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female on the estate.”

      She gave him a challenging look. “Will you?”

      “Not when I’m sober,” he answered shortly.

      Alys wished that she had not let the conversation go in this direction. She hoped that Reginald Davenport wasn’t the sort to leave a trail of bastards across the county, but if that’s what he wanted to do, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop him.

      Luckily, he changed the subject. “Care to explain how you came to be a steward, Miss Weston?”

      Alys stared down at the tumbler clasped between her hands. “I was the governess at a nearby estate. The widowed owner, Mrs. Spenser, was having problems with her steward. I had . . . grown up on a farm, and was able to advise her. Eventually she discharged her steward and had me take over his duties.”

      “I see.” His eyes watched her expressionlessly over the tumbler as he drank more whiskey. “How did you come to Strickland itself?”

      Alys hesitated, choosing her words. “Mrs. Spenser knew she was dying and that her husband’s nephew, who was heir to her property, wouldn’t keep me on. When the Strickland steward was discharged, she suggested I apply for the situation. She gave me excellent references, and persuaded several of the local gentry to do the same. They all thought it a great joke to play on the Earl of Wargrave—absentee landowners are not much liked around here. Because of the references, the Wargrave business manager hired me sight unseen. The estate has done very well under my management, so there was no reason to question my credentials later.”

      Mrs. Spenser had extracted a price for her aid: that Alys would become guardian to the older woman’s niece and nephews after her death. Alys had been quite willing to take charge of her former students. However, she preferred not to mention them to her new employer. The situation was already quite complicated enough.

      Davenport frowned at the toes of his boots, weighing her future in the balance. She studied his expression anxiously, but his thoughts were impossible to divine.

      The silence was broken by the entrance of the groom. Alys said, “Yes, Bates?”

      “Excuse me, Lady Alys, but I think one of the plow horses has a splint forming.” His question was for her, but his frankly curious gaze was for the new owner.

      Alys said impatiently, “Apply a cold water bandage, and I’ll take a look at it later. Is there anything else?”

      Bates considered for a moment. “No, ma’am.” Slowly he withdrew.

      “Are you consulted about everything that happens at Strickland?” Davenport asked, his eyebrows rising.

      “Of course not, that was merely an excuse for him to get a closer look at the new owner. Everyone is perishing of curiosity. After all, you have the power to make or break anyone on the estate.”

      Alys was pleased to see that her words took him slightly aback. Good, the more he thought about his new responsibilities, the better. He didn’t look like a man who’d had more than a nodding acquaintance with responsibility in the past.

      With a sardonic glint in his eye, he turned the conversation back to her. “Lady Alys? From what noble family do you spring to merit the title?”

      “It’s only a nickname. Someone called me Lady Alys, and it stuck.” Under his probing gaze, she added, “Because of my dictatorial tendencies, I imagine.”

      He smiled at her explanation. “Lady Alys. It does suit you. Shall I call you that, or do you wish to be Miss Weston?”

      “Whatever you prefer, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, doing her level best to sound like an obedient employee even though her stomach was churning. She sipped more whiskey, hoping it would have a soothing effect.

      They drank in silence, Davenport frowning to himself, until Alys could stand the suspense no longer and asked, “Well?”

      He glanced up. “Well, what?”

      Her chin lifted at his deliberate obtuseness. “Are you going to discharge me?”

      “I decided before I arrived here to make no changes until I was more familiar with the situation.” He studied her with shuttered eyes. “It will be a confounded nuisance to have a female steward, but everyone seems to hold you in high regard. Since you can do the work, it would be foolish to release you for a reason that is not your fault and which apparently doesn’t hinder your performance.”

      Alys released her breath, almost giddy with relief. She really hadn’t expected such an enlightened attitude from a libertine.

      Reading her expression, he went on, his heavy brows drawn together. “I will keep you on for the time being, but I want to make two things perfectly clear. First, I intend to take you at your word and treat you like a man, so I don’t want to hear any spinsterish outrage about my crude language and behavior.”

      He waited until she gave a nod of acknowledgment, then continued, “Secondly, for the last four years you have been running Strickland, with authority for everyone and everything on the estate, answerable only to a London lawyer who never visited. For all practical purposes, you might have been the owner. Now, however, Strickland is mine. If I tell you to plant orange trees in the water meadow, you will do it. If I want the laborers to cut a Saxon horse into the chalk of the hillside, you will give the orders. If I want to color the sheep pink, you will order the dye.”

      He set his tumbler on the desk and leaned forward for emphasis, his dark face stern. “I am quite willing to take advice on estate matters, since your experience is greater than mine. However, once I make a decision, I will expect you to implement it without further questions. Your will is no longer supreme; what authority you have is derived from me. For you, it will be a change for the worse. I don’t expect you to like it, but I do expect you to accept it and behave in a civil and cooperative manner. If you can’t, you had better leave right now.”

      Alys stared into his cold aquamarine eyes, and realized that it would be very easy to hate Reginald Davenport. Before today, she hadn’t had time to worry beyond the question of whether he would discharge her out of hand. Now she had survived the first fence, only to discover that the rest of the course would be much harder.

      Her new employer had gone to the heart of her dilemma with uncanny perception. For years she had ruled Strickland like a private fiefdom. Because of her position and the fact that she was an enlightened despot, her orders had been accepted, and she was proud of what she had achieved. Now he was saying in unmistakable terms that her reign was over. She was as much an employee as the youngest field hand.

      Authority came very naturally to Alys; subservience did not. Unfortunately, she had no real choice. She would never be able to find an equivalent situation anywhere else.

      As the silence stretched, he prompted, “Well?”

      Swallowing hard to force down her resentment, she said coolly, “I can accept that, Mr. Davenport.”

      He smiled with a lazy charm that was a startling contrast to his prior manner. “You can accept it, but you would rather have my guts for garters.” He got to his feet and looked down at her. “I don’t care what you think of me as long as you do your work and don’t sulk. Agreed?”

      Alys also stood. After a moment’s hesitation she offered her hand with grudging respect. “Agreed.”

      His hand was firm and hard, not soft like many London gentlemen’s. After arranging to meet her early the next morning for a tour of the estate, he took the last six years of account books to the main house to study.

      After he left, Alys sank back into her chair with a sigh. She still had a job, at least for the moment. Now she would consider the serious question of whether she could work for Reginald Davenport without murdering him.

      Having survived the ordeal by the owner, that night Alys faced interrogation by her wards. She waited until dinner was over before announcing, “Mr. Davenport arrived from London today.”

      A

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