Phoebe stared at him in bewilderment. “The injured man who stayed at Eversby Priory? Why . . . how . . . ?”

“I neglected to explain earlier about how Ransom came by his injuries. He worked for the Home Office as . . . well, as an unauthorized agent.”

“He was a spy?”

“Spying was one of the things he did. However, he uncovered evidence of corruption by his superiors that extended to other branches of law enforcement, and then . . . he became a target. They nearly succeeded in killing him.”

“And you gave him refuge,” Phoebe said, realizing Ethan Ransom’s summer visit to Eversby Priory had been about far more than needing a peaceful place to recuperate. “You were hiding him.” Increasingly concerned, she drew closer to him and linked her arms around his neck. “Were you in any danger?”

“Not a bit,” he said, a little too quickly.

“You were! Why would you do that for a stranger, and put the rest of the household at risk as well?”

One of his brows arched. “Are you going to scold?”

“Yes, you very much need scolding! I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

West smiled, his hands settling at her hips. “I took Ransom in when he needed help because he wasn’t entirely a stranger. As it turns out, he’s a relation on the Ravenel side. I’ll explain more about that later. The point is, Ransom owes me a favor or two, and he could easily obtain the loan account records, since he’s just been sworn in as the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He’s also been given the authority to organize and direct a small group of his own handpicked agents. I’m sure he’ll regard this as a handy training exercise.” He paused. “None of this is to be repeated, by the way.”

“Of course not.” Phoebe shook her head in bemusement. “Very well. If you’ll write to him, I’ll have the letter posted immediately.”

“I’d prefer to send it by special courier. I want this done before Larson returns and I’m obliged to leave.”

“Edward’s return won’t necessitate your leaving,” Phoebe said, instantly annoyed. “He has no say over who stays in my house.”

“I know, sweetheart.” A shadow came over West’s expression. “But you won’t want both of us in the same vicinity for long, or the situation will turn into a powder keg.”

“That doesn’t worry me.”

“It does me,” he said quietly. “I’ve caused too many disgraceful scenes and left behind enough unhappy wreckage for a lifetime. I don’t want reminders. Sometimes I fear . . .” He paused. “You don’t understand how thin the veil is that separates me from what I used to be.”

Phoebe did understand. Or rather, she understood that was what he believed. Staring at him compassionately, she laid her hands on either side of his face. With all his remarkable qualities, West also had his own vulnerabilities . . . fragile places that needed to be safeguarded. Very well—she would shield him from any ugly scenes involving herself and Edward.

“Regardless of how long you stay,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here now.”

West’s forehead lowered to hers, and the heat of his whisper caressed her lips. “God, so am I.”

In the days that followed, the decorum of Clare Manor was disrupted by the vigorous presence of West Ravenel, and the sounds of his booted feet on the stairs, and his deep voice and rumbling laugh. He chased the children through the hallways and made them squeal, and took them out to romp outside, tracking dirt and pebbles on the carpet as they came back in. He investigated every corner of the house, learned the names of the servants, and asked innumerable questions of everyone. Charmed by his quick humor and affable manner, the staff obligingly paused in their labors to tell him anything he wanted to know. The old master gardener was delighted by West’s ability to discuss the intricacies of weather and how best to defeat plant-destroying caterpillars. The cook was flattered by his hearty appetite. Nanny Bracegirdle enjoyed herself to no end lecturing him about having allowed Justin to jump in puddles after a rain shower and ruining his good shoes.

One afternoon, Phoebe went in search of West and discovered him reshaping the topiaries in the formal garden, which had gone untended since the old gardener’s onset of rheumatism. Pausing at the threshold of a set of open French doors, she took in the scene with an absent smile. West had climbed an orchard ladder and was clipping the tree with shears at the direction of the old gardener who stood below.

“What do you think?” West called down to Justin, who was gathering twigs and branches into a pile as they fell.

The child viewed the topiary critically. “Still looks like a turnip.”

“It’s a perfectly recognizable duck,” West protested. “There’s the body, and this is the bill.”

“It has no neck. A duck needs a neck, or he can’t quack.”

“I can’t argue with that,” West said ruefully, turning back to clip more leaves.

Laughing to herself, Phoebe withdrew back into the house. But the image of it stayed with her: West, tending Henry’s beloved topiary trees, spending time with his son.

Thank God Georgiana was away for the winter: she would have been appalled by the way West’s presence had dispelled any lingering sense that this was a house of mourning. Not that Henry was forgotten: far from it. But now the reminders of him were no longer anchored to gloom and sadness. His memory was being honored, while a breath of new life had swept into Clare Manor. He had not been replaced, but there was room for more love here. A heart could make as much room as love needed.

In the mornings, West liked to have a large, early breakfast, after which he would ride out to some of the tenant farms. Phoebe had gone with him the first day, but it had quickly become apparent that her presence unnerved the tenants, who were overawed and nervous around her. “Much as I love your company,” West had told her, “you may have to let me approach them alone. After years of no direct interaction with any of the Larsons, the last thing they’ll do is speak freely in front of the lady of the manor.”

The next day, when he’d gone out on his own, the results were much better. West had met with three of the estate’s largest leaseholders, who had shared a great deal of information and shed some light on a particular accounting mystery.

“Your estate has some interesting problems,” West told Phoebe when he returned in the afternoon, finding her in the winter garden with the cats. He was in a buoyant mood, having been out riding and walking in the fields. He smelled like autumn air, sweat, soil, and horses, a pleasantly earthy mixture.

“I don’t think I want interesting problems,” Phoebe said, going to a tray table to pour a glass of water for him. “I’d rather have ordinary ones.”

West took the water with a murmur of thanks and drained it thirstily, a few drops sliding down the rippling front of his neck. Phoebe was briefly transfixed by the movements of that strong throat, remembering a moment the night before when he’d arched over her, his shoulders and back lifting as his muscles had bunched with pleasure.

“I saw some damned beautiful land today,” he said, setting the empty glass on the tray table. “Now I understand why your crop yields are better than I would have expected, despite the primitive farming methods the tenants use. But there’s no way to avoid it—you’re going to have to invest in miles of field drainage and hire a steam-powered machine with rotary diggers to loosen up all that heavy clay. None of your fields have ever been cultivated deeper than a wineglass. The soil has been trodden by horses and compacted by its own weight for centuries, so it’s a struggle for plants to sink their roots into it. The good news is, once the ground is loosened and aerated, that alone will likely double your production.”

“Lovely,” Phoebe exclaimed, pleased. “Is that the interesting problem?”

“No, I’m about to tell you that. Do you recall those puzzling entries in the crop book, in which some of the tenants give four different numbers for their crop yields?

“Yes.”

“It’s because many of your leaseholds are still laid out in an open-field system, the way they were back in medieval times.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means a farm like Mr. Morton’s, which I visited today, is divided into four strips, and they’re scattered over an area of four square miles. He has to travel separately to farm each strip.”

“But that’s absurd!”

“It’s impossible. Which is why most large landowners did away with the open-field system long ago. You’re going to have to find a way to put all the acreage together and redistribute it so each tenant can have one good-sized plot of land. But that won’t be as easy as it may sound.”

“It doesn’t sound easy at all,” Phoebe said glumly. “The estate would have to renegotiate all the lease agreements.”

“I’ll find an experienced arbiter for you.”

“Many of the tenants will refuse to take a plot that’s inferior to someone else’s.”

“Persuade them to start raising livestock instead of corn growing. They would make higher profits than they’re making now. Nowadays there’s more money in milk and meat than grain.”

Phoebe sighed, feeling anxious and irritable. “Obviously Edward and his father aren’t the ones to handle any of this, since neither of them saw fit to bring it up to me in the first place.” She made a face and looked up at him. “I wish you would do it. Couldn’t I hire you? Indefinitely? How expensive are you?”

His mouth quirked, his eyes suddenly hard and humorless. “At face value, I’m cheap. But I come with hidden costs.”

Drawing closer, Phoebe hugged herself to him and laid her head against his chest.

Eventually his arms lifted around her, and the pressure of his cheek came to her hair. “I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”

You’re what I need, she thought. She let her hands move over his spectacular body, so familiar to her now. Daringly she drew a hand down his front, her palm skimming over the fly of his trousers, where a firm bulge distended the soft woven fabric. His breathing changed. When she looked up at his face, she saw that his eyes had turned warm again, his features relaxed and lust drowsed.

“I wish we didn’t have to wait until tonight,” she said, a catch in her voice. In the evenings, after dinner, they relaxed with the children in the family parlor, playing games and reading until the boys were taken up to bed. Then West would retire to the guest house, where Phoebe would later join him under cover of darkness. In the single flame of an oil lamp, he would undress her beside the bed, his hands and mouth sweetly tormenting every inch of newly revealed flesh.

That would be hours from now.