by Cheryl Holt
“Aren’t we a pair?” she mockingly crooned.
“But mostly, this is an issue between Miles and myself. It doesn’t concern you at all so I won’t waste my time explaining.”
“With me being a woman, I’m certain it would be too, too complex for me to comprehend the details.”
“Yes, I’m certain it would be.”
His expression was so annoyingly smug that she was once again thinking about marching around the desk and slapping him.
They engaged in a staring match she could never win. She’d like to demand he produce documents to show what had transpired, but he’d just admitted he thought her a flighty nuisance, and since Miles was the actual owner of Kirkwood, she wasn’t sure of her authority to intervene or make him depart.
Had she any authority? If so, how much and how was she to exercise it? She was positive he wouldn’t budge unless he felt like it.
“It seems were at an impasse, Mr. Drummond.”
He frowned. “No, we’re not. This doesn’t concern you. My men will be taking control of the property today. If you want to be helpful, you can apprise the servants of what’s occurring so we have a smooth transition. I won’t have them attempting to thwart or obstruct us.”
“Heaven forbid someone obstruct you.”
“Yes, heaven forbid. Is Augusta here?”
“Yes.”
“You can speak to her for me as well. I’d rather not meet with the insulting witch if I don’t have to.”
“I’m not your clerk or secretary,” she huffed. “Don’t throw petty chores at me and expect me to handle them.”
“So don’t handle them. I couldn’t care less if Augusta Marshall is notified of my plans or not. Tell her or don’t. It matters not to me.”
They engaged in a second staring match, and clearly he was much more obstinate than Miles. Considering Miles penchant for avarice and vice, his insistence that no one could rein in his worst tendencies, that was really saying something.
“Mr. Drummond! You can’t just swoop in and take over.”
“Miss Fogarty, I already have.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
He waved her away. “You’re being ridiculous. Would you go?”
“I have to talk to Miles. Before you seize another ledger, I have to talk to him.”
“Talk to him if you must. Again Miss Fogarty, it matters not to me.”
He stood and rounded the desk, approaching until he was so close the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. His leg was pressed to her own.
It was a shocking proximity. In her twenty-five years of living, she’d only been close to a man on one prior occasion. That was at age nineteen when she’d had a beau for a few months. No genuine affection had developed though, because he’d grown enamored of a cousin who’d inherited some money.
Georgina had never had any money, and she hadn’t been angry or saddened by his fickle change of heart. It had been perfectly logical for him to have picked another.
If she’d suffered any heightened feeling at all, it was the confirmation yet again that the world wasn’t fair. She should have had a big fat dowry, but her mother’s disgraceful behavior—falling in love and eloping with a lowly soldier—had gotten her disowned and disinherited. The sins of the mother had been visited on the daughter.
Georgina was the poor relative, existing on her aunt’s charity, and she’d never be anything else. She still vividly recollected that beau, but she didn’t recollect that he’d ever stirred any emotion.
Mr. Drummond, on the other hand, practically lit the air on fire with his presence. He was all virile muscle and masculine size. The room was small, and he simply took up too much space in it. There seemed to be sparks shooting from him to her, as if they created a strange kind of energy.
She was confounded by the sensation, and she wanted to step away, but she recognized that he was trying to intimidate her, and she wasn’t about to let him. She wasn’t afraid of any man, and she wasn’t afraid of him. He could bluster and preen, but he would never scare her.
“Where is Miles?” he asked again.
“I assume he’s in London.”
He searched her eyes for the truth, and she was telling it. She had no idea where Miles was but hoped he’d return for the party.
Mr. Drummond nodded, her gaze apparently revealing the answer he sought. “All right. He’s probably in London.”
“Can you read my mind?”
“Your face is an open book. Don’t ever gamble with me. You’d lose.”
“Believe me, I will never gamble with you.”
“Good. Lambs shouldn’t play with wolves.”
He spun and started out, and she nearly asked where he was going, what havoc he would wreak next. She was mystified as to how she should proceed. She had to alert Augusta of course, and she had to get word to Miles. Yet when she deigned to speak, the comment that emerged was, “We’re having our party tonight.”
He glanced at her. “Yes, you are, Miss Fogarty.”
“Am I to cancel it or what?”
“Why would I care about your paltry party?”
“So…we can have it?”
“Have it or don’t. Your choice is irrelevant. And if you hear from Miles, tell him I’m back. Tell him I’m waiting for him.”
He looked so cold and determined that a shiver of dread slithered down her spine. For just that second, his hatred of Miles was so evident that she wondered if Miles’s life might be in danger, but she shook off the disturbing thought. This was safe, boring, rural England. Men didn’t murder one another. There was never an issue sufficient to arouse that sort of ire.
“I’ll tell him—if I see him,” she said.
“You do that,” he replied, then he was gone.
She stumbled over to her chair and sank down, reclaiming it for her own.
“Aunt Augusta!” Georgina burst into her aunt’s bedroom suite without knocking. “Augusta! Are you here?”
“Yes, yes, Georgina,” Augusta called as she marched out to the sitting room. “Must you always enter like a berserker?”
“In this situation? Yes.”
“You’re in a dither, and it’s unseemly. Calm yourself this instant.”
Georgina could barely keep from rolling her eyes. She’d never gotten along with Augusta and didn’t understand why. As opposed to Sophia, who was spoiled and horrid, Georgina had been the most docile, obedient child in history. She’d never protested the disparate treatment inflicted on her, had never whined or demanded she be given more than what Augusta had stooped to bestow.
Augusta was simply fussy and unhappy, and her body matched her dour personality. She was brittle, folded in on herself, short and thin as a rail. Her hair was gray, her face lined with wrinkles.
She felt that rules and decorum were extremely important, and because she was typically British she viewed the world as being very stratified. She believed an individual belonged in a certain spot and couldn’t shed their skin or move away from where they were destined to be.
When Georgina’s mother had eloped with Georgina’s father, she’d grievously sinned so Augusta expected that Georgina would ultimately end up a sinner too. If Georgina had a single complaint about her years at Kirkwood, it was the number of lectures she’d endured as to the low character she’d inherited.
Her mother had lived until Georgina was six and she had several clear memories of her. She’d seemed pretty and kind, but a tad lost and confused. Georgina didn’t recall any bad traits, but then she’d been so young. If low character had been evident, she might have missed it.
She never said as much though. She meekly listened to every slur against her parents. She’d never once been disrespectful or mentioned the rumor a housemaid had once whispered that Augusta hated Georgina because she was so jealous of Georgina’s mother. Georgina’s father had been a dashing soldier and handsome rogue who’d swept through the neighborhood and charmed all the girls.
; Apparently Augusta had loved him first and most, but Georgina’s mother had snagged him before Augusta could. Georgina couldn’t guess if the story was true, but if there was a bit of jealousy buried at the bottom of Augusta’s dislike, it would provide an explanation as to why she’d been so awful.
Perhaps every time Augusta looked at Georgina, she recollected that debonair soldier and how she hadn’t been woman enough to win him for her own. She’d wound up with stodgy, boring Edward instead.
“We have a problem, Aunt Augusta,” Georgina said.
“What sort of problem? It had better be worth your barging in and raising a ruckus.”
“It is.”
Augusta huffed out an exasperated breath, and like a regal queen, she glided over to a chair by the hearth. She motioned for Georgina to take the other chair.
“What is it?” Augusta asked. “Have pity on me and be brief. We have the party tonight, and you know how I loathe having guests. I need to get ready.”
Augusta didn’t like people visiting, didn’t like entertaining. But Miles and Sophia reveled in it, and since they lorded themselves over her, and she’d never had the temerity to quell their worst impulses, she never refused them.
On this occasion, they’d been allowed to host an annual celebration they couldn’t afford.
“Have you talked to the butler?” Georgina asked.
“Not lately.”
“Then you haven’t heard who arrived.”
“Is it Miles? Is he finally home?”
“No, Aunt Augusta. It’s a man named Damian Drummond.”
Augusta scowled. “Drummond, you say. Damian Drummond?”
“Yes. Do you remember him?”
“I could hardly forget. His grandfather, Walter, was our estate agent, and Damian was his grandson. Walter wasn’t so bad, but Damian was a liar and troublemaker. Edward ran them off because of it.”
“Well, he’s back.”
Augusta scoffed. “I don’t see how he could be.”
“Why?”
“I have it on good authority that he died in London shortly after he left us.”
“Who told you that?”
Augusta pondered, then shrugged. “It all happened decades ago. I don’t recollect, but if it is Damian he has an incredible amount of gall to show his face here. What can he want with us?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Just tell me.”
“He insists he owns Kirkwood now.”
“Owns…Kirkwood? That’s the most patently ridiculous statement you’ve ever uttered. Miles owns Kirkwood, and it’s not debatable.”
“Mr. Drummond claims Miles is deeply in debt, and he bought up all of Miles’s promissory notes. He foreclosed.”
“Foreclosed? What does that mean?”
“It means he’s taking possession of his property.”
“You believed him?”
“I can’t decide what I believe, Augusta. I’m merely informing you of what he said.”
They stared, and Georgina could practically see the wheels turning in her aunt’s head as she formulated replies that would paint Miles in the best light and prove that Mr. Drummond was fabricating a fairytale.
“Do you know where Miles is?” Georgina asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure? We have to warn him, but maybe he shouldn’t come home at the moment.”
“Why shouldn’t he? There’s an interloper here, and Miles must deal with him.”
“Mr. Drummond had a message for him. He wants us to tell Miles he’s waiting for him—as if he’s prepared to get even for some transgression.”
Augusta’s eyes widened with dismay, and Georgina was certain that her aunt was about to lie on Miles’s behalf.
“What was he talking about, Augusta?”
“How would I know? He sounds like a raving lunatic. Why did the butler let him slither in? Why wasn’t the door slammed in his face?”
“He simply blustered in. We couldn’t stop him. What should we do?”
“We can’t do anything. We’re a bunch of weak females. Hurry downstairs and have the butler summon several footmen to toss the ingrate out into the yard.”
Georgina pictured Mr. Drummond, how commanding he was, how powerful and imposing. “They won’t be able to toss him anywhere.”
“Balderdash. It will be one against dozens.”
“He brought an army of clerks and guards with him. The footmen wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Then…then…we’ll write letters to men who can aid us.” Augusta rose and went to her desk to compose a list of influential persons.
“I should contact all of them?” Georgina said.
“Yes. We may not be rid of him tonight, but I’m betting he’ll be in jail by tomorrow morning.”
“On what charge?”
“False impersonation? Lying? Harassing innocent women?” Augusta pointed to the door. “Go, Georgina! Send the letters at once.”
Georgina studied her aunt, desperate to be clearer, to more fully explain Mr. Drummond and the type of man he was. She was suffering from the sinking sensation that life at Kirkwood would never be the same.
But Augusta always assumed she could wend matters around to her way of thinking. She wished Mr. Drummond would depart so she didn’t doubt that he would.
Georgina sighed with frustration. “If you know where Miles is, Augusta, you should write to him. Even if he’s too cowardly to return and face Mr. Drummond, he must be apprised of what’s occurring.”
“Miles has never been a coward! How dare you say so.”
“Write to him, Augusta. Get him here immediately.”
CHAPTER THREE
It’s a beautiful place.”
Damian gazed over at his friend, Christopher “Kit” Roxbury. “I told you it was.”
“You are a renowned liar though,” Kit retorted. “I didn’t believe you.”
Damian snorted at that. They were out on the verandah behind the manor, sipping a whiskey and surveying Damian’s new domain. It was late in the afternoon, and the party was about to start so servants were rushing about with final preparations.
There was an enormous amount of confusion among them as to what was happening and if he really was who he said he was. They eyed him either suspiciously or curiously, but no one had dared approach and ask questions.
He’d seen Miss Fogarty flit by a few times, with people constantly inquiring if they should proceed, to which she’d kept replying yes. He and Kit were lurking, glowering, making everyone nervous, and it delighted him very much.
Kirkwood was his. About that fact, he hadn’t been lying.
“You should have believed me,” he said to Kit. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for a hovel.”
“I disagree. You’re so vain you’d likely chase after any decrepit property if you craved it badly enough.” Kit reached over and clinked their glasses together in a toast. “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“For finally getting what you always wanted. Or maybe it’s what you always deserved.”
“What I deserve? Is there an insult in there somewhere?”
“Absolutely.” Kit grinned. “Now that your dream has come true—you own Kirkwood—are you happy?”
“Not yet,” Damian dourly responded.
“When will you be?”
“After I take every last thing from Miles—as he took everything from me.”
“Kirkwood is yours—every blade of grass, every brick, every board, every speck of dirt in the fields. What else could you possibly take from him?”
“You might be surprised,” Damian said.
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve known you a long time, remember?”
“Yes, I remember.”
They’d met on the streets of London where they’d supported themselves by working as pickpockets for his boss and mentor who’d called himself Michael Scott, but who’d discovered as an adult that he was actually Michael Blair. Kit was a d
ecent, honorable man and had been a decent, honorable boy. He’d hated their illegal behavior, but it had kept them from starving.
Of course they’d eventually been arrested. They’d expected a slap on the wrist, perhaps some months in jail, which they wouldn’t have minded. They’d have been fed, clothed, and had a roof over their heads during their incarceration. But their judge had been grumpy and cantankerous and overly sensitive to the offense they’d committed.
They’d been ruled incorrigibles—a designation that enhanced their punishment—and sentenced to seven years hard labor in the penal colonies in Australia. Damian still chafed at the harsh penalty he’d received, at the unfairness of it. Yet by then, he’d grown tough and dangerous, his penchant for violence so deeply ingrained that it seemed drilled into his bones.
Kit though had been small, slight, and terrified. Damian had protected and watched over him so he hadn’t suffered the atrocities Damian had suffered. Damian had come through the ordeal a cynical, unrepentant villain.
Kit in contrast was quite an optimist. It hadn’t been drummed out of him. Throughout their tribulations, he’d assumed he could rebuild in the future, that good could triumph over evil. When his prison term had ended, he’d saved his money and sailed home on the first ship he could. He’d traveled to London to find his lost siblings, but it had been a futile quest.
They were either deceased or scattered to the four winds, and he was still an optimist.
Damian had stayed in Australia for years, partially to guard his friend Anne Blair, who’d been serving one of the few life sentences in the colony. She’d been the only person with whom he’d bonded besides Kit. She’d mothered and helped him when he’d needed it most so he’d remained behind for her. But he’d also had to remain because he’d had extra time added on for bad behavior.
Botany Bay had been a wicked, dangerous place, and he’d never been able to meekly accept the injustices that were routinely inflicted on those who were too weak to fight back. He’d been a horrific, disrespectful prisoner who was constantly in trouble, but during the lengthy hiatus, he’d honed his criminal skills and ultimately become disgustingly wealthy in the process.