Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) (4 page)

A sick feeling swarmed through her stomach.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Drummond. We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Why would I have apprised you?”

“
I
am the estate agent now.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

His irreverent gaze slowly meandered down her torso, then he laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she griped.

“A stiff wind would blow you over.”

“What has that to do with anything? I don’t require a massive male body to add and subtract numbers. My mental capacities are sufficient to the task.”

“You’re a woman.”

“You noticed.” She sarcastically batted her lashes, being far beyond the day when she would defend her ability to perform her job.

He leaned back in his chair—her chair—and studied her with disdain. “You’re quite old to still be a
miss.
Why aren’t you married with a dozen brats tugging at your skirt?”

His comment was so rude and so inappropriate that she sputtered her response. “Why aren’t I…I…married?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with you? Are you a shrew? Are you a harpy? You’re pretty enough so it can’t be your looks. Were you ruined at seventeen by a neighbor boy so no suitable gentleman will have you?”

A muscle ticked in her cheek.

She yearned to give him a scathing set-down that would put him in his place. She yearned to march around the desk and slap him silly. She yearned to tersely inform him of how insulting he’d been, but talking to him would be like talking to a log.

“First of all,” she fumed, “I’m not that old.”

“You’re what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? In my book, that’s courting spinster territory.”

She ignored him and continued. “And second of all, I am not a harpy or a shrew. I haven’t married because I never wanted to.” Or had the chance to, but she didn’t clarify that tidbit. “If you remember our conversation out on the road, I can’t abide men. I believe you’re all fools.”

“So you said.”

“I would never let a man boss me.”

“Well then, I won’t even try.”

“I run this estate because I’m good at it. I love being in charge, and this is my home. I intend to protect it with every bone in my body. I repeat: What are you doing here, and how can I make you go away?”

“You can’t.”

“Why can’t I?”

“I told you I own Kirkwood. It’s mine. Perhaps we should start to discuss how I can make
you
go away.”

The remark was so astounding that she felt as if he’d hit her. It had been so casually voiced too, as if he’d be particularly delighted to toss her out.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she blustered, “not until you can prove to me that you have the right to be here. Even then, you’ll have to persuade me you’re in a position to order me about.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to order you about, but I’m not about to fuss with you.”

“Why is that?” she sneered.

“Because you’re a female and I don’t bother with females. I don’t like women anymore than you like men.”

“Aren’t we a pair?” she mockingly crooned.

“But mostly, this is an issue between Miles and myself. It doesn’t concern you at all so I won’t waste my time explaining.”

“With me being a woman, I’m certain it would be too, too complex for me to comprehend the details.”

“Yes, I’m certain it would be.”

His expression was so annoyingly smug that she was once again thinking about marching around the desk and slapping him.

They engaged in a staring match she could never win. She’d like to demand he produce documents to show what had transpired, but he’d just admitted he thought her a flighty nuisance, and since Miles was the actual owner of Kirkwood, she wasn’t sure of her authority to intervene or make him depart.

Had she any authority? If so, how much and how was she to exercise it? She was positive he wouldn’t budge unless he felt like it.

“It seems were at an impasse, Mr. Drummond.”

He frowned. “No, we’re not. This
doesn’t
concern you. My men will be taking control of the property today. If you want to be helpful, you can apprise the servants of what’s occurring so we have a smooth transition. I won’t have them attempting to thwart or obstruct us.”

“Heaven forbid someone obstruct you.”

“Yes, heaven forbid. Is Augusta here?”

“Yes.”

“You can speak to her for me as well. I’d rather not meet with the insulting witch if I don’t have to.”

“I’m not your clerk or secretary,” she huffed. “Don’t throw petty chores at me and expect me to handle them.”

“So don’t handle them. I couldn’t care less if Augusta Marshall is notified of my plans or not. Tell her or don’t. It matters not to me.”

They engaged in a second staring match, and clearly he was much more obstinate than Miles. Considering Miles penchant for avarice and vice, his insistence that no one could rein in his worst tendencies, that was really saying something.

“Mr. Drummond! You can’t just swoop in and take over.”

“Miss Fogarty, I already have.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

He waved her away. “You’re being ridiculous. Would you go?”

“I have to talk to Miles. Before you seize another ledger, I have to talk to him.”

“Talk to him if you must. Again Miss Fogarty, it matters not to me.”

He stood and rounded the desk, approaching until he was so close the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. His leg was pressed to her own.

It was a shocking proximity. In her twenty-five years of living, she’d only been close to a man on one prior occasion. That was at age nineteen when she’d had a beau for a few months. No genuine affection had developed though, because he’d grown enamored of a cousin who’d inherited some money.

Georgina had never had any money, and she hadn’t been angry or saddened by his fickle change of heart. It had been perfectly logical for him to have picked another.

If she’d suffered any heightened feeling at all, it was the confirmation yet again that the world wasn’t fair. She should have had a big fat dowry, but her mother’s disgraceful behavior—falling in love and eloping with a lowly soldier—had gotten her disowned and disinherited. The sins of the mother had been visited on the daughter.

Georgina was the poor relative, existing on her aunt’s charity, and she’d never be anything else. She still vividly recollected that beau, but she didn’t recollect that he’d ever stirred any emotion.

Mr. Drummond, on the other hand, practically lit the air on fire with his presence. He was all virile muscle and masculine size. The room was small, and he simply took up too much space in it. There seemed to be sparks shooting from him to her, as if they created a strange kind of energy.

She was confounded by the sensation, and she wanted to step away, but she recognized that he was trying to intimidate her, and she wasn’t about to let him. She wasn’t afraid of any man, and she wasn’t afraid of him. He could bluster and preen, but he would never scare her.

“Where is Miles?” he asked again.

“I assume he’s in London.”

He searched her eyes for the truth, and she was telling it. She had no idea where Miles was but hoped he’d return for the party.

Mr. Drummond nodded, her gaze apparently revealing the answer he sought. “All right. He’s probably in London.”

“Can you read my mind?”

“Your face is an open book. Don’t ever gamble with me. You’d lose.”

“Believe me, I will never gamble with you.”

“Good. Lambs shouldn’t play with wolves.”

He spun and started out, and she nearly asked where he was going, what havoc he would wreak next. She was mystified as to how she should proceed. She had to alert Augusta of course, and she had to get word to Miles. Yet when she deigned to speak, the comment that emerged was, “We’re having our party tonight.”

He glanced at her. “Yes, you are, Miss Fogarty.”

“Am I to cancel it or what?”

“Why would I care about your paltry party?”

“So…we can have it?”

“Have it or don’t. Your choice is irrelevant. And if you hear from Miles, tell him I’m back. Tell him I’m waiting for him.”

He looked so cold and determined that a shiver of dread slithered down her spine. For just that second, his hatred of Miles was so evident that she wondered if Miles’s life might be in danger, but she shook off the disturbing thought. This was safe, boring, rural England. Men didn’t murder one another. There was never an issue sufficient to arouse that sort of ire.

“I’ll tell him—if I see him,” she said.

“You do that,” he replied, then he was gone.

She stumbled over to her chair and sank down, reclaiming it for her own.

“Aunt Augusta!” Georgina
burst into her aunt’s bedroom suite without knocking. “Augusta! Are you here?”

“Yes, yes, Georgina,” Augusta called as she marched out to the sitting room. “Must you always enter like a berserker?”

“In this situation? Yes.”

“You’re in a dither, and it’s unseemly. Calm yourself this instant.”

Georgina could barely keep from rolling her eyes. She’d never gotten along with Augusta and didn’t understand why. As opposed to Sophia, who was spoiled and horrid, Georgina had been the most docile, obedient child in history. She’d never protested the disparate treatment inflicted on her, had never whined or demanded she be given more than what Augusta had stooped to bestow.

Augusta was simply fussy and unhappy, and her body matched her dour personality. She was brittle, folded in on herself, short and thin as a rail. Her hair was gray, her face lined with wrinkles.

She felt that rules and decorum were extremely important, and because she was typically British she viewed the world as being very stratified. She believed an individual belonged in a certain spot and couldn’t shed their skin or move away from where they were destined to be.

When Georgina’s mother had eloped with Georgina’s father, she’d grievously sinned so Augusta expected that Georgina would ultimately end up a sinner too. If Georgina had a single complaint about her years at Kirkwood, it was the number of lectures she’d endured as to the low character she’d inherited.

Her mother had lived until Georgina was six and she had several clear memories of her. She’d seemed pretty and kind, but a tad lost and confused. Georgina didn’t recall any bad traits, but then she’d been so young. If low character had been evident, she might have missed it.

She never said as much though. She meekly listened to every slur against her parents. She’d never once been disrespectful or mentioned the rumor a housemaid had once whispered that Augusta hated Georgina because she was so jealous of Georgina’s mother. Georgina’s father had been a dashing soldier and handsome rogue who’d swept through the neighborhood and charmed all the girls.

Apparently Augusta had loved him first and most, but Georgina’s mother had snagged him before Augusta could. Georgina couldn’t guess if the story was true, but if there was a bit of jealousy buried at the bottom of Augusta’s dislike, it would provide an explanation as to why she’d been so awful.

Perhaps every time Augusta looked at Georgina, she recollected that debonair soldier and how she hadn’t been woman enough to win him for her own. She’d wound up with stodgy, boring Edward instead.

“We have a problem, Aunt Augusta,” Georgina said.

“What sort of problem? It had better be worth your barging in and raising a ruckus.”

“It is.”

Augusta huffed out an exasperated breath, and like a regal queen, she glided over to a chair by the hearth. She motioned for Georgina to take the other chair.

“What is it?” Augusta asked. “Have pity on me and be brief. We have the party tonight, and you know how I loathe having guests. I need to get ready.”

Augusta didn’t like people visiting, didn’t like entertaining. But Miles and Sophia reveled in it, and since they lorded themselves over her, and she’d never had the temerity to quell their worst impulses, she never refused them.

On this occasion, they’d been allowed to host an annual celebration they couldn’t afford.

“Have you talked to the butler?” Georgina asked.

“Not lately.”

“Then you haven’t heard who arrived.”

“Is it Miles? Is he finally home?”

“No, Aunt Augusta. It’s a man named Damian Drummond.”

Augusta scowled. “Drummond, you say. Damian Drummond?”

“Yes. Do you remember him?”

“I could hardly forget. His grandfather, Walter, was our estate agent, and Damian was his grandson. Walter wasn’t so bad, but Damian was a liar and troublemaker. Edward ran them off because of it.”

“Well, he’s back.”

Augusta scoffed. “I don’t see how he could be.”

“Why?”

“I have it on good authority that he died in London shortly after he left us.”

“Who told you that?”

Augusta pondered, then shrugged. “It all happened decades ago. I don’t recollect, but if it is Damian he has an incredible amount of gall to show his face here. What can he want with us?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Just tell me.”

“He insists he owns Kirkwood now.”

“Owns…Kirkwood? That’s the most patently ridiculous statement you’ve ever uttered. Miles owns Kirkwood, and it’s not debatable.”