Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5)

by Cheryl Holt

  He couldn’t figure out why he was harassing her, but he wasn’t about to stop. He stepped in, crushing her to the plaster, his arms on either side to keep her trapped.

  “Release me,” she commanded.

  “No.”

  “You’re insane, Mr. Drummond, and you’re scaring me.”

  “I am not. I don’t frighten you.”

  Her blue eyes flashing daggers, she considered his comment then confessed, “You’re correct. You don’t frighten me, but you annoy me to Heaven and back.”

  “Is Augusta kind to you? Is Miles?”

  “Kind enough.”

  “How was it that you came to live here?”

  “My parents died so I was orphaned. My Uncle Edward brought me to Kirkwood, and I’ve always been grateful.”

  “Loyal, too?”

  “Yes. Absurdly loyal.”

  “Good. I like a loyal person. With my taking possession of the property—”

  “Dream big, Mr. Drummond. I’m positive you’ll never possess Kirkwood.”

  “If I toss you out on the road, where will you go?”

  “Where will I…go?”

  “Yes. My fight isn’t with you, and you shouldn’t be punished for Miles’s sins.”

  She scoffed. “I’m certain this will be a great surprise to you, Mr. Drummond, but I’ve been punished for other people’s sins since the day I was born.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, now give me that blasted comb.”

  He was still holding it, and she yanked it away. Then she kicked him in the shin, shoved him, and marched off. He moved away because he felt like it, not because she’d forced him to. She dashed to the bedchamber, to the sitting room beyond, and she spun the knob on the door so she could huff out, but she’d forgotten it was locked.

  “Ooh,” she fumed as she whirled on him. “Open it. Right now!”

  He sauntered over and stuck in the key.

  “Have a nice party, Miss Fogarty,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare butt your nose in and ruin everything.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m serious. This stupid night cost us a fortune. I won’t have you wrecking it by upsetting the neighbors or fueling gossip about you and Miles.”

  “I won’t,” he repeated.

  “You’re a menace.”

  “I am. I admit it.”

  “You’re a…cur, a swine, a…a…reprobate.”

  The tepid insult made him laugh. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “I’d use a few more descriptive nouns, but I’m too much of a lady to voice them.”

  “Sure you are, Miss Fogarty. Sure you are.”

  “And since I absolutely hate you, I won’t waste my breath.” She pushed him away. “I have guests so go bother someone else.”

  She stomped out, and he leaned on the doorframe, watching her shapely backside swish against her skirt as she headed down the hall and disappeared.

  He grinned.

  He hadn’t expected to be entertained at Kirkwood, hadn’t expected to enjoy his sojourn or be amused by the occupants. But perhaps—just perhaps—his stay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  He followed her, determined to stand in the front foyer and greet every guest that arrived. She’d warned him not to, and he’d said he wouldn’t, but he’d never listened to women in the past.

  Why start now?

  Damian at 12…

  It’s easy.”

  “It doesn’t look easy.”

  “Watch me.”

  Damian stepped into the crowd of rich nobs heading into the theater. His years of living on the streets, of being cold and hungry, had left him short and slender. He’d barely grown an inch since he’d departed Kirkwood with his grandfather.

  Because of his small stature, people scarcely noticed him, and they certainly weren’t wary of him. He was slippery as an eel too. He could flit and duck and run away with no chance he’d ever be caught.

  He slid his fingers into the first coat he saw, withdrew the man’s purse, and disappeared into the surging horde before the fellow could turn around. He fled into the nearest alley, winding through walkways and tunnels to where his new companion, Kit Roxbury, waited for him to arrive.

  He’d like to say Kit was his friend, but he was simply a stray urchin Damian had met, a boy in the same dire straits, and Damian would never allow him to be more than that.

  Damian had hardened his heart. He’d witnessed firsthand the cruelty human beings could perpetrate on the innocent and unsuspecting. He’d witnessed how fast things could change, and he would never be complacent, would never bond or rely on anyone.

  He tried to give the purse to Kit, but Kit wouldn’t take it.

  “Stealing is wrong,” he insisted.

  “Starvation is wrong too,” Damian countered. “My grandfather would hate to see where circumstances have led me, but he’s not here and neither is your mother.”

  “If I become a thief, she’d be ashamed of me.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she’d want you to survive and make something of yourself. Besides, she’s in Heaven so her opinion doesn’t matter, and she definitely can’t help you.”

  Kit looked down at the ground, his expression grim and sad, and Damian patted his shoulder. Kit was three years younger than Damian, and Kit too had come from a grand estate like Kirkwood. He’d had a family, a home where his father had been wealthy and his mother kind and wonderful.

  But his father had died, then his mother had been evicted. Kit had been too little to understand why. His mother had moved them to town and had fallen into penury. She’d been sick and had passed away, leaving Kit and his three siblings alone.

  The life he’d known—that had seemed so stable and perfect—had vanished in an instant. He was an orphan as Damian was, but he couldn’t convince himself that he had to do what was necessary to get by.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” Damian told him. “You don’t have to learn the trade.”

  “No, I’d like to stay.”

  “Then you have to practice what I’m showing you.”

  “I’m so afraid I’ll be arrested.”

  “So?”

  “I’ll go to jail.”

  “While you’re there, you’ll have food to eat and a roof over your head.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s a benefit.”

  Damian didn’t understand why he’d taken Kit under his wing. When he’d stumbled on him, cold, wet, and terrified, he’d seen too much of himself in the frightened boy.

  He’d permitted Kit to tag along, a merciful act he’d never previously extended.

  “You have to decide what you want,” Damian scolded. “If you choose to remain as my partner, you have to do your part.”

  “I don’t want to be out here on my own.”

  “All right, but stop whining.”

  “I will. It’s just difficult for me.”

  “It was difficult for me too—in the beginning—but I shed my worries quickly enough.” Damian stuffed the purse in his shirt and started off. “Come. We have to deliver this to Michael.”

  “I don’t like him. He scares me.”

  “He shouldn’t. If you never betray him, he’ll always be your friend.”

  Michael Scott had rescued Damian as Damian had rescued Kit. Michael had found Damian on the streets, had brought him into his circle, had fed him and clothed him. He was a few years older than Damian, and he was tough and dangerous, smart and crafty, driven to rise above the low spot where he resided.

  He’d taught Damian to steal and fight and win. He’d taught him to be wary, to be shrewd, to be dangerous too. He’d forced him to realize that the very worst thing he could imagine had already happened: His grandfather had died like a pauper in the gutter, and no one had cared a whit. His body had been dumped in a cart and hauled away by gravediggers, and Damian had no idea where he was buried.

  In a matter of minutes, Damian had become a homeless waif, with no family o
r place or history. Michael Scott had saved him from his fate, had provided him with a job and a purpose. Damian planned to stay by Michael’s side, to watch and listen and learn how to be tough and lethal too.

  When he was older, when he was richer, he would return to Kirkwood and kill Miles and Mr. Marshall. It was the dream that sustained him.

  He and Kit arrived at the abandoned warehouse Michael had claimed for his own. It had been empty and dilapidated, but now it was thriving with activity as Michael’s employees presented him with pilfered loot he would sell for a profit.

  Damian proudly handed him the purse, delighted when Michael peeked in it and saw many gold coins. He gave some of them to Damian as a reward.

  “Good work, Damian.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How about you, Kit? Have you anything for me?”

  “Not yet,” Kit mumbled.

  “He will have something very soon,” Damian hurriedly interjected. “I swear.”

  “You know the rules,” Michael warned.

  “Everyone has to pay their own way,” Damian replied.

  “That’s right,” Michael said. “In this world, no one will help you. You have to help yourself.” He glared at Kit. “You have to chip in your share, or you have to leave.”

  “He’ll bring it tomorrow,” Damian said, aggravated that he bothered with Kit.

  “He’d better,” Michael said.

  “He will,” Damian vowed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Let’s dance, Harold.”

  “You know I hate to, Sophia.”

  “Why must you always be such a stick in the mud?”

  “You’re aware of my preferences so why must you pester me? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Sophia smiled at her fiancé, Harold Bean, but it was a fake, patronizing smile. They’d been engaged for two years, with Sophia accepting his proposal without any dithering. She’d simply been so desperate to become betrothed.

  She’d known Harold all her life. He owned the neighboring estate and lived there with his widowed mother. She and Augusta had planned on the match ever since Sophia and Harold were children.

  Harold was wealthy—he even had a house in London—and it had seemed logical to follow her mother’s advice and accept him, especially as Miles grew unrulier and rumors had swirled about their finances.

  Sophia had viewed Harold as the perfect escape. But with her being a very elderly twenty, she was vexed by the notion of the men she might have met, of the men who might have proposed instead. Because she’d been destined for Harold, she hadn’t had a Season in London so no other fate had ever been possible.

  She’d immediately said yes to him, but she constantly wondered why. When they were younger, he’d been quite handsome, but he wasn’t aging well. His brown hair was gray, and he was rapidly balding. He was fat now too, his paunch more noticeable every day.

  With him suffering from gout and melancholia, he was stuffier and more pedantic than ever. He never felt good enough to ride or walk in the woods or play lawn games when they were entertaining. He wouldn’t even sing in the church choir, claiming it made his head ache.

  Although he was only thirty, he acted as if he was a hundred and thirty.

  “You don’t care to dance,” she said, “but I hope you won’t mind if I do.”

  “Suit yourself, Sophia. You’ll behave however you wish—whatever my opinion.”

  She smiled even more sweetly, though her eyes were shooting daggers.

  Was this how her life would go? Would she actually wed this fussy, miserable dolt? She liked to laugh, wear pretty clothes, and socialize with interesting people. He liked to sit at home, with his hounds at his feet, reading by the fire.

  She’d throw herself off a cliff before she’d carry on like that.

  She’d once asked her mother why she’d picked Harold. Clearly they weren’t compatible in even the slightest way. But Augusta had replied that Sophia was young, flighty, and prone to juvenile conduct, that she needed the guidance of an older, wiser husband to tamp down her worst impulses.

  Sophia thought her mother was insane. She also thought—should she have to face Harold and his mother over the breakfast table every morning—she might murder them both.

  “I’ll stop back in a bit to see how you’re feeling.” She intended no such thing.

  “Don’t fret over me,” he woefully whined. “I’ll be fine all by myself.”

  “Well, I’ll check anyway.”

  She flounced off and sidled over to the French windows that led onto the verandah. She had numerous partners waiting for her to dance with them, but she was too angry. No one was watching her so she slipped out and raced into the garden.

  How could her mother have forced her into such a hideous, unpalatable betrothal? Thank goodness Harold appeared in no hurry to set a wedding date.

  When she’d questioned him about the delay, he hadn’t had a viable excuse. Perhaps he didn’t want to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him. At night when she said her prayers, she begged the Lord to send a miracle, to rescue her from Harold, but so far the Lord hadn’t saved her.

  Very quickly, she reached the lake and she climbed into the gazebo, yearning for a few quiet minutes where she could calm her temper, then return to the party and pretend to be enjoying herself. But to her consternation, a man was already seated on one of the benches. He was smoking a cheroot, gazing out at the moonlight shining on the water. He heard her enter and glanced at her over his shoulder.

  “Pardon me,” she muttered, irked that she’d have to find somewhere else to stew and pace. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You haven’t.” He waved to the spot next to him. “Would you like to join me? Or would that be too inappropriate? I realize it’s dark and we’re alone.”

  The comment sounded like a dare so it was precisely the sort of remark that would have her behaving exactly as she shouldn’t.

  “If you think I worry about the proprieties,” she said, “you’ve mistaken me for my mother.”

  “Who is your mother?”

  “Augusta Marshall.”

  “So you are…?”

  “Sophia Marshall.”

  “Miles’s sister?”

  “Yes.”

  She hovered for a moment, expecting him to stand and bow or dust off the bench so it wouldn’t dirty her skirt, but he made no polite moves. He simply stared up at her as if he was too tired to rise or hadn’t ever been informed he was supposed to.

  Feeling very brazen, very bold, she plopped down. They’d only invited neighbors, the same boring group she’d known forever, but she didn’t know him, and couldn’t decide why he was on the property. He probably shouldn’t be. Was he Georgina’s mysterious friend?

  She hadn’t noticed him inside the house, and she certainly would have. He was very handsome, his hair black, his eyes very blue. He looked like a hero out of a romantic novel, and after pleading with Harold to dance, after being reminded yet again of what a finicky, unpleasant fiancé he’d turned out to be, she was definitely entitled to a flirtatious chat with an attractive stranger.

  “I’m Christopher Roxbury,” he said, “but you can call me Kit.”

  “I will Kit, and you can call me Miss Marshall.”

  He studied her, then laughed. “You’re a snotty little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I am Miss Marshall. What would you imagine you’d call me?”

  “How about Sophia?”

  “Since I just met you, it wouldn’t be fitting.”

  He scowled. “I thought you ignored the proprieties so you wouldn’t be confused with your mother.”

  It dawned on her that he was being sarcastic. “You’re mocking me.”

  “A bit, but you deserve it.”

  “I’m the hostess. You can’t mock me.”

  “Why can’t I? I hate fussy manners. If you insist on acting like a spoiled brat, I won’t pretend to like it.”

  She’d never had anyone ta
lk to her as he was talking. From her earliest memories, there had been such status conferred by being Edward Marshall’s only daughter. People fawned over her. They cosseted her and rushed to grant her every wish. She’d never been chastised or rebuked, and she was aggravated and fascinated.

  “What brought you to the gazebo, Miss Marshall?” he asked. “When you arrived, you looked quite vexed.”

  “I have no idea why you’d think so.”

  “I’m very observant; I’ve always had to be. Initially you were distressed, but you seem to have calmed.” He arrogantly flicked his cheroot out into the grass. “Might I hope it was my smiling presence that did the trick?”

  “I wasn’t upset,” she fibbed.

  “I saw you inside.”

  He’d noticed her! How thrilling! “Really?”

  “Yes. You were arguing with an older, balding clod. Is he an uncle? An elderly cousin?”

  “That clod—as you so uncouthly put it—is my fiancé. And we weren’t arguing.”

  “You poor girl. No wonder you’re in a dither. If I’d been engaged to him, I’d be furious too.”

  “Honestly! How rude of you to comment. Mr. Bean and I—”

  “Mr. Bean? Gad, even his name is tedious.”

  She’d often thought the same, but she could hardly admit it. Instead she said, “I don’t recognize you, Mr. Roxbury.”

  “Kit, remember?”

  “I believe I’ll stick with Mr. Roxbury for now. Are you here with an invited guest?”

  “You could say that.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I tagged along with someone, but he isn’t exactly a guest.”

  “What is he then?”

  “The new owner?”

  “What? You’re babbling in riddles, and I can never figure them out.”

  “Your brother doesn’t own Kirkwood anymore.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are too. The men in my family, Miles included, have owned it for over two centuries. How dare you claim otherwise.”

  “Have you spoken to Miss Fogarty this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you should. She can tell you about it.”

  “If you assume she’ll tell me that Miles doesn’t own Kirkwood, then you’re stark-raving mad.”