Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5)

by Cheryl Holt

  Hers was a very lonely, very solitary existence. No one ever fretted over her. No one ever asked how she was faring. The notion that he was out there, that he’d bothered over her, was inordinately thrilling.

  She grinned and hurried on, for once not concerned in the least over how—should she be accosted by Aunt Augusta—she’d explain her wet clothes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I met a man on the way home.”

  “A man. My goodness.”

  Georgina was in Sophia’s bedchamber, watching her primp and preen in front of her mirror. Georgina didn’t have a horde of female friends to compare her to, but she was quite sure Sophia spent more time admiring herself than any woman in the kingdom.

  She was very beautiful, tall and willowy, with vibrant blond hair and expressive blue eyes. But while she was gorgeous on the outside, she was an empty shell on the inside. Vain, flighty, spoiled. There weren’t enough negative adjectives to describe her, and while Georgina was only five years older—twenty-five to Sophia’s twenty—she often felt decades older.

  “Was he handsome?” Sophia asked.

  “Very.”

  “If you’re willing to say he was very handsome, he must have looked like a Greek god.”

  “Yes, but a dark, dangerous one. I don’t remember my ancient mythology, but he’d have been one of those that climbed out of the underworld to wreak havoc.”

  “A mysterious stranger. How thrilling.”

  “Yes, it was very thrilling. Considering how tedious my life is, it’s the most exciting thing to happen to me in ages.” Casually she added, “I invited him to the party.”

  Sophia whipped around. “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Sophia was stunned. “And you invited him anyway?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if he’s…common.”

  “I wouldn’t describe him as common.”

  “But…we don’t know a single fact about him.”

  “No, we don’t, which is exactly what fascinated me. Don’t you ever get bored with our humdrum existence? Wouldn’t it be fun to have a new and interesting acquaintance?”

  “Yes, of course, but a stranger!”

  “He certainly is.”

  “Mother will have a fit.”

  “Yes, she will.”

  Georgina couldn’t figure out why she was behaving so rashly. Normally she was placid and amenable, but she was aggravated by her Aunt Augusta insisting they proceed with the party, by Miles refusing to apprise her if he’d come from London to attend. In her own small way, she was fighting back.

  They didn’t have the money to host a large gala, didn’t have food in the larder or the staff to serve a multitude of guests, but there was always a huge celebration at Kirkwood the first weekend of July. It commemorated an ancestor’s war daring that had occurred two centuries prior.

  When Georgina had quietly suggested that they not hold the party, she’d been scolded so vehemently that she’d quickly abandoned the notion. And really, how could it matter? They constantly skated on the edge of ruin. One extra fete would hardly be the financial disaster that pushed them into the abyss.

  Though it was surprising to others, she toiled away as the estate agent at Kirkwood, having seized the post for herself after Uncle Edward had died. Miles was so irresponsible, and when the accounts were empty, he never blamed himself. No, he blamed his estate agent.

  In the months after he’d inherited, he’d rushed through a stream of competent men who’d either been fired or quit in exasperation. Word had spread that he was an impossible employer, and ultimately they hadn’t been able to generate any viable candidates to take the job.

  So Georgina had taken it. She was good with numbers, good at supervising people, and she was most especially good at handling Miles, Sophia, and Augusta. She’d had nearly twenty years of practice.

  That didn’t keep Augusta from harping at Georgina, from reminding her that—at any second—Augusta could revoke the charity she’d extended. Georgina usually ignored her, but there were times she wanted to snidely say, I’m leaving. I’ve had it with all of you.

  But she never did—mostly because she had nowhere to go, but also because she didn’t believe she should have to depart.

  Though it was mad to feel aggrieved, Georgina’s mother had been Uncle Edward’s sister. They’d both grown up rich and spoiled, and while her and Sophia’s parents had started at the same spot in life, Sophia was a coddled ingrate and Georgina was an overworked, undervalued nobody.

  It was horridly unfair, but then she’d always thought the world was unfair.

  Despite how Aunt Augusta harangued, Miles was satisfied with Georgina’s management. She’d assumed control of everything so Miles could loaf and play without consequence. She rarely pestered him over any detail, and she lumped along, pretending that the true owner was dead or invisible or that she was the owner.

  She made all the important decisions. Why not act as if she owned the place?

  “Do you suppose this enigmatic fellow will attend?” Sophia asked, yanking her out of her reverie.

  “I hope so.”

  “Why? So you can irritate Mother?”

  “Yes, and because I found him to be incredibly intriguing.”

  “This is someone I absolutely have to meet.”

  Sophia was aware of Georgina’s views on men, and they might have had a lengthy debate about it, but suddenly the butler huffed up the stairs and hurried in without knocking.

  His anxious expression told her that calamity was brewing. She presumed it would be a mishap with party preparations, that wine hadn’t been ordered, or a side of beef hadn’t been butchered.

  “May I speak with you, Miss Georgina?” He struggled to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

  “Certainly.”

  “We’re having a bit of an…issue.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but could you come now?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Duty calls, Georgie.” Sophia waved her away.

  “We’ll talk later.”

  “I can’t wait,” Sophia vaguely said, and she’d already turned back to the mirror. She deemed Georgina’s interest in the estate to be vexing and silly.

  Georgina walked out, the butler hot on her heels. They went to the foyer at the main entrance of the house. She figured he’d immediately tell her what was wrong, but instead he dragged her into a parlor where he could close the door and they could converse in private.

  This was bad. This was very, very bad. There were no secrets at Kirkwood. The servants knew about Miles’s foibles and troubles, knew about the poor fiscal condition. What had he done now? It was the only thing she could think of that would be sufficiently hideous that it couldn’t be discussed aloud.

  “What it is?” she asked. “You’re scaring me.”

  “We have a problem.” He drew out a kerchief and mopped his brow.

  “What sort of problem?”

  “There’s a man in the estate office.”

  “He’s in my office?”

  “Yes, and he’s made himself at home. Actually he’s more than made himself at home. He’s confiscated the account ledgers.”

  “He what?”

  “He brought an army of clerks and guards with him. They’re packing up all the records.”

  “Of all the nerve!” She scowled. “Who is he? Has he introduced himself?”

  “He’s Damian Drummond—but all grown up.”

  “Who is Damian Drummond?”

  The butler studied her, then shrugged. “I doubt you’d have heard of him. It all happened a long time ago, and after he and his grandfather fled, Master Edward wouldn’t let anyone mention his name.”

  “What happened long ago?”

  “Were you ever told stories about old Walter Drummond?”

  “No.�
��

  “He was our estate agent. He…left before you ever came to Kirkwood.” When he uttered the word left, he had a pained look on his face.

  “He left?”

  After a great deal of hemming and hawing, he finally said, “He was fired, Miss Georgina.”

  “By Uncle Edward?”

  “Yes. It was all rather sudden. There was an…ah…incident with Master Miles.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” she grumbled.

  “Miles was accused of engaging in some dangerous mischief, and young Damian witnessed it. He confessed to what he’d observed, but Miles insisted Damian was lying, and your uncle took his side.”

  “He always did—no matter what.”

  “Walter and his grandson, Damian, were forced off the property with pretty much just the clothes on their backs. It was all very disturbing. They’d lived here for decades, and Walter was liked and respected, then he was let go without notice or reference.”

  “I see…”

  No one was ever allowed to tell the truth about Miles. He was corrupt, greedy, and lazy, but he felt so entitled and important. He wallowed in iniquity and couldn’t be stopped from proceeding with any folly.

  “What became of the Drummonds after they departed?” she asked.

  “They went to London to stay with relatives, but there wasn’t a speck of news about them after that.”

  “Damian Drummond is the grandson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is he boxing up our records?”

  “He claims they’re his records now. He claims he owns Kirkwood.”

  Her breath hitched in her chest. “He…owns Kirkwood?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “It can’t be true. Can…it?”

  They stared, a thousand unspoken thoughts flitting between them. They never knew what Miles did when he was in the city, except that he gambled for outrageous amounts. Most of Georgina’s time and energy were expended in finding ways to keep everyone fed and sheltered and the servants paid, despite how Miles had ruined their finances.

  Every person who relied on Kirkwood for their livelihood was aware of how reckless Miles could be. Could he have gambled away the estate? Was it possible?

  She wanted to declare that it wasn’t, that she was being ridiculous, but Miles had no moral compass, no brakes to slow him down. He might commit any atrocious deed.

  “Mr. Drummond is in my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to him at once. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  She dashed off, practically running through the halls to the rear of the mansion, to the small office that looked out on the gardens and the working parts of the farm: the barns, fields, orchards, and outbuildings.

  To her dismay, there were several men carrying out boxes, books, and other items. She pulled herself up to her full height of five-foot-five, and though it wasn’t nearly enough to intimidate, she marched into the middle of them.

  “I am Georgina Fogarty. You’ve invaded my private quarters without invitation or permission. Who’s in charge?”

  One of the men gestured inside the room, then stepped back so she could enter. She’d planned to scold and chastise, but when she realized who was seated in the chair at her desk, she stumbled to a halt and all her fancy, reprimanding comments flew out of her head.

  “Hello, Miss Fogarty,” said the man from the stream, calm as you please.

  He was attired all in black as he’d been the prior day, but he’d added a diamond ring on his little finger, and he had a gold earring in his ear, such as a pirate might wear. She’d never seen a man with an earring before, and the sight flummoxed her. He was armed too, the butt of a pistol sticking out of his coat, but she couldn’t imagine why it would be. Kirkwood was not dangerous or roaming with bandits.

  She’d been rendered speechless by him, and she gaped like an imbecile, having to muster all her fortitude to inquire, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m taking possession of my new property.”

  “Your property?”

  “Yes. I have men with me to complete an inventory and control the situation during the transition, but I thought it best to seize the account books immediately.”

  He pointed to a man standing behind him. He was tall and dark-haired, and the two men looked enough alike to be brothers. The main difference was that the other man had blue eyes, and he was very tidy, his hair neatly barbered, his clothes more conventional: white shirt and cravat, blue coat, tan trousers.

  “This is my friend, Mr. Roxbury,” the man said. “He doesn’t mind fussing with numbers so he’ll analyze everything for me.” He smirked. “I hate numbers myself.”

  Mr. Roxbury grabbed a stack of files and started out. Georgina leapt in front of him.

  “Whoa!” she snapped. “Just a minute! Where are you going with those?”

  “I need to review these right away,” Mr. Roxbury said. “The quicker I begin, the quicker I’ll know where we are financially.”

  With that curt explanation, he strolled out, and Georgina was alone with the man at the desk.

  “What’s your name?” she demanded. “Out on the road, you couldn’t be bothered to introduce yourself.”

  “It’s Damian Drummond.”

  “So the butler tells me.”

  “Then why ask? And might I mention I can’t believe that horse’s ass still has his job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He always tippled down in the cellar until he was staggeringly inebriated. I’d have wagered he’d been fired years ago.”

  The butler was rumored to drink to excess, although Georgina had never personally witnessed it. At Mr. Drummond citing it as a flaw, she was unnerved by his apparent in depth knowledge of their private business.

  “He says you claim to have lived at Kirkwood when you were a boy.”

  “I don’t claim to have lived here. I did live here—with my grandfather—out in the estate agent’s cottage.”

  “And now you’re back.”

  “Like a bad rash, and with how my temper is flaring, you hadn’t ought to call me a liar. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Fine. You lived in the estate agent’s cottage with your grandfather. I hardly see how that gives you the right to barge in and take our account ledgers.”

  “I have the right if the ledgers are mine.”

  “You own Kirkwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “The promissory notes were due and owing. Miles couldn’t buy them, but I certainly could.”

  “What promissory notes?” she asked like a dullard, but he didn’t choose to enlighten her.

  “Where is Miles?” he said instead.

  “I have no idea.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “I never expect him.”

  He snorted. “Nothing has changed, has it? He’s still as slothful as ever.”

  She was too loyal to agree, and she was struggling to figure out how best to deal with him. He was bigger, tougher, and convinced of facts Georgina couldn’t begin to imagine. Promissory notes? Due and owing?

  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.”