7

  “Wherein even a devil can’t drown a fluffy little kitten.”

  The next day, Dev found the kitchens deserted. A note on the table instructed him that there was bread, cheese, and ham in the pantry, and that he should help himself. From the terse tone of the note he gathered that Miss Kendall had written it. Mrs Baxter, Miss Kendall, and John had gone to market and would not be back until that evening.