“Are you honestly standing there, trying to tell me how to run my agency”—she stopped and made a hasty amendment—“how to assist my uncle in running his agency?”
Reed had the nerve to smirk as he crossed his superfluously bulging arms over his chest. “There is no need to pretend, highness. Not with me. We both know whose frivolous endeavor this really is, but that is neither here nor there. I’ve come to leave you with Mr. Finch during your business days until you employ a replacement for him. And if you would prefer to keep the association between us at a minimum, then I suggest you act with haste.”
Only now did she hear voices coming from the little corridor that led to the kitchen—Mrs. Darden’s chatter meeting Mr. Finch’s familiar deep articulation. She could just imagine how Mrs. Darden felt about having an uninvited giant in her domain.
“You have overstepped, Mr. Sterling,” Ainsley said, her words biting sharp. “I am my own lord and master and I’ll not have the likes of you dictate what I should and should not do. You and I are nothing more than enemies. You hold no rights over me or my person.”
“Of that I am fully aware,” he muttered back, a muscle ticking along his jaw. “But just because you are stubborn all the way to your marrow, doesn’t mean that you should also be a fool. Mark my words, Mitchum will return.”
A strangled breath escaped her, a sudden chill creeping through her bones.
“You are resuming your scare tactics as a means of intimidation, I see. How base a creature you are, sir.”
Ainsley felt like a cornered animal. She hated being handled in such a manner. And yet, his warning frightened her and she saw the sense in it. “Very well. Mr. Finch can remain, but only temporarily. The less I have to deal with any reminders of you, the better.”
“In that, we are both in agreement.”
It wasn’t until Reed stormed back toward the kitchens that Ainsley was left feeling weaker. Strange as it was, she almost wished he would stay, because she always felt stronger when they argued.
Chapter 13
“Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
That afternoon Reed stood in the corner of his office, glaring at the stubborn creature on the top shelf of the bookcase. Keeping just out of reach, the cat had wedged herself in between the books, and was methodically pushing them over the edge, one by one.
“That is enough, Cat. Get down from there this instant.”
The miscreant hissed at him and sent another book to the floor.
“You’ve already destroyed the ledger upon my desk. What more could you possibly want?”
And yet, Reed knew the answer.
Ever since the night of her escapade into the townhouse across the street, she’d started scratching him each time he called her Cat as if the name suddenly displeased her. Then he’d made a grievous error. He’d threatened to replace her ungrateful self with a little dog named Seymour if her temper did not improve. And she’d purred instantly.
Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and returned to his desk. “No. I will not give in to your childish tantrum. You will be called Cat and not—”
Another book went sailing, landing with a hard thwack on the wood floor.
“Damn it all. Seymour is not your name.”
An instant later, she leapt down and then climbed onto his lap, nuzzling the underside of his palm with the top of her head.
“You are not Seymour,” he said, though his tone had gentled.
The little manipulator purred in response and began to bathe the tips of his fingers.
Reed expelled a defeated sigh and scratched her tenderly behind the ears. “You have been very naughty today, Seymour.”
“Meow.” Her green eye glinted in triumph before she hopped down, swishing her tail all the way to the door. Just in time for Finch to appear.
“Stay back, you devil’s spawn. I am in no humor to tolerate you today.”
But Seymour went on her way without even pausing to taunt her nemesis. Finch eyed her warily as he shuffled into the room and sank down into one of a pair of claw-footed cigar-brown armchairs.
“You look as though you’ve recently risen from the dead, my friend.”
Finch slid him a rueful glance. “Strange how it might seem that way, considering how I’d only slept a quarter hour when you sent a messenger to my door to have me work like a mule the entire day.”
“Little Sally still cutting that tooth?” Reed asked, choosing to ignore the reference to the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. He needed a break from the constant reminders of Ainsley.
Her agency crowded the view from his windows.
Her scent had lingered on his clothes all day long.
And ever since their collision in the corridor, her soft, supple curves had left an imprint on his body that was driving him mad.
Hell, even his cat wouldn’t let him forget her for a single moment.
“Sally is not as stalwart as her older sister had been.” Finch dragged a hand over the purplish bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But at least we know she has a healthy set of lungs.”
“This week will be different. For the first time in a long while, you’ll share the same sleep schedule with your family. I’ve hired that large fellow we met at the tavern a month past.” When Finch gave him a blank look, Reed supplied, “The one whose father was a tutor, though recently put in debtor’s prison. Anyway, Mr. Pickerington will be watching the door. Temporarily. I sparred with him earlier and, while he has power, he lacks quickness—both in his fists and wits.”
But testing Pickerington wasn’t the only reason Reed sparred with him. He’d needed to expend his energy, to extinguish the heated, tumid tension that Ainsley Bourne had aroused.
“You think I’ll only be across the street a few days, do you?” Finch asked with a dubious chuckle.
Frowning, Reed set aside his ledgers and tapped his index finger on the arm of his chair, settling back against the stiff leather. “It had better be.”
There was too much at stake for him. And that was the main cog in the wheel turning Reed’s foul mood. He was risking his own reputation—and Sterling’s—to ensure that Ainsley was safe from Mitchum. After all, Reed couldn’t always be there. He had a business to run. Yet when he’d offered her the services of his best man, she’d acted as if he was the villain.
He growled, his mood darkening.
“With no clients coming in, I don’t see how they can afford to hire a man. A good butler would require a wage, sleeping quarters, livery, food, and whatnot.”
“Of course, Eggleston can afford to hire one. I’m sure he hasn’t simply because his eldest niece puts up a fuss about having men in the house.”
Finch wore an inscrutable expression. “You seem to hold all the answers. So, I suppose, we’ll just have to see what happens by week’s end.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if your replacement was hired by day’s end,” Reed supplied with certainty. “Other than your erroneous presumptions, how did it go? Did that ill-tempered cook threaten to beat you with her rolling pin?”
“Mrs. Darden and I have come to a better understanding. Since I could reach all the high places without a ladder, she gave me a feather duster and told me to make myself useful instead of standing about.”
“I hope you set her straight.”
“I started to, but then . . . well . . . she handed me a plate of scones and a glass of buttermilk.” Finch lifted his giant hands in a helpless gesture when Reed’s brow furrowed. “What? They were exceptional scones, and she said I could have as many of them as I wished. So I did. By the third plate and a sampling of an absolutely divine marmalade, we fell into amiable conversation. I cannot help it if she appreciates a man with a healthy appetite.”
Reed stood, unable to tamp down an irritation that had nothing to do with the Bourne’s cook. Stalking to the window, he glared across the street. “So now you�
��re butler and maid?”
“Miss Bourne informed me that the other maids had the day off. Eggleston’s valet, Mr. Hatman, seemed to be under the belief that there were no other maids. Though admittedly, he claimed not to spend too much time wandering around because of his rheumatism. According to him, his late father had been the butler at the viscount’s country estate.”
“I don’t give a tinker’s curse about the lineage of Eggleston’s servants.”
Finch closed his eyes, unaffected by the outburst. “I thought you might be interested to know that, until Miss Bourne took over the accounts, the servants weren’t always paid. Apparently Eggleston’s attentions have run more toward romantic ventures rather than to the fact that his land hadn’t been prospering for years.”
Reed held his tongue, refusing to reveal that the information bothered him.
Eggleston should have had a steward look after his estate, not burden his niece. Though learning this made it easier to understand why she was so used to managing things. Why she flatly refused to let anyone else step in. Even when it was for her own good.
“You may not be surprised, but I was,” Finch said. “According to Mrs. Darden, Miss Bourne had only been sixteen years old when she and her sisters had gone to live with their uncle and began the task of running an entire household. I seem to recall you at that age. Your primary concern had not been managing the accounts of an estate, but more in managing the number of women you tupped in a single day.”
Despite his fractious mood, a series of fond memories ran through his mind and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
By sixteen he’d grown considerably. His scrawny body had filled out, lean and hard from his fights at university. Women of all ages and classes were giving him come-hither stares—from dairy maids on neighboring farms to the mothers of the same aristocratic prigs who’d tried to bully him—and he was more than happy to oblige them all. And often.
As a carriage stopped in front of the agency, adorned with the Duke of Rydstrom’s crest, Reed’s attention returned to the matter at hand, and he quickly sobered.
“A girl of sixteen would not have been left the task of managing her uncle’s estate. Mrs. Darden is simply doling out false praise through exaggeration. No doubt, Miss Bourne had been like any other pampered girl at that age, dreaming of finding a husband and having a home of her own.”
“If that’s all she wanted, then why didn’t she marry Mr. Mitchum?”
Why, indeed. Considering how much she valued her reputation and was afraid to have her name sullied, the cause behind ending their betrothal had to have been great enough for her to risk the scandal. Great enough for her to cringe when a man lifted his hand.
“Whatever the reason, the end result is the same—Mitchum does not belong here,” Reed growled. “As I said to you this morning, it was patently clear that she desires no reconciliation with him. But the blackguard will likely press his suit at least once more, until we make certain he understands just how pointless his pursuit would be.”
Finch sat forward, perching his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his professor’s stare as if he were studying a thought-provoking subject. “Why do you suppose him to be a blackguard? Did Miss Bourne mention an incident between them?”
“No. It’s just”—Reed hesitated, not wanting to reveal the whole of his encounters with Ainsley—“an instinct.”
A sly grin alighted on Finch’s mouth. “It is interesting how you frequently view the other men Miss Bourne comes into contact with as despicable. Not only her former betrothed, but I’ve heard you state before that the male clients are all lechers.”
Unamused, Reed crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever notion you have squirreling around in that gargantuan brain of yours, let it drop out your ears like a wasted nutshell.”
“If you insist. But I won’t be the only one who wonders why you have sent your large and imposing friend to guard the door of the very woman who has plagued you since her arrival. A quiet brook of rumors needs only to fall over a few rocks before it turns into a waterfall.”
Reed knew that only too well. When it came to gossip, men were as rapacious as vultures. Sure, they were sly at first, pretending not to listen or to care. Then, all at once, they would circle and swoop down on their prey, devouring it in great chunks.
And the news they currently feasted upon was the speculation of who might be goading Reed into a fight.
He’d already considered this at length. “We shall play it to the advantage of Sterling’s. The story will be that you want me to call out Lord Savage, believing he is behind the recent mischief of handbills and placards. And I fired you because I didn’t want you to lure me back into the ring. In retaliation, you chose to work nearby, in order to taunt me.”
“From what I’ve heard, all it would take to knock you flat is a teapot.”
The blow went straight to Reed’s ego.
“If you so much as repeat that, I will drag you into the ring and knock out the rest of your teeth.”
His friend chuckled. Clearly, he knew the threat was as empty as . . . well . . . a broken teapot.
“Damn it all,” Reed muttered. He would never live this down.
Then Finch stood and his expression sobered as he shuffled to the door. “I know you are always looking to make a fortune, but this is a good deal of trouble to go through simply to keep Sterling’s accounts in the black. Just how far are you willing to take this?”
“I’ll always do whatever it takes to make Sterling’s a success. Legendary.”
“Ah, yes, the ever-imposing legacy you intend to leave behind one day,” Finch said, leveling Reed with an all-too-perceptive look. “You know, there may come a time when you will not be able to put the interest of Sterling’s above everything else.”
Reed opened his mouth to respond, to tell his friend that a man had to seize whatever he could of this life. You never knew when it would be cut short. But Finch was already out the door. So Reed clenched his teeth on his answer, and his gaze shifted to the building across the street.
* * *
Ainsley had forgotten about dinner at the Duchess of Holliford’s this evening.
She stared through the open door of the townhouse to the carriage waiting on the lamplit street. Fear mortared the soles of her slippers to the foyer floor. She didn’t want to leave. There was no telling where Nigel might be.
“We’d best not delay. You know how the duchess feels about dawdlers,” Uncle Ernest said good-humoredly from the door, proffering his arm. Yet, when he looked at Ainsley, the smile he wore faded. “What is it, my dear? Are you unwell?”
Not wanting to worry him, she instantly straightened her shoulders and forced her feet to march forward. “Perfectly hale, just garnering my fortitude for the impending introduction our dear duchess has in store for me.”
“Surely it isn’t as bad as all that? Her Grace only wishes to see you settled and happy like your sisters.” He patted her hand on his sleeve. “I should like to see the same. For you, especially.”
The subtle strain in those last words drew her gaze to his solemn profile as he turned to close the door. He didn’t need to elaborate. She already knew the reason.
It was because of that awful day in Hampshire. Which was the same reason she now held her breath as she scanned past the columns and topiaries, and down both lengths of the pavement. In fact, she didn’t exhale until they reached the carriage and he handed her inside.
“Uncle,” she began as the carriage jolted into motion, “I need to speak with you about a call I received.”
She’d planned to tell him earlier, but shortly after his encounter with Mrs. Teasdale he’d left and hadn’t returned until a little while ago. Though with her sisters around and Mrs. Teasdale lingering upstairs until after Mr. Finch had gone, it was for the best. She didn’t want to involve her sisters. They’d never known of the events that led up to the end of her betrothal to Nigel. They could never find out either
.
The idea of confessing the months of tolerating Nigel’s demeaning comments and bruising grip—always concealed from others—was too humiliating to bear.
She was the strong one in the family. The one that everyone turned to in their time of need. And Ainsley intended to keep it that way. Not even her uncle knew the whole of it. He’d only borne witness to the worst.
Sitting across from him now, she told him about the unexpected visit, keeping her explanation brief. She mentioned only that Nigel had come to London to renew his addresses, and that she’d set him straight on that account.
Uncle Ernest looked toward the carriage window without a word, his aristocratic features stark in the shifting light and shadows.
“I have a friend who keeps a small home in Bath,” he said after a few moments. “Since her husband died, she hasn’t returned and I know the rent would not be overmuch. We could leave by week’s end.”
Ainsley knew that leaving would be her uncle’s solution. Though after having mulled this issue over for hours upon hours, she had decided that she was far safer in London than she had ever been in Hampshire. Quite a strange notion, considering newspaper reports of pickpockets and cutthroats, along with the wastrels leaving the gaming hell at all hours of the night. And yet, she’d never felt threatened to venture outside, despite her close proximity to Sterling’s.
Or perhaps, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, you feel safer because of your proximity to Sterling’s.
She ignored the voice.
Holding herself firm against the sway of the carriage, she said, “I don’t want to run again. Mr. Mitchum could find me in Bath as well. Or Whitcrest, if we lodged with Jacinda and Crispin. Or at any number of Briar and Nicholas’s country estates. No, I think we had best stay here.”
He looked back at her, bafflement marked in the furrows drawing his sandy gray brows together. “Does this have something to do with Mr. Sterling?”
She startled, her heart lurching. “Whyever would you say that?”
The Rogue to Ruin EPB Page 14