Through Gypsy Eyes (3 page)

“So I have already been informed.” She flexed her fingers before settling them back in their place on the keys.

The butler cleared his throat in the vicinity of the door. She grinned, the tension easing from her limbs.
Ah, Aims will take care of him.
“Aims, please see Lord
Frostbite
out, will you?”

The heat from the stranger’s low growl brushed the back of her neck. “Of all the gall. Have you no sense of propriety?”

This overbearing man is getting very tiresome.
Her fingers shook when she returned to the chorus of the song. He would leave if she ignored him, or when Aims retrieved a pistol and forced him out. Either way, sooner or later he would get tired of standing there, being snubbed.

“Stop!”

She disregarded his protest and switched to a dark and ominous tune, attempting to drown out his obnoxiousness.

“I said stop it!” A pair of large, warm hands covered hers. The chords faded as he held her fingers imprisoned against the smooth ivory.

She gasped. Her anger and fear began to make her lightheaded. “Release me this instant. Aims!”

The fingers on hers tightened. “Aims, if you move I shall break your mistress’s fingers.” The sinister threat was enough to elicit a yelp from herself and Aims.

“Now, see here, you cannot just go about threatening people in their own homes,” she spat with false bravado.

Grunting, he released his grip. “By the king’s own hand I have permission to speak with you on a matter of utmost importance.” The rustle of paper proved his claim was probable.

She groaned. Perhaps if she allowed him have his say he would be more willing to leave when Aims showed him the door. “Very well. State your business and be quick about it.”

The paper crinkled and his footsteps retreated to the settee. “Perhaps you should read the missive from the king yourself.”

How was she to get around this one with any dignity left intact? “Aims can read it for me.”

“You cannot read.”

Delilah frowned at the statement. Of course she couldn’t, not in the manner he expected; however, she was not about to tell him. Why didn’t he just go away? She slid along the piano bench to the opposite end, griped the sturdy corner of the instrument and got to her feet. Turning, she directed a bright smile in his direction. “State your business, my lord, then be gone with you, for I have many things to do this day.” Any hopes of his retreat faded at the creak of the chair and approach of his whispered tread on the carpet. Lowering her head she attempted to avoid his direct gaze.

“Is something amiss?”

She caught the edge of concern in his query.
He’s going to see my short-coming.
“There is naught wrong but your refusal to come to the point, my lord.” She bit her lip. He was standing there, staring at her; she could sense his demanding gaze. His scent tickled her nostrils. Frowning she tried to place the odd, yet familiar odor.
Minty and … fresh grass?
She shook her head to redirect her thoughts.
If I do not move away from him, he will discover my secret.
In her haste to flee she forgot about the edge of the bench beside her, and her knee caught the brunt of the impact. In desperation she struck out for something to grab hold of to retain her balance.

A firm hand steadied her. “You are
blind.
”

Anger resurfaced at his shocked utterance.
Why must I face more humiliation at another man’s hand?
“Yes, my lord, I am naught but a helpless invalid you have come accosting.”

“I am sorry. I did not know.”

His voice carried the oh-too-familiar trace of pity, and bile rose to the back of her throat. Delilah shoved him away and braced herself against the piano leg. “Just state your business and leave.”

He stepped back, clearing his throat. “I have been appointed as your guardian by the king.”

She scowled at him. “I have no need for a guardian. I am perfectly safe and content to stay as I am.”

“You cannot mean that.”

“Why? Because I am blind?” she snapped.

“No,” he answered, too quick for it to not have crossed his mind. “You must want to make a match and get married — every young woman does, so I am told. You would make a lovely addition to any man’s life.”

“Are you proposing marriage to me, my lord?”

He coughed and then cleared his throat again.

She smirked.
I have put him on the spot now. Time to watch him tuck his tail between his legs and run. If I could see.

“No, that is to say, the king has put me in charge of settling your father’s affairs … and seeing you wed to a suitable gentleman.”

He does not get it.
She turned on him with undisguised fury. “And just whom do you suppose would want a blind wife?”

“I … well, I am sure there would be many a gentleman who would find you acceptable. Your father has left you a considerable dowry by even a duke’s standards.”

Her hands shook with the force of her contempt. “If you think to buy me a husband, my lord, then I suggest you leave now. I am no one’s charity case.” She stomped in the direction of the door, realizing too late she forget to count the steps in her distress. Her shoulder glanced off the door jamb when she turned too early to navigate the opening. When the butler came to her rescue she shook off his hands with a hiss. Face aflame and appendage throbbing, she hurried across the foyer and marched up the stairs to her bedchamber. Letting her anger get the better of her, she slammed the door.

Tyrone stared at the empty doorway with a frown. Well, that could have gone better.
Why the devil didn’t the king, or even the damned butler, warn me of the girl’s affliction?
A lump settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew well the hopelessness of the blind. Did the king think his personal connection an asset in this situation?
I will not stand by helpless and watch another life wither and die on the vine.

The servant in question cleared his throat. “I will show you out, my lord.”

Tyrone fixed Aims with a hard stare. Did the butler think a mere woman would make him turn tail and run? “You most certainly will not. I have orders from the king, and I mean to perform them to the letter. Show me to the study so I may go over the estate ledger.”

The butler gave him a dirty look and glanced at the stairs. “Miss Daysland will be most upset, my lord.”

“Are you arguing with the king’s command?”

“Nay.” He shook his head. “However, I would not want to be the one to further prick Miss Daysland’s ire.”

Tyrone crossed his arms. “Further?”

The butler looked down at the carpet. “She is a might sensitive about her condition, my lord, and we have seen fit to protect her from others’ cruel jests.”

“We?” Tyrone raised an eyebrow.

A slight flush colored the servant’s cheeks. “Yes, my lord, the servants and I have watched over her since she was a small child. The squire would not have it any other way.”

“I see.” Tyrone shook his head. “She is naught but a spoiled wench then, used to getting her own way.”

“Nay!” The butler met Tyrone’s stare. “She is a kind-hearted lass, not spoiled in the least. She has a hard road in life, and we seek to make it easier for her.” He glanced at the stairs again. “Without her knowing, that is, for it stings her pride to be seen as weak.”

“Prideful is she then? Too good to be married off to any man? Well, I shall see to the detail post haste.” Tyrone stalked from the room and went in search of the study himself.

What kind of damnable situation did he get himself into? A house where the mistress had the servants wrapped around her little finger and coddling her every move was not what he bargained on. The sooner he straightened out the squire’s affairs the sooner he could marry the wench off. Lord, he was already sorry for any man who must endure her barbed tongue. He might have used a little more tact considering the situation if she’d met with him instead of trying to send him away.

He found the study and stepped inside. The room looked like it was unused since well before the squire’s death. Dust collected on every available surface, even the charred remains of the last fire. He crossed to the desk and wiped a hand across the grimy surface. With a sigh he brushed it off on his trousers and sat behind the desk. It wasn’t hard to imagine what shape the squire’s ledger would be in. With reluctance he opened it. Sporadic entries proved the former owner did not put much stock in keeping accurate records. Tyrone groaned. So much for wrapping up his business here quickly and being on his way. It would take weeks to sort out the estate and ride around to check each fact and figure himself with the local villagers. Plucking the book from the desk he headed for the storeroom. It seemed the logical place to start.

• • •

Two hours later he dusted off his pants and frowned at the cook. “There are only fifty pounds of flour here.”

The woman looked away, busying herself sweeping up the spillage from his inspection. “Yes, my lord.”

Tyrone glowered at her. “According to the ledger, some fifty bushels were ground just a month ago. My calculations say there should be at least three thousand pounds.”

She shrugged and kept sweeping.

“Where have the rest gone?”

“No idea, my lord. Perhaps your figures are wrong.”

He pondered her as she poured the sweepings back into the sack at her feet. “What explanation do you have for the missing meat?”

The woman shrugged again, refusing to meet his gaze.

Something is amiss.
Turning on his heel he exited the storeroom, making his way to the estate farm yard. Grimacing, he picked his way through the rotting; feces covered the great yard to the main barn, which leaned in a precarious state weathered by the elements. Everywhere Tyrone looked were signs of neglect, from the pealing white wash to the rusty pitchfork propped against the wall. He pushed open the door sagging on one remaining hinge. It flopped open to rest in drunken fashion against the wall. Perhaps the squire was not as rich as he was rumored to be. Blinking, Tyrone let his eyes adjust to the meager light before scanning the deserted aisle way. Why were there no workers toiling away? He peered over the side of a stall. Dust coated the empty box, the straw bedding molding as if unoccupied in ages. Perhaps the livestock were kept out on pasture unless needed. He strolled through the barn to the doors at the far end, pausing when a giggle broke the silence. Following the sound he crossed to a large foaling stall and looked inside.

A young man gyrated on top of a naked, buxom lass, their moans of ecstasy ringing through the hollow barn. He stood transfixed for a moment, both shocked and amused by their antics. Is this how the hired help conducted themselves? No wonder the accounts and storerooms were so disorganized and messy. He cleared his throat. “I say lad, such pursuits are more suited to a bedchamber, after the work is done.”

The woman’s eyes flew open. Her mouth formed a large “O” of surprise before she scrambled to cover herself. The young man fumbled with the buttons on his breeches and turned to face Tyrone. His face flushed a bright red, reminiscent of robin’s breast. “I beg your pardon, sir. There was not much to be done today, so I thought to take the day off with my girl here.” He glanced back at the woman with a grin.

Tyrone fixed him with a non-indulgent stare, letting the incorrect address slide for the moment. “You thought? Did you not ask permission of your employer?”

“He has been dead and gone well over a month, so there is no one to ask.”

“I see. What about the mistress of the manor?”

The man shrugged and the woman slipped from the stall, hurrying down the aisle half clothed.

“Well.” Tyrone stepped forward, towering over the man. “You are hereby relieved of your duties.”

“By whose authority?” Arms crossed, he gave Tyrone a cocky grin.

Tyrone grasped him by the shirt front and jerked the scrawny fellow off his feet. “By me, Lord Frost, the Earl of Merryweather, and by the King of England.”

The young man’s faced turned snowy white, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Yanking his shirt from Tyrone’s grasp, he tumbled to the floor and then leaped up and fled the barn.

Frowning, Tyrone allowed the man to go.
Well, good riddance to bad rubbish.
He marched to the doors and made his way into the middle courtyard. The state of the yard and its corresponding barn was no better, and if truth be told worse than the last. A quick tour of the dairy, sheep pens, and chicken coop revealed no workers, or livestock, and further disrepair. Tyrone headed back to the main house disgusted with the state of affairs.

Delilah shuddered when the door to her music room opened, banging against the wall. “I may be blind, but I am far from deaf and would prefer you knock.”

“Good to know.”

She cringed at the earl’s condescending tone. “Not
you
again. I thought you were taking stock of the place.”

“I was.”

“Well, I am amazed you have finished your perusal of my home in such timely fashion. I hope you are leaving now.” She pivoted on the piano bench and stood.

“I have not finished and I am not leaving, so sorry to disappoint you.”

His mockery grated on her nerves. “A pity. However, I think you must disappoint many a lady.” She smirked.

“Hardly.” He snorted. “‘Tis a pity you have no sight. If did you would be treated to a view of my handsome and much sought after physical prowess, miss.”

She pouted, wondering if he believed his own dribble or was just playing with her. It was apt to be the former if his attitude were any indication of his personality. “My, you are rather full of yourself. I can only assume you boast with false confidence.”

He chuckled. “Ah, alas you will never know now, will you? It is a pity you cannot see for yourself.”

Arms akimbo she pierced him with a sightless stare. “You think I cannot? There are many ways to see other than with one’s eyes, Lord Frostbite
.
”

“Frost,” he corrected.

A smirk curled her lips. “One who has no sight learns to see with their ears, hands, and mind, my lord.”