Page 5 of Sinfully Mine
Hester Black pacedback and forth across the floor of the study, noting the threadbare condition of the rug beneath her feet. Nearly every rug at Blackbird Heath, as well as the furniture, looked just as worn. The house had once been adorned with luxurious rugs and damask covered settees, far too lavish for a farm masquerading as an estate. But while her late husband liked to surround himself with such frivolous décor, he also, rather unfortunately, adored cards and dice far more. There had once been a fine Persian rug decorating the parlor, but that had been sold early in her marriage after Joshua lost at piquet. The fine pair of chairs and the settee covered in blue damask had been sold as well. All that was before Hester realized that they would starve if she didn’t take Blackbird Heath in hand. Over the years, she had managed to keep the farm prosperous despite her elderly husband’s propensity to gamble.
Damn Joshua.
Their marriage had not been a love match. Far from it. More a marriage of desperation. Still, Hester had thought Joshua bore her some affection. At least enough to keep him from wagering Blackbird Heath on the turn of a card. How wrong she’d been. Worse, Joshua neglected to tell her what he’d done before his death.
Hester paced back across the study once more, uttering every terrible curse she knew at her husband. She seemed unable to escape gambling wastrels. Raised by one, married to another, now she was to be at the mercy of yet a third. There wasn’t any doubt that this Andrew Sinclair was cut from the same cloth as Joshua given what she knew. Just another gentleman who made his living by stealing the hard work of others.
When Martin Godwick, her husband’s solicitor, informed Hester of the terms of Joshua’s will, she’d swooned, clinging to the edge of the desk in her solicitor’s office. Martin had assured Hester he would do everything in his power to ensure Sinclair would set foot in Blackbird Heath. After nearly two years with no sign of Andrew Sinclair, Hester had started to breathe easier. She’d allowed herself to become complacent. Perhaps Sinclair, she’d reasoned, as most gamblers did, had come to a bad end. Or Martin would eventually find a way to overturn Joshua’s will and she need not be concerned with Sinclair again.
Today, those hopes were coming to an end.
“I am not about to allow some wastrel from London to sell my home,” Hester hissed out to the room. A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “And he can’t. Not as long as I am still here.” What Joshua had thought to accomplish by adding that condition to his will, Hester had no clue. She only meant Sinclair couldn’t throw her out.
Hester moved to stand beside the window, lifting the edge of the curtain to see a well sprung, plain black carriage headed towards Blackbird Heath.
Sinclair.
Hester had formed her own impression of Andrew Sinclair; after all, he’d made her husband’s acquaintance over a game of cards. Younger than Joshua. Toothy grin. Well-dressed, of course. Charming in the way most charlatans were. There wasn’t any doubt he’d want to sell Blackbird Heath so that he could wager the proceeds on the horses at Newmarket. Or play hazard at one of London’s gaming hells. Men of Andrew Sinclair’s ilk liked expensive women and brandy. Indulgent living. Wagers on ridiculous things such as the color of a lady’s petticoat.
Hester’s father had done so once, wagered on the color of a doxy’s underthings. It cost Hester what was left of her mother’s chest of books, all sold to pay his debt.
Panic hammered in her chest at the thought of Blackbird Heath being sold. Of being reduced once more to eking out the barest sort of existence.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside the front door. There was only one small trunk strapped to the top, that at least was a good sign that Sinclair didn’t intend to take up residence. Hopefully, Hester might only have to tolerate him for one night. Or he might choose to stay in Horncastle.
Hester smoothed her features, tucking in a stray strand of auburn hair behind one ear. She must not allow her disgust for Sinclair to show, or her anger over the situation, not if her plan was to succeed. SinclairownedBlackbird Heath, but he couldn’t force her out or sell the estate.
Joshua’s will was very clear.
Hester planned to impress upon Sinclair the benefit of leaving her as land manager of Blackbird Heath. He would have a steady stream of funds, something no gambler wanted to be without, and never trouble himself with her or the farm. It was much the same relationship Hester had with Joshua. Her husband had wanted to sell off Blackbird Heath, but she’d convinced Joshua otherwise. Her husband had certainly no interest in cabbage, turnips, sugar beets, and sheep, but he did like the profits that came from the fields. So would Sinclair. If he disagreed, Hester would dig in. Eventually, Sinclair would be made to see reason.
It made perfect sense.
The sound of the front door opening and her housekeeper’s restrained greeting to Mr. Sinclair echoed down the hall. Mrs. Ebersole dreaded Sinclair’s arrival nearly as much as Hester.
She hurried to sit in one of the chairs before the fire, placing her hand over a tear in the fabric covering the chair’s arm. Blackbird Heath was profitable, much more so now that Joshua wasn’t taking every last farthing to participate in a game of cards, but she had little left over for new chairs or a rug. Animals needed feed. Fertilizer, seeds, plows. Hester had recently cleared another acre which had fallen into disuse. Potatoes were in the ground. Her hard work, her efforts would produce results.
She placed her hands in her lap, frowning at the reddened, rough skin and hid her fingers in the folds of her skirts. Struggling to compose herself, Hester straightened her spine and faced the door.
Blackbird Heath was the first real home she’d ever had. Wedding Joshua at twenty had been more because her father offered up her hand in lieu of the repayment of a debt than anything else. Desperate to escape her circumstances, Hester had agreed to the match. Marriage meant food and a roof over her head, not being evicted from one cottage or room after another and begging for scraps. She’d embraced Blackbird Heath, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time in her life.
Now Joshua had made Hester a guest in her own home.
“Damn you, Joshua Black. I’ll say no more prayers for your salvation.”
Joshua had made no provisions for Hester. No money. No trinkets she could sell. Certainly, not Blackbird Heath.
The heavy tread of a man’s footsteps sounded in the foyer, along with the click of Mrs. Ebersole’s heels.
Hester sunk her fingers further into the fabric of her skirts, nail catching on a tiny hole in the muslin. She and her wardrobe were very much like the chair in which she sat. In dire need of repair. This dress was one of her best, though old, and far out of fashion. Hester rarely spent money on anything other than Blackbird Heath.
A sharp rap sounded on the study door.
Hester lifted her chin, politely defiant. Sinclair could not evict her.
The door swung open. “Mr. Sinclair to see you, missus.” Mrs. Ebersole’s mannish form waved Hester’s nemesis in without further preamble, homely features contorted into disapproval. Her housekeeper had the face of a bulldog and the loyalty to match. Blackbird Heath was also Mrs. Ebersole’s home.
Hester exchanged glances with the housekeeper as Sinclair stepped into the study.
