Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,54

tone.

“I didn’t mind.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “As much as I like the pace of life in the country, I’d go mad if I didn’t occasionally visit friends in London and enjoy more sophisticated amusements than can be found here.”

“There are things I miss about London,” Phoebe said. “But now I’m obliged to stay away, especially during the Season. As a widow and the mother of an heir presumptive, I’ll be the target of every fortune hunter in England.”

“If it makes you feel better, I promise never to propose to you.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said with a laugh.

Turning businesslike, West pulled a broad ledger from a stack and set it in front of her.

“When do you move to Essex?”

“In a fortnight.”

“Once you’re settled, ask for the general account books. One of them will contain yearly statements of the estate’s profits and losses. You’ll want to look at the past four or five years to—why are you frowning? It’s too soon to be frowning.”

Phoebe picked up a stray pencil and fiddled with it, tapping the blunt end against the edge of the ledger. “It’s the idea of asking Edward for the account books. I know it will upset him. He’ll take it as a sign that I don’t trust him.”

“It has nothing to do with trust. He should encourage your involvement.”

“Most men wouldn’t have that attitude.”

“Any man with common sense would. No one will watch over Justin and Stephen’s interests better than their mother.”

“Thank you. I happen to agree.” Her mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, Edward won’t approve, and neither will Henry’s mother. In fact, no one connected to the Clare estate will like it.” Phoebe didn’t realize she was clenching the pencil in a death grip until West gently extricated it from her fist.

“I know how intimidating it is to have to learn all this,” he said. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve already faced.” His warm hand slid over hers. “You have a backbone of steel. You went through months of hell looking after a small child, a dying husband and an entire household, with unholy patience. You missed meals and went without sleep, but you never forgot to read Justin a bedtime story and tuck him in at night. When you let yourself cry or fall apart, it was only in private, for a few minutes, and then you washed your face, put your broken heart back together, and went out with a cheerful expression and a half dozen handkerchiefs in your pockets. And you did all of it while feeling queasy most of the time because you were expecting another child. You never failed the people who needed you. You’re not going to fail them now.”

Shocked down to her soul, Phoebe could only manage a whisper. “Who told you all that?”

“No one.” The smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Phoebe . . . anyone who knows you, even a little, would know those things about you.”

“Peruvian guano,” Phoebe read aloud from a list of expenditures. “You spent one hundred pounds on imported bat droppings?”

West grinned. “I would have bought more, had it been available.”

They had spent hours in the study, and the time seemed to have flown by. West had answered Phoebe’s questions in detail, without condescension. He had opened ledgers, spread maps of the estate and the tenant farms on the floor, and pulled books with titles such as Agricultural Chemistry and Drainage Operations of Arable Land from the shelves. Phoebe had expected it to be a dull session of tallying long columns of numbers and filling out forms. However, as it turned out, estate accounting was about far more than numbers. It was about people, animals, food, weather, science, markets . . . it was about the future. And the man explaining it to her was so articulate and keen on the subject, he could even make bookkeeping methods interesting.

The conversation was interrupted as a footman brought a tray of sandwiches and refreshments from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Phoebe said, accepting the glass of chilled wine West handed to her. “Are we allowed to drink wine while accounting?”

“I assure you, there’s no way to face the inventory and valuation ledger without it.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “God speed the plow.”

“Is that a farmer’s toast?”

“It’s the farmer’s toast.”

“God speed the plow,” Phoebe echoed, and took a sip of the tart, refreshing vintage. After the footman had left, closing the door behind him, she returned her attention to the list of fertilizers in front of