Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) Page 11

  It had to be the only occasion she’d ever spoken the word virginity aloud. She flushed such a hot shade of pink that he was surprised she didn’t ignite.

  “It’s not as if you’re husband-hunting. You’re hardly saving it for a spouse.”

  “So I should give it to you?”

  “Yes. To save yourself. To keep your place here.”

  “What you’re suggesting is wrong.”

  He shrugged. “The preachers say it is, but I never listen to them either, and on this topic you should ignore them too. Women choose many options to protect themselves. They usually marry, but if they can’t, they cheat and steal and sin. Why not you?”

  “I told you I can’t,” she insisted.

  “Then what will happen to you?”

  “Don’t send me away. Let me remain at Kirkwood.”

  “I could let you remain, but there’s a price for my mercy, and you’re not inclined to pay it.”

  She gazed up at him, her pretty blue eyes poignant and wounded. She looked young and lost, and her woeful condition tugged at heartstrings he’d thought had been ripped away decades earlier.

  Suddenly he was eager to supply all kinds of masculine benefits that would bind him to her in ways he never intended. He wanted to shelter and help and aid and support. He wanted to…to…care.

  The very fact that he was considering such a thing scared him to death.

  He stepped away and eased her toward the door.

  “You have to go now.”

  “I suppose I should.”

  “And don’t come back.”

  “What if I need to talk to you?”

  “Visit me in the estate office when there are plenty of other people around.”

  “All right.”

  “If you ever sneak in here again, I will assume you’ve changed your mind. I will assume you’re ready to pay the price I require.”

  “I won’t ever decide to pay your price.”

  “As I mentioned before, Miss Fogarty, a desperate person will embrace any unpalatable deed.”

  “I wouldn’t. I’m stronger than that.”

  “We’ll see, I guess. Remember though. If you show up in my room, I’ll take what you’re offering—even if you might not wish to give it. So don’t force me to be that cruel to you, for I’m certain you wouldn’t like to witness that side of me.” He couldn’t bear much more of her touching expression, and he repeated, “Go—or I’ll make you stay.”

  “Goodnight,” she mumbled.

  He could have said the same, could have had a cordial farewell, but he glared at her, anxious for her to leave and not return.

  She whirled away and hurried out. He followed her into the hall, watching until she was swallowed up by the shadows.

  For an irksome moment, he nearly called out to her, nearly asked if he could walk her to Drummond Cottage. But it was a needy, clingy emotion, like one an adolescent boy might suffer when he had a crush on his first girl.

  He shut the door and spun the key in the lock so she couldn’t tiptoe back in and tantalize him. Then he slid into his chair and grabbed his brandy to once again quietly and privately survey his domain.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  What would you have me say, Mother?”

  “I would have you say that you have a plan to rid us of him.”

  Augusta glared at Miles, and he glared back. They were in the parlor of the estate agent’s cottage that, because Drummond men had lived in it for generations, had always been called Drummond Cottage. The place had been vacant ever since Walter Drummond had moved out, and it was in a horrid condition.

  The windows were boarded over, the chimneys plugged with leaves and soot, and mice had gnawed at the woodwork. Augusta supposed she could have begun cleaning and clearing debris, but she’d never held a broom in her life, and she wasn’t about to start.

  Miles’s glare intensified, and she realized he’d always assessed her with that same insolent disregard. It was her fault that he would exhibit disdain. There were many mothers who’d raised dutiful, polite boys, but she hadn’t done that. When he was young, he’d seemed precocious and amusing, his antics filling up their dreary world with a humorous excitement that was definitely lacking.

  Her husband, Edward, had been dull and conventional, and Augusta had been betrothed to him without being consulted as to what she wanted. It had been the summer Georgina’s mother, Patricia, had run off with her debonair soldier. The fellow’s regiment had been quartered in the area for several months, and it had been a heady time of parties and balls.

  Augusta had met Sergeant Fogarty first, had fallen in love with him first, but Patricia was the one who’d been brave enough to elope with him. While Patricia had been riding to Scotland, getting herself disowned and disavowed in the process, Augusta had been promptly married to Edward.

  Her dreams had been dashed, and though she understood it hadn’t been Patricia’s fault that she’d wound up shackled to Edward, she still blamed her. If Patricia hadn’t stirred up all the fathers in the neighborhood where they worried their own daughters might act in the same scandalous fashion, Augusta might have avoided her fate.

  There were many reasons Augusta hated Georgina, but mainly it was that she’d been permitted to reside at Kirkwood with no penalty being paid for how her mother had shamed them. Georgina was a constant reminder of Patricia’s disgraceful tendencies, and Augusta had never fathomed why Georgina hadn’t been dumped on her father’s family. Why had the Marshalls been forced to offer her shelter?

  She’d often requested that Georgina be sent to the Fogartys, but her husband had refused. So Georgina had stayed, and Augusta had been responsible for her. She’d never stopped resenting the fact that she’d had to mother the child of a sister-in-law she’d loathed.

  Georgina looked just like beautiful, glamorous Patricia, and Augusta liked to make Georgina feel guilty for resembling her. Patricia had dared to seize what she craved, that being Sergeant Fogarty. The union had ended in a shambles, with them dying young and penniless, but at least Patricia had dared.

  What had Augusta ever done? Not a single worthwhile thing.

  She’d wed the man she was ordered to wed. She’d served as mistress at the tedious estate she detested. She’d birthed two ungrateful, spoiled offspring, and she was wallowing in the consequences of trying to be a good parent.

  She’d doted on Miles, and Edward had repeatedly insisted that Miles would lead them to ruin and now he had. At this late date, it was pointless to chastise him. If she voiced one cross word, he’d pack a bag and leave and she wouldn’t hear from him for months. She’d be left alone to deal with the catastrophe presented by Mr. Drummond’s arrival.

  “I can’t guess how to rid ourselves of him,” Miles said.

  “It seems we’re in a quandary.”

  “I can’t believe he had the gall to show up here.”

  “It wasn’t gall that brought him. He owns Kirkwood!”

  She didn’t want to let her temper flare, but honestly how was she to remain calm? Her son was a wagering profligate and spendthrift. According to Georgina, not even their clothes belonged to them anymore.

  “I’ll simply have to buy it back from him, won’t I?” Miles retorted.

  “With what? Fairy dust?”

  “I’ll gamble with him again.”

  “Gamble…again?”

  Augusta was so outraged that little red dots formed at the corners of her vision, and she wondered if she was about to suffer an apoplexy.

  “Yes, gamble again,” Miles cockily stated as if it was an incredibly sensible plan. “He has to give me a chance to win it back. It’s only fitting.”

  “Why would he give you a chance?”

  “Because we’re gentlemen and it’s how gentlemen behave.”

  “You think Mr. Drummond is a gentleman? If so, you’ve obviously been walking around with blinders on. I suggest you remove them so you can see what’s really occurring.”

  “I see what’s occ
urring, Mother. I’ve been kicked out of my home by a brigand, and I’m living in a servant’s decrepit, abandoned house. Don’t scold me as if I’m a lad in short pants.”

  “Well, you’re acting like a child.”

  “Where’s Drummond been all this time anyway? How did he accumulate the funds to purchase Kirkwood? That’s what I’d like to discover.”

  “How can it matter how he accumulated them?”

  “He’s always had criminal tendencies. It wouldn’t surprise me if he robbed a bank. If so, the authorities could arrest him. Kirkwood would be returned to us immediately. A fellow can’t acquire property with ill-gotten gains.”

  Augusta scoffed with disgust. Miles had an excellent way of rewriting history, of changing facts to suit his version of events.

  Damian had been a polite, quiet boy who’d told the bitter truth when forced to tell it, and Augusta still chafed when she recalled the calamity he’d set in motion.

  Not because she had sympathy for Walter and Damian. They deserved what had happened to them. No, she was angry because she’d ceaselessly warned Edward that the episode would come back to haunt them. And it had—in spades.

  Walter had grown up at Kirkwood, had been liked and respected, and it had taken years—literally years—for the incident to fade in people’s memories. Now, two decades later, it had blown up in their faces. If she’d known how to parent Miles, she’d have marched over and shaken him until his teeth rattled.

  “I don’t wish to stay in this horrid residence another second, Miles. It’s demeaning.”

  “Of course it is. It’s what Drummond intends—that we’re demeaned. He wants us to feel awful, but the joke’s on him. I don’t feel awful at all.”

  “I demand to be reinstated to my proper place.” She hurled her most grievous complaint. “He hasn’t even supplied us with a cook! Are we to starve?”

  “Is that your greatest worry? That we don’t have a cook?”

  “It’s just one of them. The servants are laughing at us, and if they dare revel in our misfortune, imagine what our acquaintances will say. I’ll never be able to attend church again.”

  “Heaven forbid that you not be able to attend church,” he sarcastically spat.

  “Are we to be evicted or what?”

  “Where would we go, Mother?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then he can’t evict us.”

  “Why can’t he?”

  “It’s simply not allowed.”

  Augusta truly thought it was the stupidest comment he’d ever uttered in her presence. Edward had evicted Walter and Damian with no notice and no concern for what would become of them. Edward had done it to Damian Drummond, and Damian Drummond was prepared to do it to Augusta and Miles.

  How could Miles not recognize the similarities? The sole difference was that Mr. Drummond was permitting them several days to make plans. When he’d been kicked out with his grandfather, he’d had minutes to pack and depart.

  “Have you spoken to Portia?” she inquired.

  “No.”

  “Shouldn’t you ride over to her father’s and tell her what’s occurred?”

  “Why upset her needlessly?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s needlessly. She has to be told.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want her hearing gossip.”

  “She wouldn’t believe it. She’s smarter than that.”

  After news of the disaster circulated, Augusta was terrified that both Portia and Harold would cry off from their engagements. Augusta had arranged exceptional matches for her children, but they’d delayed their weddings because they’d hated Augusta’s spousal choices.

  Look at the result! The details about Mr. Drummond would spread like wildfire, and people would snicker over their difficulties. Miles and Sophia were about to be jilted. Who would have them once they were beggared?

  “Have I mentioned,” Miles asked, “Drummond’s scheme regarding Portia? It’s hilarious.”

  “What is it?”

  “He claims he’ll propose and marry her himself.” Miles scoffed. “The bloody cur! As if he could lure Portia away from me.”

  Augusta’s head nearly exploded. “Why would he be interested in her?”

  “He was spewing nonsense about taking everything from me. Apparently everything includes my fiancée.”

  “This just gets worse and worse.”

  “Portia would never toss me over for that violent fiend.”

  “You seem dreadfully certain of that.”

  “She wouldn’t. Trust me.” He stood suddenly and started out.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the manor. I have to confer with Drummond.”

  “About Portia?”

  “No. About a game of cards.”

  “Cards!”

  “Yes, Mother. I told you I’ll try to win back the estate.”

  “Miles, don’t you dare. You can’t gamble again.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I have it all under control. I will have retrieved the title to Kirkwood before the sun rises. Just you wait and see.”

  With that boast, he strutted out, and she sat in the dark, moldy parlor, peering out the window to where the chimneys of Kirkwood Manor were visible through the forest. She’d always loathed the place, feeling as if it was beneath her, as if her father should have found her a higher, better situation.

  But now that she’d lost it, she realized how desperately she’d enjoyed being mistress there. How would she ever regain her rightful position?

  She tarried forever, drowning in her miserable contemplation, but ultimately there was motion on the lane leading to the front door. It was Portia, marching toward her like the wrath of God.

  She blanched and wondered if she might be ill all over the tattered rug.

  Kit dawdled in the woods, staring across the park at Kirkwood Manor. It was a splendid property, with its fountains and groomed trails, cut grass and manicured flowerbeds, grey bricks and sparkling windows. It could have been a magical castle in a children’s story, the sort of spot where a prince and princess might live happily ever after.

  Damian had always insisted he’d own it someday. In the horrid years when they’d been sentenced to hard labor, Damian had been a brooding, silent boy. If he’d bothered to speak at all, he would talk about Kirkwood, how beautiful it was, how he’d eventually wreak vengeance on everyone.

  Kit had never believed Damian. His tales had sounded like the blathering of a lonely orphan, but Kit shouldn’t have doubted his friend. Damian always managed to achieve whatever goal he set for himself.

  He’d certainly kept Kit safe—well as safe as a boy could be under such trying circumstances.

  For reasons Kit had never understood, Damian had protected and watched over him. He’d dealt with bullies and deflected the rage of the worst guards. Kit owed Damian so much, and he was thrilled that when Damian had finally come back to England, he’d wanted Kit to join him.

  Kit had returned much earlier than Damian. He’d had his own orphan’s dream, namely that he could find his siblings, but it had been impossible. When their mother had died, their small family had been split apart. He was supposed to have gone to live with a relative, and though he’d been very young and didn’t recall how or why it had transpired, he’d ended up a homeless waif instead.

  It was silly and naïve for him to assume he could have located his siblings, but it hadn’t stopped him from hoping. He was an optimist that way, and he still expected he’d succeed in his quest.

  He spun away from the manor and walked farther into the woods. He was waiting for Sophia Marshall. She’d left to visit her fiancé, Mr. Bean. She was likely apprising him of what had happened to Miles, and Kit would have loved to be a mouse in the corner when that news spilled out. He was a great judge of character, and he didn’t imagine Mr. Bean would continue his betrothal to Sophia.

  She really ought to have been more circumspect, but then Damian’s s
eizure of Kirkwood wasn’t exactly a secret.

  Kit had reviewed the estate books. She probably presumed she had a dowry and could use it to convince Mr. Bean to wed immediately and rescue her from the tragedy. Unfortunately her brother had already spent the money so she had no funds to offer to Mr. Bean that would encourage him to proceed a little faster.

  She wasn’t much of a catch now, and she was definitely in a pickle—though she didn’t realize how bad it was yet. She was snooty and condescending and pictured herself as being very grand, but she wasn’t rich or entitled any longer so she had few options. If she was scared, if she was anxious, she might make choices she wouldn’t normally make, and Kit was happy to steer her in a different direction—that being in his direction.

  He followed the cleared path, and before too many minutes had passed, he saw buildings through the trees. He went over to a fallen log and sat down. She’d been away for nearly two hours, and he figured she wouldn’t be able to stomach Mr. Bean’s company much more than that.

  Shortly he noted her coming, and she trudged slowly, lost in thought, so she didn’t notice him. She was about to head on by when he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Marshall. Fancy meeting you here.”

  She jumped a foot. “Mr. Roxbury? Why are you loitering in the forest?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “You scared the life out of me.”

  “Sorry.”

  He wasn’t actually. He liked her to be discomposed. She was entirely too conceited, and he’d enjoy bringing her down a peg.

  “How’d it go with Mr. Bean?” he asked. “How did he and his mother take the news?”

  She scowled, pretending to be confused as to what he referred. “What are you talking about?”

  Kit pushed himself to his feet. “Do they know you’re beggared? Do they know your brother has squandered every last penny?”

  “Honestly! You are the rudest man.”

  “You don’t have to share any details. I’m fully cognizant of the state of your affairs.” He marched over to her. “What have they advised?”

  “If I thought it was any of your business—which I don’t—I’d tell you that I have their greatest sympathies.”