Page 23 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“And she loved him?” she prodded, unable to help that her breath caught after she’d asked the question—then, she could not breathe until it had been answered, uncertain why it should matter.
Welby turned to meet her gaze, his brow drawing down over his clear, blue eyes. “You know … I like to think perhaps she did. For his sake, Ihopeshe did. But it would be easy to assume that she liked the forbidden nature of it all, wanting something she thought her father might be opposed to. Lady Clayton was as beautiful then as she is now, and she knew it—everyoneknew it. Every young buck from Hertfordshire to Scotland wanted her, and she loved flaunting Sinclair, walking on his arm in full view of anyone who would spread the gossip. It made them clamor for her, trip over themselves to impress her enough to turn her head from a bastard.”
Thinking of the delicate, sickly woman lying abed inside the manor, Lydia had a difficult time conjuring the picture of such a spiteful young woman. But then, she remembered the hard icicle edge of those eyes, the inexplicable feeling she’d gotten while being trapped in that gaze—the moment of doubt in which she had wondered whether the lady might be more than she seemed.
Welby was a close friend and obviously a confidant of Sinclair’s. He must know more about Lady Clayton than Lydia did, so she could not argue.
“Did her father oppose the relationship?” she asked, leaning a bit closer. This story grew more intriguing by the second.
“No, to everyone’s surprise,” Welby said with a little chuckle. “In fact, the earl doted on Sinclair and saw in him all the qualities that Lord Clayton did. He took a personal interest in Sinclair and did everything he could to bolster the business acumen he had already gained from his own father. He treated Milton and Sinclair like equals, molding them, even going so far as to endow them both with a large sum of money upon their completion of university—a loan, he called it. The young men were to invest the money, increase it, and then keep the profits after paying the earl back his loan. Sinclair tripled his investment in a matter of a few years and paid the earl back with interest. It was then that the earl invited him to come to Buckton to work for him … as a steward.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open, her mind reeling as all that Mr. Welby had just revealed sank in. It was the sort of story people told over tea in London drawing rooms, the kind that caused a man’s reputation to precede him. How had she never known of Sinclair before encountering him at that ball? It seemed that someone who had made so much of himself from such humble beginnings ought to be legendary, spoken of far and wide—even as far as Norfolk.
“My God,” she murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
“Quite a surprise to Sinclair, as well, but he gladly took the position,” Welby replied. “His father’s health had begun to fail, and his stepmother made it clear that he would not be welcome there once the viscount had died. He needed to make his own way in the world, and despite having the money to try his luck in London, he chose Buckton. Partly out of loyalty to the earl, but mostly because of Lady Drucilla. He loved her and had expressed an interest in wedding her. So, the earl struck up a deal with Sinclair.”
Mr. Welby’s hand gestured toward all the land stretching on for what seemed like an eternity, nothing but green rolling hills and neat little buildings.
“All of this could be his if he could double Buckton’s productivity and profits as its steward. And if he could earn it, he could have Lady Drucilla’s hand in marriage—provided she wanted him, of course.”
Her eyes widened. “Did Milton not take exception to such a deal?”
Mr. Welby scoffed. “He stood to inherit an earldom, which came with several smaller titles and two massive estates that would earn him more than he could ever spend in a lifetime. Buckton was nothing to him when measured against that. He had no interest in the business of growing and selling cherries. Because this property was one the earl had acquired on his own and was not entailed or attached to his title, it could be bequeathed as he saw fit … and he saw fit that Sinclair should become its owner.”
“Fascinating,” she said with a blink and a swift shake of her head. To say that Sinclair’s story impressed her would be an understatement. “As he is now the master of Buckton, I assume he met the earl’s requirements?”
“He met and exceeded them,” Welby replied with a wide smile, the admiration he felt toward Sinclair apparent in his tone. “You see, while Buckton turned a steady profit, there was the problem of waste which caused them to bleed funds year after year.”
“How so?” she asked, truly curious to know.
Her life as the daughter and sister of a gentleman farmer had taught her much about how an estate like this ran, though she knew more about wheat and sheep, Oakmoor’s primary sources of income.
“Cherries ripen in the summer and must be picked at just the right time,” he replied. “And once they’ve been plucked, they must be carted away and sold before they spoil. Every cherry that goes sour before it can be sold is another penny lost. Sinclair determined that in order to squeeze every cent out of each summer’s crop of cherries, Buckton could not only be an orchard. It must be a place where goods made from those cherries were produced. Thus, all these buildings you see before you.”
Lydia gazed out at the cottages shown to their picturesque advantage against the transforming colors of the sky. “It is genius.”
Welby nodded. “It is. Sinclair oversaw the erection of these buildings himself—places where the cherries could not only be washed and prepared for carting to neighboring counties, but also where they could be turned into jellies and marmalades, sauces and such to be used in the kitchens of every fashionable home from here to the edges of England. There’s even a chandler’s house, just there … where cherries are processed for use in sweet-smelling candles. They’re all the rage in London.”
She smiled, a feeling she could not deny welling in her chest. Pride. She wasproudof Sinclair for the things he had accomplished. He had not allowed the fact that he’d been born a bastard to stop him from reaching out to take what he wanted. It was no wonder the servants admired him so.
“Profits increased after the first summer harvest with Sinclair as steward,” Welby told her. “His new strategies had another pleasant effect—giving many of Hertfordshire’s residents the opportunity to gain summer employment. There are many women who come from all over the county to assist in the harvesting process, as well as the jam and candle-making. Those who work on farms which yield spring or fall crops are able to come here and earn additional wages for a few weeks’ work. It has made him a well-loved figure here.”
I am finding it would be difficult for anyone to hate him.
The thought came unbidden to her mind, yet it held fast and would not dissipate. She wanted to continue being angry with him for his duplicity, but she found that more difficult the more she learned about him.
“I suppose he then earned the right to claim Lady Drucilla’s hand,” she said.
Welby sighed. “That he did, within one year instead of two. Shall we?”
She took his arm once more and allowed him to lead her back toward the house. The sun had nearly disappeared, and dinner would be served soon.
“They were wed a few short months before the earl suffered an apoplexy,” he continued as they walked. “It was a difficult time for Sinclair … his own father had died not long before then. He lost them both almost at once, and the grief of it … by then, we’d become friends, and he’d begun speaking of hiring me to take his place as steward. I was there to witness much of the hardship he endured, trying to carry on when both the men who had fathered him in their own ways were taken from him.”
Her throat tightened, and the undeniable prick of sympathy stung her from somewhere deep inside. “How awful for him. I am certain Lady Clayton and her brother were a comfort to him.”
“For a time,” Welby hedged, his tone growing strained. “Milton—now the earl, could only stay for so long before his new duties drew him away. He resides primarily in London, serving in the House of Lords and managing his estates from there. In time, Sinclair found solace in his work, in caring for and growing his wealth. In the decade since then, he has procured three additional estates and increased his wealth several times over with wise investments. He has elevated himself from being the mere bastard of a viscount to being a formidable man in his own right, demanding respect.”
