It Takes a Hero (13 page)

You know who I am, Rafe. And I want you as well…

Dios
, he cursed. What the hell was he thinking?

Meanwhile, the spinster's armor came back on as she sputtered and spit like Ajax. "Well, I… I… I never—"

Rafe held up his hand to stave off her indignant litany, regretting his words already. This harmless flirtation was becoming dangerous with each passing moment, just as this assignment was turning into a series of pitfalls. Quite literally.

"I would suggest, sir," she was saying, having regained some of her composure, "now that you've finished inspecting the underside of the Park, you finish your tour and be gone before you find yourself in need of further assistance."

"Yes, quite funny," he told her. "How lucky for me that you are so adept in tying knots. Tell me, besides aiding and abetting the postmistress, misdirecting visitors about Bramley Hollow, and completing an apprenticeship with the local hangman, what brings
you
out here? I don't see that you've got the time to spare."

She tossed her head, and turned on one heel. "You're right. I don't. So if you will excuse me, I'll take my leave." She went back to her belongings, gathering up her traveling desk and a bag that she slung over her shoulder.

Now he'd done it. He'd forced her into full retreat. And the last thing he wanted was for her to leave. At least not until he'd gotten a chance to…

"Listen, I didn't mean to disturb you," he said quickly. "Please continue finishing your novel—"

She smirked for his benefit.

"Really, make no note of me. I truly just came to see the property. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

She shook her head. "No, I was done with my
correspondence and household accounts
and should go home. My uncle will likely be into more mischief if I am away too long. I heard enough lectures this morning from the neighbors about last night's antics to last me quite a while."

At this he grinned. "Your uncle does love a good cannon shot."

"As do you, sir."

Besides the obvious accusation in her voice, he thought he detected a hint of admiration.

From Miss Tate? Maybe he'd hit his head on the way down the well for now he was hearing the impossible.

She picked up her bonnet and toyed with the strings. "I never did have a chance to thank you for the flowers." Glancing up at him, she offered a small smile. The concession was hard won, but well worth the effort. "I thank you, and bid you good day." She started for the path as if she couldn't be gone from him fast enough.

Rafe scrambled for some reason to entice her to stay. Then she unwittingly gave it to him as she stopped by the gate and turned to him.

"If you go into the house," she warned, "do be careful as some of the floorboards are loose."

That's it
, he realized. The inspection. The now horribly-dangerous-without-her-aid inspection. He rushed to press his case. "Miss Tate, may I ask one more favor?"

"Yes?" That impatient tone had returned to her voice.

"Perhaps you could lead me on a tour of Bettlesfield Park so I don't find myself trapped again? It would be a shame if I were to meet my fate here while you were home having tea."

"I don't think I'd call that a shame."

Of course the little minx wouldn't. This was the same woman who'd tied a noose for his benefit. He'd fall to his death in this wreck and she'd probably go to his funeral just to grin at the cortege.

She wasn't fooled by his request either. "Let me understand this, you trust
me
to see you safely through this ruin?"

Rafe eyed her. "I have to believe that eventually you'll lead me to where I want to go."

Even as he had said the words, he'd envisioned her wearing only a chemise and leading him into an elegant boudoir, her hand tugging at his, pulling him toward a massive bed.

Rafe, I want you so… Come with me, Rafe.

He coughed again, and this time he gave the side of his head a good tap. He'd have to ask Lady Finch if the village boasted a surgeon and go visit the fellow, for obviously he'd injured something in his fall.

"I suppose I could spare a few minutes," she was saying, her hands on her hips, while glancing up at the third story, a wry smile turning her lips.

Probably gauging whether a tumble from that height would be enough to remove him from her life, since the well had failed in that regard.

"I assume it won't take long to see," he said. "I only want to be able to give whomever I sell it to a fair description."

"Hmm. I suppose that would be important," she said, her fingers toying with the fringe on her shawl. "If you actually gain Bettlesfield Park, which you won't."

"That remains to be seen," he said, "not that I'll possess it long enough to worry about whether or not the roof leaks."

She set down her desk. "It isn't such a terrible ruin, I'll have you know." The passion in her voice came as a surprise. Practical Miss Tate defending Bettlesfield Park?

"It isn't?" he couldn't help asking.

"No, actually it has many redeeming qualities. If only—" She stopped and looked at him and then shook her head. "Never mind. It matters not."

"If only what?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. She set her bag atop her writing desk and looked back at the house with a new light in her eyes. "Oh bother, since you asked, I think it's a terrible crime to let such a wonderful house just tumble down. And if you did, by happenstance, come into it, which I am not saying you will, but if you did, promise me you won't sell it to one of those pompous nabobs or cits who'll tear it down and build some gilded monstrosity and ruin not only the vista but the neighborhood?"

Her eyes took on a fiery passion, one that sent a thread of guilt through Rafe. He didn't understand why everyone cared so passionately about what became of this place.

Lord, it was barely upright. What on earth did she think could be done with it? It wasn't like it could be a home.

A home…

Could it be? That in the very practical eyes of Miss Tate, Bettlesfield Park wasn't just a pile of stones, but the image of a home.

And in that realization, Rafe found himself wondering that if Miss Tate could believe a home might exist in such a ruin, then mayhap there was one out there for him.

A home for him?

Now he was convinced he'd hit his head.

Still, he could see that the house meant much more to Miss Tate than just a leaky roof and a place where birds found refuge. It was the dream of what could be had—not the charitable offerings of a distant relation, but a home where she was the mistress and would remain so until the end of her days.

A place he would sell without a second thought, she dreamt about. Yearned for with a passion that captivated a secret longing in his own heart that he'd never known he'd possessed.

A home…

Suddenly, he found himself asking, "What would you do to this place?"

"Me? You want to know what I would do with it?" Besides the usual skepticism in her voice, there was also a hint of hope—her tightly held dreams breaking free from the chains that held them fast.

Mierda!
When was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut? He could feel her enthusiasm creeping into his own heart like a battlefield fever. Well, there was nothing he could do now short of throwing himself back in the well.

"Yes, you," he said. "What would you do to Bettlesfield Park if you were the mistress of this house?"

She cocked her head and stared at him, as if weighing the intent behind his question. "Do you really want to know? Even after yesterday and the bit with the rope just now?"

"Yes," he said. "You seem to have a fondness for this place, if not a familiarity, and I would be interested in hearing your opinions. And I promise I will even pass your suggestions on to the new owners."

"No need to take notes, for this house will never be yours," she said, nodding her head toward the hint of a path in the garden. "This way."

"If you are convinced this house will never be mine, then why give me a tour?" he asked following her.

Miss Tate paused. "Perhaps if you see what happens when others interfere where they have no business, you will come to realize the error of your ways."

It was Rafe's turn to cock a brow at her. "I doubt that will happen. I rather like 'interfering' as you put it. I got to meet you, after all." He couldn't help adding one more attempt at flirtation, but all it was met with was a hearty "harrumph" and a view of her back as she marched up the path.

"Where do you want to start—with the gardens or the interior?" she asked.

"I've seen enough of the gardens," he laughed. "Let's see inside this palace of yours."

She nodded and started around the house.

"Isn't the front door that way?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the other direction.

She shot him a wry glance.

"Yes, right," he muttered. "I suppose you have your own private entrance."

"Actually, I have several."

Why didn't that surprise him? But if he thought Miss Tate was done surprising him, he had another thing coming.

"You've spent a great deal of time here," he commented, following her carefully as she picked her way through the shrubberies and came to a hidden entrance.

"Of course I have," she replied, stepping gingerly into the house. "I grew up here."

"You lived here?" he was stammering.

Rebecca didn't look back to see the shock on his face. Since he was staying with Lady Finch, she assumed he already knew about her family's ignoble fall from grace. But his question indicated that the gossipy baroness was being uncharacteristically circumspect.

An odd notion, but knowing Lady Finch she had her reasons.

They'd arrived at the door near the kitchens, and Rebecca pushed aside the hedge that obscured it and entered the house. "Watch your step," she warned him. "The floorboards are loose."

Rafe followed her gingerly.

"My father was a fortune hunter," she said, leading him past what had been her mother's morning room to the back stairway. As she reached the first flight, she spotted the quizzical look on his face. "What I mean to say is that my father had a great desire to discover lost treasure."

"I thought he was a scholar."

So Lady Finch had been talking.

"He was," she replied. "When it suited him."

"We could start from the top and make our way down," she offered, nodding at the stairs.

"Is that necessary?" he asked, looking this way and that at the gloomy interior.

"Yes," she told him, catching him by the arm and dragging him up into the abandoned mansion. "You can't give an honest and detailed assessment of a place unless you've seen
all
of it."

"Practical advice, Miss Tate," he muttered. "Though I think you mean only to see me into an early grave."

"There is more to the place than meets the eye, sir."

"Yes, if one lives through the tour."

She knew, without a doubt, that if he'd gone through the house on his own, as had been his original intent, he would have gotten no further than the main foyer, with its roost of pigeons and dirty floor and returned to London with the intent of unloading the house on the first unwitting buyer he could find.

Yet Bettlesfield Park deserved so much more
, she thought as she led him through the main bedrooms and the upstairs parlor, pointing out the marble on the mantle in the second guest room and the stain in the floor that her brother had left with one of his science experiments.

She hoped that mayhap he would see that the house deserved to be filled with laughter and joy once again.

"Hard to believe a house could become so ruined in what," he asked, "fifteen years?"

"It wasn't the finest estate when my parents owned it," she admitted. Bettlesfield Park had been an aging relic, but that hadn't stopped the Tates from struggling to make it a home.

That is, until her father had been lured to Calcutta with the promise of finding untold riches.

The kind of treasure that will make this place splendid
, he was wont to say. But his great gamble had cost so very much.

Rebecca could feel Mr. Danvers' gaze upon her, but she didn't dare hazard a glance in his direction. She wanted neither his pity nor his opinion. But why she felt compelled to tell him her story, she wasn't sure either, but she plunged forward anyway.

"A man who'd been with the East India Company approached my father with an ancient tract that he'd picked up in Calcutta detailing a huge treasure trove that was kept in a sanctuary in the northern reaches. He offered to fund our trip to India for a share of the profits. A lion's share, but that mattered not to my father when there was a treasure to be found." Wandering down the main staircase, they paused on the second landing. "When my parents died, the man took Bettlesfield Park as a repayment for his lost investment."

"And turned it into a bordello?" Rafe asked, looking up at the tattered red silk hangings and ill-rendered mural on the ceiling of Zeus seducing Danaë.

"I fear so," she said, shaking her head at the wretched painting. "Don't get Lady Finch started on the subject, for she considers those the dark years for Bramley Hollow. Luckily for the neighborhood, though not so happily for the house, he ran into a spate of ill-luck and gambled it all away." Rebecca signed and continued down the steps, sidestepping the loose ones until she reached the marble in the entryway, and then continued toward her father's beloved library.

Rafe walked around the room, stopping from time to time to poke at yet another hole in the wall. "I would like to know why this house is so pockmarked. From the looks of it, you'd think that it had withstood a French siege. That or your uncle has been using it for target practice."

"Pests," she replied, hoping he knew little of home ownership.

"I hardly think all this damage is the result of pests," he muttered, nudging his boot at a loose floorboard.

Rebecca said nothing to enlighten his skepticism. "The only thing left is the ballroom," she said, drawing him from the library and any further speculations. Much to her chagrin he changed the subject in an even more uncomfortable direction.