Gervase frowned. “A London gentleman?” Puzzling if true; the tin mining leases in the area were, by and large, held by locals. Estates such as Crowhurst and Treleaver Park, as well as local landowners like Squire Ridley, had made it a tradition to absorb any leases that might be offered for sale. They were a small community and had seen the wisdom of keeping control of the extensive tin mining in the locality in local hands. In addition, the royalties from the mining provided a welcome cushion against the vissicitudes of fortune to which farming enterprises were so vulnerable.
Gerald nodded. “Supposedly, but it’s his agent doing the rounds. Polite young man, not quality but neat, knows his place. He called here day before yesterday. I’m not sure where he—the agent—is staying, and he didn’t give me his master’s name. Just asked very nicely whether I was interested in parting with any of the leases I hold. I told him no, but then I got to thinking.” Gerald fixed his faded eyes on Gervase’s face. “Perhaps this London gentleman knows more than I do, and thinks there’s some reason why I might want to sell?” Gerald glanced at Madeline. “That’s why I sent to ask whether you’d heard any whisper—of a downturn, or a glut, or…?”
Madeline shook her head. She looked at Gervase; in her eyes, he saw the same puzzlement he felt. “I’ve heard nothing at all—indeed, what little I have heard recently is entirely in the vein of all going on as before, with, if anything, the outlook being brighter.”
Gervase nodded. “That’s my understanding, too—and I’ve spoken in the last month with my London agents and they said nothing about any change in the wind.”
Gerald frowned. “Wonder what’s behind this, then? Not often that we have interest from outside the area.”
“No, indeed.” Gervase caught Madeline’s eye. “But now you’ve alerted us, we can keep our ears to the ground and pass on anything we learn.”
Madeline nodded and rose. “Indeed.” Gervase and Gerald rose, too. Pulling on her gloves, she headed for the door. “I have to get on, Gerald, but rest assured I’ll let you know if I hear anything at all relevant.”
At the front door, Gervase and Gerald shook hands. Already outside, Madeline waved. Gerald raised his hand in salute, waiting by the door as his groom ran to fetch their horses.
Gervase strolled to where Madeline was waiting. One glance confirmed there was a frown in her eyes.
Without looking at him, she said, “I think I’ll send to Crupper in London and ask what he knows, and there are a few others locally who might have news.”
The groom approached leading their horses. Gervase caught her chestnut’s bridle. “I’ll send a query to my London agent, and I have a few friends in other tin mining areas who hold leases. It’s possible they might have heard something we haven’t.”
Mounting, Madeline picked up her reins; he swung up to Crusader’s back while she rearranged her skirts. Then she looked at him. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything to the point.”
He met her gaze. “I’ll do the same.”
She smiled then, a gesture that lit up her face, transforming it from serenely madonna like to glorious. She didn’t see him blink as she wheeled her horse. “I’ll race you back to the cliffs.?
??
An hour later, Gervase returned home—sometime over the past three years Crowhurst Castle had become “home”—and sought refuge in his library-cum-study.
Sinking into his favorite armchair, he let his gaze travel the room. It was a comforting masculine precinct devoid of flowery touches, all solid, highly polished dark woods, leather in deep browns and greens, dark patterned rugs and mahogany paneling that seemed to enfold any occupant in welcoming shadows. It was a soothing place in which to ruminate on his progress—or, in this instance, the lack of same.
He’d thought getting to know Madeline would be a simple matter of spending a little time in her company. Unfortunately, the three hours he’d spent with her riding the downs had demonstrated that the reason he and all the other men in the locality, like Gerald Ridley, didn’t see her as a female was because she constantly kept a mask—no, more a shield—deployed between her and them. Although he’d looked, and damn carefully, he hadn’t been able to discern the female behind the shield at all.
All he’d seen was a lady focused on business—on her brothers’ business, to be precise.
Admittedly, the speed at which they’d ridden had rendered conversation impossible, yet he was accustomed to being able to read people more or less at will. Even those who employed social masks and veils; he could usually see past them, through them. But not with Madeline; it seemed a cynical twist of fate that the one female he actually wanted to get to know was the one not even he could readily read.
Naturally, he viewed that as a challenge; he knew himself well enough to understand his response. Yet as he did need to get to know her, his instinctive reaction happened to coincide with his rational plan—so he would, definitely, press harder, and find some way past her shield.
He’d also been somewhat disconcerted to discover that her appearance, which he’d categorized as handsome and striking, was—now he’d actually looked—more along the lines of alluring. Although it was difficult to judge a woman’s figure when it was disguised in a loose, mannishly cut riding dress, especially with trousers adding padding to her hips, he’d seen enough to have developed a definite curiosity; he was looking forward to examining Madeline’s attributes more closely when he caught her in more conventional attire.
He was curious—and just a little intrigued. He rather liked tall women, but more than that, Madeline possessed a certain vitality—an open, honest and straightforward appreciation of life—that he found attractive in a surprisingly visceral way.
She’d enjoyed their ride, and he’d felt drawn to her in that, as if the fleeting moment had been a shared illicit joy.
The memory held him for some minutes; when his mind circled back to the present, he realized a smile was curving his lips. He banished it and refocused on his goal: how to get to know the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, the woman, rather than her brothers’ keeper.
It had been a very long time—more than a decade—since he’d actively pursued a lady, but he presumed the facility would return to him easily, somewhat akin to riding a horse. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked and tocked as he evaluated various strategies.
Then a knock on the door heralded Sitwell.
“Luncheon is ready, my lord. Will you be joining the ladies in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray brought to you here?”
Perfect timing. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll join the ladies.” Rising, Gervase strolled to the door. “I believe it’s time we did some entertaining.”
If his sisters and Sybil were so keen for him to cast his eye over Madeline Gascoigne, they could do their part and be useful.