“Were Lord and Lady Berwick kind to her?” he asked gruffly.

“I believe so. She speaks of them with affection.” Helen paused. “The family was very strict. There were many rules, and they were enforced with severity. They value self-restraint perhaps too much.” She smiled absently. “The only exception is the subject of horses. They’re all quite horse-mad. The night before Kathleen’s wedding, at dinner, they had an enthusiastic conversation about pedigrees and equine training, and rhapsodized about the fragrance of the stables as if it were the finest perfume. It went on for nearly an hour. Theo was a bit annoyed, I think. He felt somewhat left out, since he didn’t share their passion for the subject.”

Biting back an observation about his cousin’s lack of interest in any subject except himself, Devon glanced outside.

The storm had settled over the brow of the high grazing fell, water pouring into the chalk streams and flooding the downs. Now the idea of Kathleen being caught out in that tempest alone was no longer enjoyable.

It was intolerable.

Cursing beneath his breath, Devon pushed back from the desk. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Helen…”

“You’ll send a footman after Kathleen?” Helen asked hopefully.

“No. I’ll fetch her myself.”

She looked relieved. “Thank you, my lord. How kind you are!”

“It’s not kindness.” Devon headed to the doorway. “I’m only doing it for the chance of seeing her ankle-deep in mud.”

Kathleen strode briskly along the dirt path that snaked between an overgrown hedgerow and an expanse of ancient oak woodland. The forest rustled from the approaching storm as birds and wildlife took cover, while leaves descended in pale currents. A bolt of thunder unfurled with ground-shaking force.

Pulling a shawl more tightly around herself, she considered going back to the Luftons’ farm. There was no doubt that the family would provide shelter. But she had already reached the halfway point between the tenant farm and the estate.

The sky seemed to break open, and rain lashed the ground, blanketing the path until it was puddled and streaming. Finding a gap in the hedgerow, Kathleen left the path to head across a sloped field of old grassland. Beyond the downland fields, the chalk soil was mingled with clay, a rich and sticky composite that would make for an unpleasant slog.

She should have heeded earlier signs that the weather would turn; it would have been wiser to delay her visit to Mrs. Lufton until tomorrow. But the clash with Devon had unsettled her, and her thinking had been muddled. Now after the conversation she’d had with Mrs. Lufton, the red mist of fury had faded enough to allow her to see the situation more clearly.

While sitting at Mrs. Lufton’s bedside, Kathleen had asked after her health and that of her newborn daughter, and eventually discussion had turned to the farm. In answer to Kathleen’s questions, Mrs. Lufton had admitted that it had been a long time, longer than anyone could remember, since the Ravenels had made improvements on the estate land. Moreover, the terms of their leases had discouraged the tenants from making changes on their own. Mrs. Lufton had heard that some leaseholders on other estates had adopted more advanced farming practices, but on the Eversby Priory land, things remained as they had been for the past hundred years.

Everything the woman had said confirmed what Devon had told her earlier.

Why hadn’t Theo explained anything to her about the estate’s financial troubles? He had told Kathleen that the house had been neglected because no one had wanted to change his late mother’s decorations. He had promised that Kathleen would be in charge of ordering silk damask and French paper for the walls, new velvet curtains, fresh plasterwork and paint, new carpets and furniture. They would make the stables beautiful, he had told her, and install the latest equipment for the horses.

Theo had spun a fairy story, and it had been so appealing that she had chosen to believe it. But none of it had been true. He had known that she would eventually find out that they couldn’t begin to afford any of what he’d promised. How had he expected her to react?

She would never know the answer. Theo was gone, and their marriage had ended before it had even begun. The only choice was to forget the past and set her life on a new course.

But first she had to face the uncomfortable truth that she had hadn’t been fair to Devon. He was an arrogant cad, to be certain, but he had every right to decide the fate of Eversby Priory. It was his now. She had spoken out of turn and behaved like a shrew, and for that she would have to apologize, even knowing that he would throw every word back in her face.

Glumly Kathleen trudged across the spongy turf. Water seeped through seams and welts of her shoes, soaking into her stockings. Soon her widow’s veil, which she had folded back to hang behind her, was sodden and heavy. The smell of aniline, used in the dye for mourning clothes, was especially pungent when wet. She should have changed the indoor headpiece to a bonnet instead of dashing out impulsively. It seemed she was no better than the twins; a fine example she had set, running about like a madwoman.

She jumped as lightning split the angry sky. Her heart began to thump, and she grabbed up handfuls of her skirts to run faster across the field. The ground had softened, causing her heels to sink deep with each step. Rain came down in violent whooshes, bending the stems of blue scabious and knapweed until bright flower heads were lodged into the grass. The clay soil beyond the field would turn to mud by the time she reached it.

Another lightning bolt struck, the sound so explosive that Kathleen flinched and covered her ears. Realizing she had dropped her shawl, she turned to look for it, shielding her eyes with one hand. The limp mass of wool lay on the ground, several yards away. “Bother,” she exclaimed, heading back to retrieve it.

She stopped with a low cry as a massive dark blur hurtled toward her, too fast to evade. Instinctively she turned and covered her head with her arms. Deafened by the sound of thunder mingled with the roar of the pulse in her ears, she waited, shivering, for whatever would happen. When it seemed that no immediate disaster had befallen her, she straightened and swiped at her wet face with her sleeve.

A huge shape loomed beside her… a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding – he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste.