“My concern is not for your welfare. It’s for the horse you intended to ride, and the tenants you’re supposed to visit. They have enough hardship to contend with – they don’t need to be subjected to the company of a drunken fool.”

West gave her a baleful glance. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t you dare take one step away.” Discovering that she was still clutching the riding crop, Kathleen brandished it meaningfully. “Or I’ll thrash you.”

West’s incredulous gaze went to the crop. With startling speed, he reached out and wrenched the crop from her, and tossed it to the ground. The effect was ruined, however, as he staggered to regain his balance. “Go on and say your piece,” he snapped.

Kathleen folded her arms across her chest. “Why did you bother coming to Hampshire?”

“I’m here to help my brother.”

“You aren’t helping anyone,” she cried with incredulous disgust. “Do you understand anything about the burden that Lord Trenear has taken on? About how high the stakes are? If he fails and the estate is divided and sold, what do you think will happen to these people? Two hundred families cut adrift with no means of supporting themselves. And fifty servants, most of whom have spent their entire lives serving the Ravenels.”

As she saw that he wasn’t even looking at her, she took a quivering breath, trying to contain her fury. “Everyone on this estate is struggling to survive – and we’re all depending on your brother, who’s trying to solve problems that he had no hand in creating. But instead of doing something to help, you’ve chosen to drink yourself silly and totter around like a selfish lumping idiot —”

Her throat worked around an angry sob, and she swallowed it down before continuing quietly. “Go back to London. You’re of no use to anyone here. Blame me if you like. Tell Lord Trenear that I was too much of a bitch to tolerate. He’ll have no difficulty accepting that.”

Turning, she walked away from him, throwing a few last words over her shoulder. “Perhaps someday you’ll find someone who can save you from your excesses. Personally, I don’t believe you’re worth the effort.”

Chapter 9

To Kathleen’s surprise, West didn’t leave. He returned to the house and went to his room. At least, she thought darkly, he’d made no further attempt to mount a horse while he was drunk, which she supposed put him above her late husband in terms of intelligence.

For the rest of the day, West kept to his room, presumably sleeping, although it was possible he was continuing to pickle himself in strong spirits. He didn’t come downstairs for dinner, only requested that a tray be brought up to him.

In response to the girls’ concerned inquiries, Kathleen said curtly that their cousin had been taken ill, and would probably return to London in the morning. When Pandora opened her mouth to ask questions, it was Helen who quelled her with a quiet murmur. Kathleen sent her a grateful glance. As unworldly as Helen might be, she was quite familiar with the kind of man who drank to excess and lost his head.

At daybreak, when Kathleen went down to the breakfast room, she was shocked to find West sitting at one of the round tables, staring morosely into the depths of a teacup. He looked ghastly, the skin under his eyes pleated, his complexion pallid and damp.

“Good morning,” Kathleen murmured, taken aback. “Are you ill?”

He gave her a bleary glance, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed in his gray complexion. “Only if one considers sobriety to be an illness. Which I do.”

Kathleen went to the sideboard, took up a pair of silver tongs, and began to heap bacon on a piece of toast. She placed another piece of toast on top, cut the sandwich neatly in two, and brought the plate to West. “Eat this,” she said. “Lord Berwick always said that a bacon sandwich was the best cure for the morning after.”

He regarded the offering with loathing, but picked up a piece and bit into it while Kathleen made herself breakfast.

Sitting next to him, Kathleen asked quietly, “Shall I have the carriage readied in time for you to catch the late morning train?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be that fortunate.” West took a swallow of tea. “I can’t go back to London. I have to stay in Hampshire until I’ve met with all the tenants I had planned to visit.”

“Mr. Ravenel —”

“I have to,” he said doggedly. “My brother never asks anything of me. Which is why I’ll do this even if it kills me.”

Kathleen glanced at him in surprise. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “Shall we send for Mr. Carlow to accompany you?”

“I rather hoped that you would go with me.” Seeing her expression, West added warily, “Only for today.”

“Mr. Carlow is far more familiar with the tenants and their situations —”

“His presence may prove to be inhibiting. I want them to speak to me frankly.” He glared at his plate. “Not that I expect more than a half-dozen words from any of them. I know what that sort thinks of me: a city toff. A great useless peacock who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life.”

“I don’t think they’ll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you’re not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty.”

“I have no talent for sincerity,” West muttered.

“It’s not a talent,” Kathleen said. “It’s a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.”