Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5)

by Cheryl Holt

  Kit’s rehabilitation could mostly be deemed a success, but not Damian’s. Society’s attempts to mold Damian into a model citizen at the colony had been a tremendous failure. He’d developed no admirable traits, unless the ability to rob, murder, swindle, and betray were viewed as admirable.

  He’d returned to England a corrupt and treacherous individual. He was amoral and perfidious. He’d survived his many torments by imagining how he’d make Edward and Miles Marshall pay for what they’d done to his grandfather.

  His only regret was that Edward had died before Damian could get any revenge against him. But he’d extract a bit extra from Miles. Miles was more spoiled anyway. Miles would feel the slings and arrows more intensely.

  “Have you looked at any of the ledgers?” Damian asked.

  “I’m not an accountant, Damian.”

  “I realize that, but you can add a column of numbers.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “And…?”

  “The whole property is a hail storm away from bankruptcy.”

  “I presumed as much.”

  “I don’t know how Miles staved it off this long.”

  “He’s a talker and a weasel. I’m certain his creditors simply put up with him, and none of them was as obsessed with seizing Kirkwood as I was.”

  Once he’d arrived in London, he’d had investigators assess Mile’s finances, then buy up his debt. Damian owned it all, and his lawyers had served Miles with all sorts of notices to appear in court, to defend himself, but he hadn’t shown up a single time, and Damian wasn’t surprised.

  Miles was an idiot. It would never occur to him that judgment could be entered without his uttering a word. And actually Damian was glad it had happened the way it had. He hadn’t had to deal with Miles in a civilized courtroom.

  He would deal with him at Kirkwood, and it would make Damian’s revenge all the sweeter.

  “What is Mrs. Marshall’s name?” Kit asked.

  “Augusta.”

  “I’m amazed that she hasn’t accosted you.”

  “I’m not. She’d be too afraid to confront me. She probably spent the afternoon sending frantic messages to Miles to get his butt home.”

  “Will he?”

  “Sooner or later.”

  “But you’re not murdering him,” Kit firmly stated. “You promised, and I need you to promise again, or I’m leaving. I won’t help you kill him.”

  “I won’t kill him.” Damian stared across the park, studiously avoiding Kit’s gaze. “It’s not why you’re here. You’re here to guard my back. Not to participate in a homicide.”

  Kit snorted with derision. “Look at me.”

  Damian turned so they were face to face. “What?”

  “You’re not killing him!”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Tell me you won’t, or I’ll depart right now. I’m serious, Damian.”

  Damian sighed. “I won’t kill him.”

  “Swear.”

  “I swear.”

  Kit scoffed. “As if your vow is worth a farthing.”

  Damian shrugged. “I swear I’ll try not to kill him.”

  “That’s something I suppose,” Kit grumbled.

  Damian couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t murder Miles. Usually he wanted Miles alive and suffering until he understood that it would never end. It’s what he wanted most of the time. The rest of the time, he simply wanted Miles dead and buried in a shallow grave.

  Damian had proved too often that people shouldn’t cross him. Miles had been the first to get away with it, but back then Damian had been a naïve, foolish child. He wasn’t anymore.

  “Will you attend the party?” Damian asked Kit.

  “Probably. Unless you have some reason I shouldn’t. May I fraternize with the natives?”

  “Yes, as long as you’re not too friendly.”

  “No chance of that.”

  “Then have fun. Dance until your boots fall off.”

  “Since you’ve encouraged me to join in, I guess I’ll have to.” Damian started off, and Kit asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To chat with Miss Fogarty. I have to be sure she hasn’t told the cook to poison our supper.”

  “She isn’t the type who’d be that vicious.”

  “I’m betting she’s a fast learner though.”

  “Don’t scare her,” Kit said.

  “I couldn’t possibly. She’s made of sterner stuff than you imagine.”

  “In case you’re wrong, be kind, would you? This will be difficult for her.”

  “Her surname may be Fogarty, but she’s a Marshall through and through. I can’t be kind.”

  “Well then, don’t be overly horrid.”

  “I won’t be.”

  He continued on, marching to the front foyer and up the grand stairs that led to the upper floors.

  There were plenty of servants about, and they scurried out of his way. Gossip had already spread that the butler had ordered him to leave. Miss Fogarty had too. She’d sent some footmen to warn him away, but to no avail. A few quick remarks from Damian—mostly a suggestion that they should back off if they expected to keep their jobs—had done the trick.

  No one knew if he truly owned Kirkwood, but they weren’t positive he didn’t. They were desperate to stay on his good side if he was the new master, but to not aggravate Augusta or Miles too much lest he wasn’t.

  He climbed to the third floor, having discovered where Miss Fogarty’s suite was located, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so eager to obtain the information. Nor could he deduce why he was visiting her, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  He never bothered with females, deeming them to be especially cruel and duplicitous. Miss Fogarty was a breath of fresh air. She was smart, amusing, and intriguing.

  She appeared to be running the estate, a situation he found hilarious and extremely odd. He wouldn’t generally have thought a woman would be interested in a task as tedious as farming, and he, himself, couldn’t name a more boring endeavor. After sailing the globe, surviving in Australia, and practicing his criminal talents for two decades, a rural farm was the dreariest place he would ever hope to reside.

  Which certainly had him wondering why he was at Kirkwood. He’d come to wreck it, to ruin Miles and Edward. The prospect had been his driving force, but he’d been focused on it for so long that he had no plan for after he was finished. He’d likely wind up depressed and adrift.

  At the end of a deserted hall, he stopped at her door. He knocked once then entered without waiting to be invited.

  He surveyed the sitting room, trying to discern what it indicated about her, but there wasn’t anything to provide evidence as to the sort of person she was. She had no paintings on the walls, no knitted throws on the sofa, no portraits on the mantel. It was a very sterile spot, as if it was unoccupied and kept clean in case an unexpected guest showed up.

  There was a bedchamber behind the sitting room, and she called, “Sophia, is that you? Where have you been? You won’t believe what’s happened.”

  He strolled over to the doorway that separated the two rooms, and he arrived just as she did. She bumped right into him.

  “Mr. Drummond!” she snapped like a fussy schoolteacher. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Get out.”

  “No.”

  Her hair was down and brushed out, the pretty auburn tresses falling to her bottom, and he was delighted to report that she was attired in her robe. She wasn’t naked underneath it though. He caught a glimpse of a faded chemise before she clutched at the lapels and yanked them more tightly across her chest.

  He smirked. As if a bloody lapel could protect her.

  “You can’t just barge in,” she insisted.

  “I already have.” He scowled. “Haven’t I said that to you at least once before? Don’t tell me what I can’t do after I’ve already done it. It’s annoying.”

  “Oh, pardon me,” she
facetiously sneered. “I would never wish to annoy you.” She pointed to the door. “Go away.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Drummond! Go.”

  “No.”

  She pushed by him, stomped over, and gestured to the hall as if she could shoo him out like a bad dog, and he finally realized why he’d come. He was greatly humored by her. She was feisty and spirited, and they were traits he never would have envisioned a Marshall to possess.

  “If you don’t leave,” she threatened, “I’ll scream.”

  “So scream. How will it help you?”

  “The footmen will rush to my aid. They’ll send you packing.”

  “They tried once—at your command. Obviously it didn’t work, but if you presume they can be more successful a second time, summon them. Feel free.”

  He waved her on, pretending to be magnanimous, as if he was giving her permission. He didn’t think she’d scream, but to his surprise, she bellowed out so stridently that she instantly rubbed her throat as if she’d torn a tendon in her neck.

  They froze, her expression murderous, but as he’d predicted, no one appeared to render assistance. Kirkwood Manor was a huge mansion, her suite was in a deserted area away from the rest of the family, and all the servants were down in the lower parlors setting out food and cards.

  “Are you happy now?” he inquired.

  “No, I am not happy. I asked you previously, and I ask you again: What will it take to make you go away?”

  “You can’t make me go, Miss Fogarty. I am here to stay.”

  “Well then, aren’t I lucky?” she hissed.

  He walked over to her, and for a moment he figured she’d run away, but she didn’t. She glared, evidently assuming a fierce glower could dissuade him from mischief. He nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation. Women were strange creatures, and he never tried to understand them, but she seemed particularly asinine.

  Still though, he was fascinated by her. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she wasn’t afraid of him. Or if she was afraid, she refused to let it show.

  He stepped in until they were toe to toe, and an unusual energy sparked. Earlier he’d noticed it when she’d stormed into the estate agent’s office. Clearly their proximity charged the atmosphere, and he’d never felt anything like it. Was he attracted to her? A Marshall? Perish the thought!

  “The servants won’t come to your rescue. This is a house of idiots and cowards.”

  “They might come.”

  “They won’t. Desist with your fantasies.”

  He grabbed her wrist and tugged her into the room, a rude act that had her sputtering with affront. Before she could respond or scold, he slammed the door and spun the key so she couldn’t escape. No one would exit until he decided someone could. Most likely it would be himself after she’d aggravated him beyond his limit.

  “Unlock that door,” she said. “At once.”

  “No.”

  “Give me the key. I’ll unlock it.”

  “No.”

  “Are you planning to ravish me? Is that your ploy?”

  “I can’t abide innocent women, Miss Fogarty, so your virtue is safe with me.”

  “Safe? With you? I think not.”

  He shrugged. “Think what you will.”

  “Apparently you want something from me. Tell me what it is so we can move beyond it and get you out of here.”

  “I told you I don’t know why I’ve come.”

  “If you don’t know why, how am I to make you depart?”

  “I don’t believe you can.”

  “I’m not dressed, Mr. Drummond.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “It’s obvious you’re not aware of manners and customs.”

  “I’m aware of a few.”

  “Let me remind you of one you’ve forgotten. It is not appropriate for you to visit a young lady’s bedchamber, and it is most especially not appropriate when that young lady is not dressed.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “Why aren’t I what?”

  “Dressed.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we have guests about to arrive.”

  “I noticed. I consented to your holding the party, remember?”

  “Yes, you’ve been extremely benevolent, and I need to get ready so would you please go? You’re making me late.”

  “You amuse me, Miss Fogarty. Have you any whiskey up here?”

  “Whiskey? No. Why would I have?”

  “How about wine?”

  “I’m not a secret tippler.”

  “Too bad. I could use a drink.”

  “Then head downstairs. The butler will be happy to pour you a glass.”

  “Maybe he and I could sneak down to the cellar and imbibe together.”

  “Maybe you could.”

  She stopped her tirade, studied him, then threw up her hands. “I’m busy, and I don’t have time to deal with you.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “You can’t barge in as you have.”

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  “You pretend to be deaf so I have to repeat myself. Go away.”

  “It’s my house.”

  “So you say.”

  “Yes, so I say.”

  “Just so you know, we’ve written to the magistrate to have you arrested. We’ve sent letters to our neighbors and to friends in town too. You’ll be taken into custody very soon.”

  “The letters were never sent. I have them all in my room.”

  “Why would you have them?”

  “Your messengers asked if I minded their being delivered, and I minded very much. I confiscated them. How would you suppose?”

  Her glare deepened, her vexation humorous to witness. Even if the authorities showed up to question him, he had all the correct legal documents. There could be no reversing what had occurred, and Damian was simply waiting for Miles to appear.

  She studied him again, fumed, studied him some more. Finally she whirled away and walked into her bedchamber. “Fine then. Be an ass. See if I care.”

  “I don’t care, Miss Fogarty. You should understand that about me. I don’t care about anything.”

  “Bully for you, Mr. Drummond. I’m sure it’s an enjoyable way to stagger through life.”

  She continued to the dressing room while he meandered around in her bedchamber, snooping in her wardrobe and peeking in drawers. He was trying to find any small tidbit that would tell him more about her. She had suitable clothes, but nothing fashionable or extravagant. And no personal items. Nary a one.

  All the while, he could hear her moving about. She’d slammed the door, but the latch hadn’t caught so it was slightly ajar. He was graced with glimpses of her strutting back and forth. If he’d been any sort of gentleman, he’d have told her what was happening. But he wasn’t a gentleman and never had been.

  She’d shed her robe and was attired in chemise and petticoat. He was wondering how she’d lace her corset, but when she grabbed it, it was the type of functional garment that laced in the front such as a servant would wear with no assistance required from a maid.

  His curiosity soared.

  “Why is your room so far from the rest of the family?”

  “The reason is none of your business, Mr. Drummond.”

  There was a lengthy silence as she tugged on her gown, as she struggled with the buttons, then she yanked the door open.

  “You’re still here,” she said. “Why are you?”

  “You haven’t explained why you’re so far from everyone else. Did you choose these quarters or were you forced over to them like an ill-behaved child?”

  “I am here, Mr. Drummond, because I like my privacy. That seems to be a difficult concept for you to grasp.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m simply not listening to you. In fact, I never listen to women. You should remember that about me.”

  “You can leave me alone whenever you’re ready.”

>   “I’m not ready. Not just yet.”

  She whipped away and went to the dressing room again, and he sidled over and loitered, observing as she stood at the mirror. She twisted her hair into an untidy chignon and haphazardly jabbed in combs that were poorly placed and made her resemble a harried shopkeeper.

  “Why don’t you call for your maid to help you?” he asked.

  “I don’t have a maid.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m an adult, and I can take care of myself. I don’t need to pester the servants. They have more important tasks to perform.”

  “Well, you ought to pester them. Your hair is a mess. You can’t appear down at the party like that.”

  She scowled over her shoulder and batted her lashes. “If you keep complimenting me, I’ll get a big head.”

  “You’re the strangest female I’ve ever met.”

  “Why? Because I tend myself without bothering others?”

  “No. Because you’re not concerned about how you look.”

  “I’m concerned,” she testily said, “but I’m in too much of a hurry to fuss over my condition. And I especially won’t fuss over it when you’re standing there glowering at me.”

  “Do you always bluster forward in such a slapdash way?”

  “Yes, always.”

  She was jabbing and jabbing with a comb, but it wouldn’t catch. He couldn’t bear to watch her, and while he wasn’t the most romantic of men, he’d tarried in many women’s bedchambers. He knew how to push in a comb and make it stay.

  He marched over and grabbed it. “Give me that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to pin up your hair—as you’re obviously incapable of accomplishing it on your own.”

  She turned toward him, but so quickly that she was off balance, and she staggered into him. Suddenly the front of her body was pressed to his, and he was delighted to report that she was curved in all the right feminine spots. She was slender and petite, and he could feel every delicious inch of her torso, her shapely breasts in particular capturing his attention.

  For a thrilling instant, they were frozen, both of them shocked by sensation. His anatomy had an almost feral reaction to her, similar to what a hound must suffer when it scented the fox.

  She broke away first, bristling with offense and leaping back, but she was next to the wall so she simply banged into it—and very hard too.