breath of scandal should be associated with the seventh Earl of Kelby’s child.
Chapter 20
May 1821
What were the odds? Reyn shifted in his seat in St. James’s Church and gave Ginny’s young vicar a gimlet eye. The man had managed to somehow get the living at Shere and his sister had never said a thing about it, the sly puss. She was blushing as they sat at the back of the church in a patch of stained-glass sunlight, in better health than she’d been in weeks and hanging on the new clergyman’s every word.
The move had been difficult for her. Had been difficult for him, too. If he’d known the trouble the emerald would cause, he would have tossed it back at Maris’s not-so-dainty feet.
It had been the devil to sell once he’d returned to London. He’d half-expected to be clapped in irons as a thief as he went from jeweler to jeweler. There was no provenance, no bill of sale. His fictional explanations as to how he’d acquired it seemed weak even to him, but he’d finally found a gem dealer who was less than particular.
Less than generous as well. Reyn had known he was being cheated, but he’d had no choice, accepting what the man would give him. Fortunately, it was enough to buy Merrywood Farm, a rather run-down horse breeding operation, from a gentleman who was not particular, either, and rather anxious to get out from under his failing enterprise. The sale had been accomplished in record speed that had made Reyn’s head spin with legal logistics and reams of paperwork, and by the end of January he was more or less landed gentry.
If one was not too particular.
Bravo for all those whose standards were low. Reyn possessed a ramshackle house, tumble-down stables, and sufficient acreage to support two dozen fillies of various pedigrees. Phantom, old war horse that he was, ruled the roost, though if he hadn’t been gelded would no doubt have been much happier in his new environment.
Reyn had been gelded himself. He had no time to return the flirtatious glances of the young and not-so-young ladies of Shere, who fluttered a bit every time he entered St. James’s on Sundays or the village when he was absolutely forced to leave his occupation behind. He was up to his eyelashes in hay and muck and repairs and loving every minute of it. He knew he needed to hire more help eventually, but at the moment he was reveling in the backbreaking labor required to set up his new business with the help of only a freckle-faced boy who had seemed to come with the property. Working with his hands kept his mind occupied, almost enough for him to forget a few days last December.
Almost.
He was not foolish enough to call the property a stud farm. Not yet. For one thing, he needed to find a stud horse he could afford without depleting his savings. He had half a mind to write to young Bob Hastings, lure him away from Kelby Hall, and offer him a position as head groom. Reyn might not be able to match his salary, but Bob could be his own man. The large apartment over the stable would be perfect for a fellow to raise a family if they didn’t mind the smell of horse.
Reyn’s house was sufficient for a family’s needs, too. Ginny had directed a great deal from her sickbed, and the old house had been scrubbed clean and simply furnished. The floors might list like a storm-tossed ship, but the dwelling was snug and warm. On her better days, she had replanted the garden, Rufus helping by digging random holes between the lettuces. Mrs. Clark was settled into the kitchen, never once complaining about the primitive range. All in all, Reyn’s little household was thriving beyond his humble expectations.
The days were filled with work. The nights, however, were vast oceans of wakefulness, when his hand was called to quell the waves of desire as regular as the tides. Reyn couldn’t seem to do anything about his longing for his countess. It had propelled him to buy property in Surrey. He’d told himself Merrywood Farm was a grand bargain, and that Kelby Hall was a fair distance away.
But he would be close enough to be called if needed.
As if he was needed. His job was done, wasn’t it? He snorted, causing the old man seated in front of him to turn and give him a sour look. No snorting