The Beleaguered Earl

by Allison Lane

  “You can distribute coal and carry out ashes.”

  He grinned. “Henry is doing that.”

  “Then you can empty chamber pots,” she said maliciously, trying to force him out of the kitchen so she could think. Somehow, he’d closed the distance between them.

  “Wilkins has volunteered for that chore.”

  “Your valet?” What had he done to the poor man to gain such cooperation? “He is even more arrogant than you are.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they escaped her tongue, though valets were notoriously haughty. All humor faded from Merimont’s eyes, leaving them almost bleak.

  Abandoning his attempt to crowd her, he paced to the door and back.

  “This situation is not one any of us would choose, Miss Ashburton. But you cannot do everything yourself. I admit that I’ve never had to perform such chores, but I will do what I can, as will the others. Jeanette is ensconced on a couch in Missy’s room. She is not that badly injured and can help Missy. When I checked your mother, Rose was asleep, so I sent her to bed. Blake will sponge down the fever until Mrs. Tweed awakens.”

  “No!” The protest was out before she could stop it.

  “He will not harm her,” he said quietly, though steel threaded his voice. “Do you want your servants to collapse from exhaustion?”

  “Of course not, but you don’t understand. If Mother finds a man in her bedchamber, she’ll die of shock. She is not fond of men in the best of times and barely tolerates Dr. Jenkins. Seeing a strange lord would send her into hysterics.”

  “So that’s where you learned it,” he said, tossing his jacket onto a chair and rolling up his sleeves.

  “What?”

  “Your fear of men. Don’t deny it,” he continued as she opened her mouth. “I can see it in your eyes. But while a few are dangerous – Dornbras, for example – most are not.”

  “So you say, but I am a better judge of what might harm me, my lord. In my experience, the higher a man’s station, the more likely he is to hurt others, especially females.” She glared from his abandoned coat to his bared forearms.

  “I will never hurt you,” he said, noting her gaze. “But neither do I wish to destroy my coat while cooking breakfast. You obviously have little experience with gentlemen. Do you know any aside from your uncle and Millhouse?”

  “A few, but they are enough to put one off the entire gender. And you know nothing about Mother. Please stay away from her. Even knowing you are in the house would horrify her. Do you wish to prevent her recovery?”

  He frowned. “Why would she react so strongly?” he finally asked.

  “She has suffered greatly at the hands of men. It is not your place to judge her reactions.”

  “Perhaps not, but don’t make the mistake of judging every man by your mother’s experiences.”

  She glared, furious at his self-serving use of facts he did not understand. “Stay away from Mother!” she snapped.

  “Very well. Blake will remain only until Mrs. Tweed awakens, but if you wish to keep us out of her bedchamber, then you must allow me to help here. You cannot expect Mrs. Tweed and Rose to handle all the nursing.”

  He was right, she conceded. Feeding fourteen people would consume most of the day, and she knew better than to ask her own servants to help with more than cleaning. They lacked the strength to lift heavy pots, the coordination to work close to a fire without burning themselves, and the steadiness to handle a knife. “If you insist. But you will regret it. There’s an apron in the pantry.”

  “I don’t need one.” His smile warmed her clear to her toes. “So what is for breakfast?”

  “Ham, which is already sliced.”

  “Do we have eggs to go with it?”

  “Not unless you wish to gather them. I’ve not had time to check the poultry yard.” She enjoyed the horror in his eyes. He must have encountered irate chickens before.

  “What else?”

  “Toast. Can you slice bread?”

  “I can try.” He picked up a knife.

  Within minutes, she was convulsed in laughter.

  “How dare you insult me?” he demanded.

  “Look at the mess you’ve made.” She pointed to the table. Half a loaf of bread had been reduced to crumbs. “How can anyone mangle bread so badly?”

  “It tastes the same.” He popped a chunk in his mouth, then chuckled. “But this knife must be the dullest in Christendom. It’s as well I didn’t use it on Dornbras. It would have bounced off his thick hide.”

  “Don’t blame the knife, my lord. I sharpened it this morning. It is your technique that is wanting.”

  “So show me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “Very well. But you must stir the porridge,” she said, shaking her head. “It cannot be left unattended. Can you manage that?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. Keep it moving,” she ordered, handing him the spoon. “Else you will make lumps.”

  He replaced her at the fireplace, allowing her to examine the remains of the loaf.

  “What a mess,” she grumbled, sweeping the crumbs into a pile. She could put them in a pudding for dinner, but they would be short of toast for breakfast. “You must remain in control if you wish to slice food evenly,” she told Merimont. “Hold the knife straight, with a firm grip on the handle. You allowed it to wander in all directions.” In moments she had cut the remainder of the loaf and was arranging the pieces on the toasting rack.

  “Stirring food is hot work,” Merimont complained.

  “If you had deigned to wear an apron, you could wrap it around your hand to protect against burns. Keep the porridge moving,” she added when he paused.

  “My back hurts. I have to bend forward to reach it.”

  “It is part of the fun of learning a new skill,” she reminded him, positioning the rack near the fire. “No one asked you to help.”

  “Surely there is a more convenient place to hang this pot.”

  “Larger kitchens offer more options, but Redrock has always been small. I could hang the pot higher, but that would leave it too far from the fire to be effective. Of course, you could always install one of those new patent stoves. The chandler bought one a few months ago. His cook has praised it ever since. Pots rest on a flat surface at a convenient height, and the oven can be heated in an hour instead of requiring two days. It needs daily blacking to prevent rust, but he considers that a minor problem.” She adjusted the spit holding the joint for dinner and straightened the drip pan that Merimont had kicked askew.

  “You have flour on your nose,” he said, abandoning his complaints as he reached over to rub it away.

  She jumped. “Pay attention to the porridge,” she grumbled, flipping the toast rack to brown the other side.

  “I am.” His finger traced her ear.

  She reached for a towel as an excuse to evade that pesky finger, made an unnecessary adjustment to the spit, tossed a few more coals on the fire, then carried the toast to the table.

  “I had intended to move into the dower house,” he said, surprising her with the change of subject. “But it seems beyond repair. Watts agrees. The rot is so pervasive, we would have to gut it, yet even the stone walls have problems. The rear is so bowed it should have collapsed by now. How can you claim even two rooms to be usable?”

  “Only for a few days. Does that mean you will move to the White Heron?”

  “No. I will remain here for now.” He gestured with the spoon. “The dower house must come down. It is dangerous. And unless you marry, I will need to replace it.”

  “We’ve already discussed this, my lord. I have no intention of wedding,” she said sharply, though her heart sank. She had thought his sudden warmth was an attempt to seduce her, but he must be trying to drive her into another man’s arms – had someone mentioned Squire Foley’s halfhearted courtship? “Mother will recover soon. Once Missy can travel, I expect you all to leave. If you wish to remain in the area, you must move to the White Heron unti
l the dower house is rebuilt. You have already stayed here longer than is proper.”

  “Rebuilding will take at least a year, so you’d best become accustomed to me.” He held up both hands to halt her protest. “I will not harm your mother, as she will admit once she’s met me. She cannot be as fragile as you claim.”

  She cursed under her breath, barely restraining herself from heaving a lump of bread dough at his head. “Pig-headed fool. He is worse than I thought,” she muttered, seething. “He will push Mother into an early grave, then force me out so he can take my home for himself.”

  He blanched. “You can’t believe that.”

  “Why should I think well of you, my lord? You ignore inconvenient facts and make decisions based solely on your desires. When will you admit the world does not conform to your expectations? The facts are irrefutable, sir. You will not break the lease by forcing me to wed. I don’t care who you bribe to offer for me. I will never marry, and neither rape nor seduction will change my mind. Nothing will induce me to endure what Mother went through.”

  A loud sizzle interrupted his response. “What the—” He stared in amazement as porridge boiled in a seemingly endless stream down the sides of the kettle and onto— “My boots!”

  Hope swore. Grabbing the spoon from his hand, she jerked the pot away from the fire. Fanning and stirring soon soothed the remaining porridge into submission, but not before half of it was lost.

  “What happened?” he demanded, scrubbing at his boots with her best towel.

  “You stopped stirring. I told you to keep it moving,” she snapped, mentally cursing. Breakfast would be skimpy indeed. Little toast. Less porridge. “You’d better gather some eggs,” she muttered, then jumped when she realized what she’d said. “No, don’t. You’d break most of them and probably scare the hens into refusing to lay.”

  “There goes that razor tongue.”

  “You deserve a scold.” She glared at him as flames licked at the spilled porridge, pouring smoke and the stench of charred oats into the kitchen. “If you help any more, we will all starve.”

  His eyes moved from the pile of crumbs to the blackened mess in the fireplace. An unexpected chuckle burst from his throat. “I can’t believe one person could do so much damage in so short a time.”

  “You are a man,” she said darkly, though she could feel a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You can’t keep more than one thought in your head at a time.”

  His laughter increased. She thought she heard lead me a merry dance, but the words were too distorted to be sure. And his laughter was contagious. Before she knew it, she was chuckling with him.

  “Egad, what a mess,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “Dare I offer to clean it up?”

  “I think not. You would doubtless fall into the fire, and then I’d have another patient to nurse.”

  But he wasn’t listening. Already, he was scraping away at the hearth.

  Shrugging, she dumped the bread crumbs into the porridge and added several chopped apples. Slicing cold mutton to go with the ham, she retrieved a tart she’d planned to use for dinner and decided there was enough to feed this odd collection of guests.

  Leaving Merimont to do as he wished, she carried the meal into the servants’ hall, then filled her mother’s bowl with broth that had remained safe in the warming box and made her way upstairs.

  * * * *

  Max frowned as he drove toward town. So far his efforts to earn Hope’s regard had been a disaster. She didn’t believe anything he said, was clearly suspicious of his motives, and wanted nothing to do with him. So how was he to win her hand? He’d never before met any female who went out of her way to avoid him and made him feel like a bungling fool in the process.

  Her interpretation of his flirtation had seemed outrageous until he reread the lease. Then he cursed himself. He’d only noted Mrs. Ashburton’s rights the first time, but Hope must know that her mother’s chances of surviving an inflammation of the lungs were slim. Her own claims to Redrock disappeared upon marriage. Obviously she expected him to force her onto the first man he could find.

  “Absurd,” he mumbled. Even if he had no obligation to wed her himself, he would never have considered doing so. While it was true that he’d intended to introduce her to society, he had not expected that to affect her rights to Redrock House.

  But her fear of marriage went beyond the question of Redrock and her income. He could still hear her voice – endure what Mother went through. She hadn’t explained, nor had she spoken about her family’s past. It was something he must investigate, for he suspected that it held the key to understanding her. Her mother feared men and had taught her to do the same. Until he knew why, he could not prove she was wrong.

  In the meantime, he must win her friendship, kindle at least a little interest in more, and help with the work until the London servants arrived, though he had to admit that his efforts to date had been less than useful.

  A grin tugged the corners of his mouth over the breakfast debacle. If anyone had suggested that he could be amused by his own ineptitude, he would have called them out. But this was too ridiculous for words. How had he bungled something that looked so easy?

  The mess had been surprisingly difficult to put right – leaving him reluctant to ever consume porridge again. What must such horrible stuff do to his innards? By the time he started scraping it up, it had become a gluey mass that stuck to the hearth stones tighter than mortar. In fact, if the dower house had been constructed of burnt porridge, its walls would never tumble down.

  His boots were ruined. Leather did not tolerate being doused in boiling porridge, then scraped bare. No amount of polish would restore the finish. He cursed, though he had learned an important lesson from the incident. If he ever ventured into a kitchen again, he would not go near a porridge pot.

  Pulling up in front of the apothecary shop, he consigned his team to Hope’s groom, Ned.

  He had volunteered to replenish Hope’s supply of herbs, but his real reason for visiting the village was to learn more about Mrs. Ashburton. The garrulous apothecary seemed a good place to start.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Mr. Winters, his curiosity obvious as Max strode through the door.

  “I am Lord Merimont, new owner of Redrock House.” He extended his card.

  “My lord.” His eyes brightened.

  “I stopped at the manor this morning,” he said carefully. “Mrs. Ashburton’s condition has improved somewhat, though she remains feverish.”

  “I heard Dr. Jenkins called on her two days ago.”

  “So I understand.” He lowered his voice as if sharing secrets. “He advised that she be told of the change in ownership, since she has never liked Ashburton.”

  “Few people do,” said Winters. “I’ve never heard him say a word in favor of either mother or daughter. You’ve no idea what they’ve had to endure, for all he’s a lord. You must have seen what he did to Redrock.”

  “Why would anyone behave so recklessly?”

  “He’s a bad one,” muttered Winters. “Like his brother, by all accounts.”

  “Did you know the brother?”

  “I was but a lad when he arrived, apprenticed to my uncle in Portsmouth. Da hated the man. Never explained why, though, other than to mutter about arrogant lords.” His eyes sharpened with curiosity.

  “Ah, well, such ancient history hardly matters,” said Max, abandoning the topic before Winters decided his interest was too intense. “Mrs. Ashburton needs headache powders, willow bark, and lavender.”

  “You spoke with her?” Though he was reaching down the herbs from a shelf, his attention remained focused on his customer.

  “With the housekeeper. It would be highly improper to visit the sickroom,” said Max repressively.

  “Then why call at the manor?”

  “To let them know that I will be gone for a few days.” He’d decided that removing himself from the manor – at least in the public eye – would be nec
essary. Convincing Hope to accept him would take longer than he’d expected. Neither of them needed callers just now. “Since I had to come into the village myself, I offered to stop here and save them a trip.”

  “Of course.”

  Max could see new questions hovering on the man’s lips, but he gave him no chance to ask them. Collecting his purchases, he bade him good day and left.

  So Hope’s father had been a bad one, hated by the local merchants – not that the information would do him much good. Hatred could merely mean that the man neglected to pay his accounts on time – a likelihood if the quip about arrogant lords meant anything. Comparing him to the current Ashburton added nothing to his knowledge, for he did not know much about that man, either.

  Similar visits to the butcher, the chandler, and the coal merchant elicited nothing useful, though the collier recalled Hope’s father as a well-spoken man who enjoyed hunting. But since he also described the current Ashburton as likable, Max had to question his judgment.

  He was leaving the lending library when a young lady nearly ran him down. An enormous bonnet framed dull brown curls, distracting the eye from a walking dress embellished by enough ruffles and ribbons for three gowns. He doubted she was a day over seventeen.

  “Lord Merimont,” she squeaked, clutching her hands to her throat. The gesture clearly rose from surprise rather than fright, for she batted her lashes and smiled. “Welcome to Devonshire, my lord, though it was quite naughty of you to keep your arrival so quiet. I only heard about it this morning. Mama will insist that you dine with us. She was so disappointed that prior commitments kept you from our table in London. How long will you be staying?”

  Warning bells pealed in his head. She was like a hundred other chits who aspired to become Marchioness of Montcalm. “My business is already complete,” he said coolly, backing a step as if to better examine her. For once, he wished he carried a quizzing glass. It was a marvelous tool for depressing pretensions. “I fear I do not recall your name.”

  “Miss Agnes Porter, as I told you at Lady Marchbanks’s rout,” she said, dimpling. “Your compliments were quite delightful, though Mama considered them a trifle warm for propriety – Papa would have discussed that with you if we had not been called home unexpectedly.” She had again moved close enough that he could count every thread on her gown. It was time to put a stop to her fantasies.