Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) (21 page)

“Hello, Portia.”

“Augusta.”

Augusta forced a smile and motioned for Portia to sit. They were in the dining room at Drummond Cottage, Georgina having straightened it sufficiently that the windows were open, the table dusted, the chairs neatly arranged. It wasn’t much, but it was better than being seated out in the dirt on the ground.

There wasn’t a spot in the dilapidated residence that was suitable to entertain a guest, but she hadn’t invited Portia, and if the accursed girl didn’t like the surroundings she didn’t have to stay.

Portia had grown up next door, and Augusta had viewed her as a sort of second daughter. Yet after her last visit when she’d been rude about Miles’s financial troubles, Augusta would have been delighted to never see Portia again.

“Has there been any word from Miles?” Portia asked as she plopped down in a chair. She wrinkled her nose as if she couldn’t abide the smell. Augusta had no sympathy for her. She couldn’t abide the smell either.

“No.”

“Have you any idea where he is?”

“No, so if that’s all you came to learn there’s no reason to tarry. If I hear from him, I’ll send you a note.”

“Aren’t you scheduled to depart tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“What plans have you made?”

“I have made no plans.”

“Why not?”

“I will not leave Kirkwood.”

“Mr. Drummond might have something to say about that.”

“He might.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I wouldn’t lower myself.”

“But…what do you suppose will happen?”

“I don’t care what happens,” Augusta insisted, though she was terrified.

She kept hoping a miracle would occur, that a savior to ride up and rescue her. She kept expecting Miles to appear with the news that the disaster was ended or that Georgina would seduce Mr. Drummond and win concessions that would include Augusta.

So far, Georgina had had no success and Miles hadn’t arrived.

Augusta was frozen with indecision, not able to move from the spot where she was currently located. It was beyond her imagination to picture herself climbing into a cart and bumping down the road with Kirkwood fading in the distance behind her.

Sophia claimed they wouldn’t even have a cart to use. They had to walk. Well, Augusta wasn’t walking anywhere, and Mr. Drummond could jump off a cliff.

“I met Mr. Drummond,” Portia said. “He’s quite an imposing fellow.”

Augusta scoffed. “How could he be? He is the son of servants.”

“He may be the son of servants, but he’s traveled beyond that history.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s very…stern, very forbidding.”

“It’s not possible.”

Portia’s description had Augusta wishing she’d caught a glimpse of Damian Drummond. In her mind, he was still the quiet, polite boy he’d been when he lived in the cottage with Walter. She couldn’t visualize him as an adult—forbidding or otherwise.

“He’s handsome too,” Portia went on, “and he brags about being very rich.”

“Rich!” August scowled. “How could he have acquired a penny? Walter was no fiscal genius. How could they have accumulated any money?”

She wasn’t eager to discuss the debacle. Walter had been a competent man who’d kept the estate on a prosperous path. Since he was fired, there had been nothing but chaos.

Once Walter had given up on Kirkwood and headed to London, there had been numerous rumors about his plight, but that’s all they’d been: rumors.

He’d slinked away in disgrace, and no one had received a single letter from him afterward. Augusta had assumed it was because he was working at a position too humiliating to mention, but there had been no way to verify his situation. He and his grandson had vanished off the face of the Earth.

“You may swear he hasn’t a penny,” Portia said, “but he’s offered to show my father some financial information.”

“Why would he?”

Portia blushed a deep shade of red. “He’s asked to marry me.”

“Marry you! You’re engaged to Miles.”

“Yes, but we were engaged because he was the owner of Kirkwood and I was to be mistress here.”

“You will be,” Augusta hotly declared.

Portia clucked her tongue. “Augusta, how would that occur precisely?”

“I’m not certain, but I can assure you all will be fine.”

“How can you say that? With your refusing to accept reality, you sound a tad deranged.”

“You would too if you’d suffered how I have suffered this past week.” She glared, her animosity wafting out. “By what gall is Mr. Drummond proposing to you?”

“He’s taking everything from Miles and that includes me.”

“Are you breaking your commitment to Miles? Is that what you came to tell me?”

“No, I haven’t cried off, but what am I to think, Augusta? Where is Miles? What are his plans? Is it still his intent to wed me?”

“Of course it is,” Augusta vehemently replied, although she had no idea if that was true or not.

If the wedding went forward, where would it be held? Where would they reside after the ceremony? How would Miles support Portia? Augusta had no answers to any of those questions, and if Miles had been standing there, she’d have wrung his neck for being such an impertinent wastrel.

“Mr. Drummond will evict you tomorrow,” Portia said.

“He can try.”

“You don’t believe he can force you to depart?”

“No.”

“You haven’t met him, Augusta. He’s very commanding, and he acts as if he could be dangerous. I doubt you can thwart him.”

“We’ll see.”

“What should I do about Miles and Mr. Drummond? Should I end it with Miles until his affairs are more settled? Would that be best?”

Augusta sputtered with affront. “You’re considering Mr. Drummond?”

“Yes, Augusta. Pay attention, would you? He’s rich, and he owns Kirkwood now. Why wouldn’t I consider him? Especially with Miles having disappeared.”

“I can categorically state that Miles expects you to continue as his fiancée.”

“Where does that leave me, Augusta? I’m twenty years old. How long should I wait for Miles to fix this? Until I’m twenty-five? Until I’m thirty? What if he never fixes it?”

“I’m guessing he’ll ride in tonight, and he’ll have the solution we seek.”

“You actually presume he’ll arrive and save you?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s very clever. He won’t relinquish Kirkwood without a fight.”

“He’s already lost it! Why can’t you admit it?”

“I won’t deem it
lost
until Miles tells me it is. In the interim”—she smiled a sly smile—“I have a scheme percolating while we watch for him to return.”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Drummond is terribly intrigued by Georgina.”

Portia frowned. “By Georgina?”

“Yes and I’ve encouraged her to foster his interest.”

“Meaning what?”

“Since you’re a maiden, I can’t provide details, but trust me. She’s agreed to pursue a path that will allow us to remain at Kirkwood.”

“What path?”

“As I said, Portia, it wouldn’t be appropriate to describe it to you.”

Portia speculated over the comment, then huffed with indignation. “She would…would…debase herself to earn his favor? She’s willing?”

“She’s very loyal to the family, Portia, and I’ve reminded her how much she owes us. So yes, she’s willing to accommodate me.”

Portia shivered with dread. “Mr. Drummond is so…so…tall and impressive. Isn’t she afraid?”

“If she is or isn’t, it hardly matters. She’s consented, and she’ll follow through.”

“What has he offered as a reward?”

“We get to stay.”

“All of you get to stay?”

“Yes,” Augusta lied.

Georgina had explained that Mr. Drummond intended for his mercy to extend to her and never to Sophia or Augusta, but Georgina was positive she could persuade him to relent. She claimed he wasn’t the ogre people assumed him to be, and she truly thought she could bend him in the right direction.

Georgina was smart and shrewd, and Augusta had no doubt she’d succeed with Mr. Drummond. Augusta was staking her very future on it.

“If Georgina shames herself—” Portia started.

Augusta cut her off. “You’re not to mention this to anyone, Portia. We can’t have it bandied about the neighborhood.”

“Yes, but it’s so shocking. How will you keep it a secret?”

“You’re the only one I’ve told. If gossip spreads, I’ll know who spread it.”

Portia glared, and Augusta glared back. Portia was very confident, very set on herself, but she was barely out of the schoolroom. She was no match for Augusta. She glanced away first.

“If Georgina disgraces herself with him,” Portia tried again, “what about me? I can’t become his bride if he’s been dallying with her.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“It would indicate he’s a libertine.”

“All men are. They have mistresses and tumble the servants.”

“There are likely wives in the world who would tolerate such low behavior, but I never would. It would be too disrespectful to me.”

Augusta rolled her eyes. Girls were so silly. “If you wed him you’ll have to ignore it.”

“I won’t, and he’s an idiot if he thinks I will.”

“Then you should carefully ponder his proposal. Is that the sort of cad you wish to wed? It sounds as if he’s very different from Miles.”

“Yes, he is.” Portia dithered for an age, then said, “Despite what I choose—whether I wind up with Miles or Mr. Drummond—Georgina can’t live here after I move in. If she ruins herself for you, she’ll have to go. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Does
she
realize it?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“If she’s so loose in her character, I couldn’t permit her to remain in proximity to my new husband. Once she’s dishonored, there’s no predicting how she might conduct herself.”

“No, it wouldn’t be appropriate and I wouldn’t be comfortable having her around Sophia either.”

“Oh, absolutely not. She shouldn’t be around Sophia another second.”

“We’ll let Georgina work her wiles on Mr. Drummond, and we’ll see what happens.”

“All right.”

“I’m betting her antics won’t matter one way or the other.”

“Why not?”

“Miles will be home soon. Probably later tonight. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Should I tell Mr. Drummond I need to reflect on my answer?”

“Yes. In the meantime, Georgina will seduce and distract him, then Miles will return and we’ll all be saved.” Augusta leaned over and patted Portia’s hand. “Don’t sever your betrothal just yet, Portia. Give it a few days. Mr. Drummond will be gone before you know it.”

“Here’s hoping,” Portia said.

“I’m not
hoping.
I’m convinced we’ll be shed of him with no trouble at all.”

“But Georgina will bear the brunt of us getting him to depart.”

“Some conclusions can’t be helped, Portia. Let’s not worry about Georgina. Let’s worry about ourselves and how we can come out of this with everything we want.”

Y
ou have to stop
fighting him.”

“I’ll never stop.”

“He’s going to kill you. He’s simply looking for an excuse.”

Damian was stretched out on his bunk, his torso a mass of gashes, the whip having cut particularly deep. Or perhaps it was merely that he’d been flogged so often that his skin was wearing out. He bruised easily now and usually the wounds from any prior beating hadn’t healed before the next was inflicted.

He never fully recovered between punishments, and Lt. Butler was increasingly deranged. The more Damian stood up to him, the more Lt. Butler felt he had to make a point.

He and Butler were dancing a macabre dance, and Damian was tired of it. He didn’t have much energy left for the battle. More and more, he was drifting into the spot in his mind where it was so peaceful and quiet. It was such a calm place that he wondered if he wasn’t close to the gates of Heaven.

He always sensed a portal, and he’d try to walk toward it, but he couldn’t ever find it. It wasn’t his time just yet, but oh, how he wanted it to be!

“You know I don’t care if he kills me,” Damian said.

“I care!” Kit vehemently replied.

Damian shut his eyes. His injuries were infected, and he was feverish and struggling to tamp down his shivers so Kit wouldn’t notice. Suddenly Kit was slapping his cheek.

“Damian!” he was saying. “Damian!”

Kit shook him and shook him until Damian had to pry open his eyes so he’d desist.

“What?” he groggily asked.

“You’re burning up.”

“It’s not that bad, Kit. It will pass.”

“No, it won’t. I have to get some help.”

“From who?”

Damian couldn’t imagine who would dare to intervene. It would mean crossing swords with Lt. Butler, and the citizen-convicts in the burgeoning town went out of their way to avoid him.

Butler acted like a king, and the Boy’s Colony for Incorrigibles was his own private domain where he implemented his awful procedures. He ran the camp like a military prison, and no one—not surgeon, sailor, or guard—was allowed to gainsay him. Who would assist Damian? Why would Kit suppose anyone would?

“I don’t know who I’ll find, but I’ll get someone.” Kit leaned down so he was right in Damian’s face. “Stay awake. Promise me.”

“Sure, Kit. I’ll stay awake—just for you.”

Another lengthy time later, he roused, and a woman was stroking a cool cloth over his hot brow. She was so beautiful that he figured he’d finally died and gone to Heaven as he’d been hoping he would for so long.

She was much older than he was, old enough to be his mother, but there was a vibrancy and flare about her that belied her age. She had big blue eyes and a glorious mane of blond hair, although it was now more silver than gold.

“Are you an angel?” he forced out.

She shook her head, but didn’t respond.

“Am I still alive?”

She nodded that he was, and his spirits flagged. Why couldn’t anything go as he planned? He couldn’t even kill himself and succeed at it. When he was so inept, how could he ever avenge himself against those who had wronged him?

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Anne Blair,” she whispered, and there was a husky catch in her voice as if she wasn’t used to talking aloud.

On hearing her name, he remembered who she was. He hadn’t previously met her, but Botany Bay was a small colony. She was notorious among the inmates—for her crimes but also for what had been done to her in the cause of some very dubious justice.

As one of the true felons in the settlement, she’d brazenly stolen money, jewels, and property from an aristocrat and his wife. Of course she claimed she hadn’t, that the items had been given to her as gifts, but then every criminal claimed the same.

It was the heartache she’d suffered after her conviction that made her such a sympathetic character. She’d had four little children, the oldest five, the youngest two. They’d been wrenched from her arms and left standing on the pier when she’d been dragged onto the prison ship that had carried her away.

She’d never been able to discover what had become of them, and it was quietly assumed that they’d starved on London’s cruel streets. After the incident, she’d never been the same. In her prior life in England, she’d been a celebrated actress and singer, but she didn’t sing anymore and rarely spoke.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” he said.

“I’m staying.”

“I don’t care if I die.”

“Well, I do.”

There was a bowl of water next to his bunk, and she dipped the cloth again and swabbed it across his chest. Vaguely it dawned on him that he’d never been nursed by a woman before. His own mother had died when he was a baby and in subsequent years, no female had ever bothered to tend him.

Mrs. Blair’s ministrations were soothing and welcome in a strange and startling way. They prodded at a deep pool of loneliness and despair that was buried just below the surface. He drifted off, and instead of escaping to the special den in his mind, he focused on her and how pleasant it felt to have someone be kind.