by Cheryl Holt
“Well, I will stop him, and after I’ve run him off, I’ll deal with you next.”
He stormed out, and for the slightest instant, she thought about jumping up and rushing after him. She thought about explaining what Mr. Drummond was like, how tough and commanding and dangerous he seemed. She thought about mentioning the cadre of clerks and guards he’d brought, how Miles couldn’t counter that virtual army.
But then she remembered how Miles had shouted at her, how he’d blamed her for what had happened. For once, she remained right where she was and kept her mouth shut.
Miles marched up the stairs, headed for his bedchamber. He was exhausted, hung over, and eager to fall into bed and sleep for a week. He was also furious that Georgina had accosted him with her nonsense.
He humored her by permitting her to manage the estate, and he’d be the first to admit she did a good job. She cared about the property and the people on it as he never could, but she’d overstepped her bounds.
Damian Drummond had returned? Georgina and his mother had let the little rat slither in and make himself at home? There would have to be consequences—after he’d chased the wretched boy away of course. The irksome child had an incredible amount of gall to show his face at Kirkwood.
When Miles and his father had initially sent old Walter Drummond scurrying away, Edward had often worried that the sorry pair might stagger back. But Miles had always assured his father that they wouldn’t. Walter had been an underling, a servant. He’d understood his lowly place in the world, had understood that his grandson had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
No one betrayed Miles and emerged unscathed.
He wondered what Damian could want. He was likely beggared, and Miles smirked. He would probably plead for money, which was a supplication Miles would be humored to hear, pretend to consider, then deny in the cruelest manner possible.
As he stomped down the hall to the end, he noted that the doors to his grand suite were open. There were armed men loitering who seemed to be guards.
He stumbled to a halt and frowned. Guards outside his bedchamber? Was he to be intimidated? By a former servant’s whelp? A former servant who’d been fired for insubordination? The notion didn’t bear contemplating.
He straightened and assumed his most regal, most haughty expression, then he approached as if he had every right to enter. Yet even though he was being particularly arrogant and surly, two men blocked his path.
“You there!” Miles snapped. “Do you know who I am?”
“I’m betting you’re Miles Marshall.”
“You’re correct,” he snarled. “Get out of my way.”
To his great surprise, neither of them budged. One of them grabbed him, and the other pawed over Miles’s person, apparently searching for weapons. He was so offended he shook with outrage.
When he was released, he blustered into his sitting room, but there was an imposing man seated on a chair in the center. He was dressed all in black, and he looked ominous and threatening.
There were others scattered about. They all seemed to have been waiting for Miles, as if they were aware he was on the premises, as if they’d been warned that he was headed up the stairs.
“Who the hell are you,” Miles said to the man in black, “and why are you in my home?”
“Hello, Miles,” the man blandly replied.
“Stand up when you address your betters,” Miles told him.
“My betters?”
The man bristled as if he might leap up and attack Miles, but a man behind him laid a hand on the fellow’s shoulder, silently urging him to calm down.
“Don’t you remember me, Miles?” the man in black asked.
“Why would I? I don’t bother myself with the lower classes, and it’s Master Miles to you.”
The man pushed himself to his feet, and it took forever for him to reach his full height. He was several inches taller than Miles, broad in the chest, his arms and legs muscled from strenuous endeavor. He exuded danger and menace, and Miles quickly stepped back.
He assessed the man’s eyes, those very black Drummond eyes. For a moment, he felt dizzy and off balance, as if the world had tipped off its axis.
The last time Miles had seen Damian, they’d been on the lane that led to the village. Damian and his grandfather had been living with the vicar, and every morning he’d sent supplicants to the manor to beg for mercy.
Miles had taunted Damian over his pitiable, whiny grandfather, had thrown rocks at him and chased him away. In his mind, Damian hadn’t aged since that day, but this man wasn’t the boy Miles recalled. There was naught about him that resembled that child in the slightest.
How could that boy have morphed into this powerful, daunting brigand?
“What do you want, Drummond?”
“So you remember me after all.” Sarcastically Drummond added, “How nice.”
“Speak your piece, then get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I own Kirkwood now.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“You should read your mail once in a while. You should show up for your court hearings.”
Miles scowled. There had been process servers hounding him for months in London. It was the reason he’d sneaked away to hide at all those parties in the country. For a bit of time whenever he’d turned a corner, he’d had either a judgment or a summons slapped into his hand.
He recognized that his fiscal condition was precarious, but he’d refused to appear in court and let a paltry creditor shame him. Not having the patience for conflict, he always ignored horrid situations and nothing awful ever occurred when he did. He’d figured this situation would resolve itself too if he simply declined to respond.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m saying that I own Kirkwood so I am not going anywhere. But you are.”
“Where am I going?”
“You, your mother, your sister, and your cousin, Miss Fogarty, are moving to the estate agent’s house today.”
“We most certainly are not. That place is a hovel. It’s been shuttered for two decades. Ever since…”
His voice trailed off as he realized—while staring down Walter’s grandson—he couldn’t finish with, ever since we tossed Walter out on the road.
“We’re not moving there,” he insisted.
“Yes, you are. The servants have already packed your belongings.”
“What do you expect us to do?”
“I expect you to spend a week begging me for mercy—just as my grandfather begged.”
“I never will.”
“If you won’t beg, you and your female relatives will immediately be kicked out to fend for yourselves.”
“Where is your grandfather?” Miles asked. “I demand to speak with him.”
Drummond scoffed. “You shouldn’t mention my grandfather to me.”
He waved to his guards. They approached and grabbed Miles. He tried to shake them off, but their grip was very tight.
“Release me at once!” he fumed.
Of course they didn’t listen, and Drummond said, “I plan to talk to your fiancée. Portia, isn’t it?”
“About what?”
“I’ll inform her of how poor you suddenly are. I intend to suggest that she break her engagement to you and marry me instead.”
Miles was aghast. “You’re proposing to Portia?”
“Yes, and I’m sure she’ll agree.”
“She never will.”
“We’ll see, I guess.”
Drummond motioned to the men, and as they started out, Miles wrenched away and asked Drummond, “Why are you doing this?”
“You don’t know? Seriously?”
“No.”
Drummond sauntered over until they were toe to toe and rage wafted off him. It was so potent and so volatile that Miles wondered if the room might explode.
“For years,” Drummond said, “I dreamed about revenge. It’s all that kept me sane. It’s the
only thing that will make me whole.”
“You’re mad,” Miles spat.
“Yes, mad for justice. Mad for vengeance. I’m taking everything you have, everything you own, everything you love, and I’ll leave you with nothing.”
“You can’t!” Miles blustered. “I won’t allow it!”
“Oh, but Miles, look around you. It’s already over.”
Drummond motioned to his men again, and as they dragged Miles away, a scream rent the air.
“Put that back, you cur!” his mother shrieked from her suite down the hall. “Put it back! Don’t touch it!”
Miles glared at Drummond over his shoulder, but Drummond was unflappable and unaffected.
“Your mother doesn’t sound very happy,” he said.
“What’s happening to her?”
“I told you. She’s being moved to the estate agent’s cottage.”
“We won’t go!” Miles actually stamped his foot in protest.
Drummond smiled a sly smile. “I think you will.”
“I’ll get even with you for this!”
“Funny,” Drummond retorted, “but that’s what I’ve said about you for ages. It was my constant vow, and now it’s become my reality.” He nodded to his men. “He sickens me. Get him out of my sight.”
Miles was whisked away, carried down to the front foyer, and thrown out as if he were a sack of rubbish. Though he cursed and tried to rush back in, the door was firmly locked. He knocked, shouted, and knocked, commanding the servants to heed him, to help him, but no one came to his aid.
CHAPTER SIX
Georgina strolled through the quiet halls of the manor. It was late in the evening so she didn’t encounter any servants. She wasn’t supposed to be where she was, and luckily she hadn’t encountered any guards either. She wondered what would happen if she did and figured they’d toss her out on her ear.
It had been a horrendously awful day, and she couldn’t stay in the estate agent’s cottage one more second, especially after Miles had mentioned that the cottage was referred to as Drummond Cottage by the elderly retainers. Miles, Sophia, and Augusta were so wildly aggrieved that Georgina had felt she was suffocating.
They’d glared at her, demanding answers—as if she had any. There’d been hours of shouting and recrimination, but none of them dared point out that it was Miles’s fault, that he’d finally brought them to ruin. But they were anxious to blame someone, and their censure had fallen on Georgina.
Why hadn’t she kept Mr. Drummond out? Why hadn’t she summoned the law to arrest him? Why hadn’t she warned Miles of what was occurring? Since he never communicated with her and she rarely knew where he was, it was a terribly unfair charge.
When she’d arrived at the cottage, there had been a packet of papers nailed to the door. She’d carried them in and had perused them while Miles paced and fumed. They were the legal documents that proved the foreclosure and change of ownership. She’d sat in the corner and read each page.
She wanted to ask Miles how such a lengthy, important court process could go forward without his paying attention, without his bothering to respond. But it was futile to inquire.
She passed by her old suite, pausing to gaze at the empty rooms. Earlier in the afternoon, servants had packed her belongings and hauled them over to Drummond Cottage. It was depressing to see the spot where she’d been so content. There was a weary air of abandonment, as if she’d moved out years ago instead of hours.
She continued on, wandering the deserted floors. Most of the house appeared as it always had. It was only the family’s bedchambers that were different. The Marshalls’ private possessions had been whisked away as if they’d never resided in the manor a single minute.
Ultimately she was in the wing where the master bedchamber was located. It was Mr. Drummond’s now, and she couldn’t deduce why she’d be eager to peek inside.
She just couldn’t wrap her mind around the abrupt turn of events. Such a short time prior, she’d been Miles’s estate agent, had been happy with her work and her life. Now what was she?
She had no idea.
She was trying to comprehend Mr. Drummond’s fury. Whatever the issue between him and Miles, it had transpired when they were boys. What act could Miles have perpetrated that was so horrid Mr. Drummond would still be raging over it?
If she’d been more curious about him—and she wasn’t curious!—she’d have chatted with him about it. But she didn’t want to hear his version any more than she wanted to hear Miles’s.
It was so typical that men could gamble and bicker and fight but that the ramifications would impact the women who weren’t involved in any quarrel.
Miles would land on his feet. He had friends scattered across the kingdom and a ton of places where he’d be welcome to weather the storm. Yet what about Georgina, Sophia, and Augusta?
Sophia would likely have to hurry and proceed with her marriage to Harold, but why he’d be interested after Miles’s disgrace, Georgina couldn’t imagine. If Sophia was about to be jilted, what would become of her? Which was worse? Marriage to Harold or no marriage at all?
Augusta had cousins to take her in, but after being mistress of Kirkwood for decades, it would be difficult for her to struggle as the poor relative. It was a long step down, and she’d have no power or authority.
What about Georgina? Sophia and Augusta wouldn’t allow her to accompany them when they departed. Would she wind up in a ditch? In a hovel in the woods?
She’d always known she should have left Kirkwood, that she shouldn’t have relied on her aunt and cousins. Augusta had been clear that Georgina should have forged her own path, but she hadn’t listened. Why hadn’t she?
How humiliating it was to reach the end of her road with them and find she hadn’t been valuable in even the slightest way.
She tiptoed into the master suite, having determined that Mr. Drummond wouldn’t be present. He was hosting a celebration out in the barn and had opened a whiskey keg for the servants. She wanted to be irked by how fickle they were, but she couldn’t blame them for their shifting loyalties.
He was the new owner, and they’d flocked to his side as if the Marshalls had never been their employers. But then, Augusta was a hard taskmaster and Sophia and Miles were lazy and inconsiderate. Who wouldn’t be excited?
If Mr. Drummond simply paid their wages regularly, he’d be far ahead of the Marshalls in taking care of everybody. Their lives would go on pretty much as they always had, but without their having to put up with the Marshalls.
Georgina wasn’t like Miles or Sophia. She was kind and polite. Where did she stand with everyone? Had anyone noticed all she’d lost that day? Was there a single person in the world who felt sorry for her?
She didn’t think so.
She ventured into the sitting room and instantly ascertained that Mr. Drummond hadn’t unpacked, but she wished he had. She was curious about him after all and dying to glean some hint of what drove him.
He’d ended her life as completely as if he’d shot her and buried her in the ground. Did he realize that he had? Probably not. He was self-centered and vain. He wouldn’t note how he’d harmed her. Or if he did, he wouldn’t be concerned by it.
Not sure what she intended, she walked to the bedchamber. She shouldn’t snoop, and if she was caught in his suite, she could never explain her behavior. She was tired and sad and lonely. She was also desperate for some answers.
To her dismay, the room wasn’t empty as she’d absolutely expected it to be. Mr. Drummond was seated in a chair in the corner. He was drinking, and he toasted her with his glass.
“Miss Fogarty! We meet again.”
“Hello, Mr. Drummond.”
They stared and stared, the quiet seeming oppressive. She told herself to spin and march out, but she was frozen in place. He sipped his liquor, but didn’t break the silence that had festered. There was a table next to him, a decanter on it. He pulled the cork and refilled his glass.
“Would you
like some?” he inquired, surprising her.
“No, thank you.”
“You look glum as a spinster at a wedding. What’s vexing you?”
“Need you ask?”
“No. I’m simply making small talk.”
“You’re not very good at it.”
“I’m not? Most people claim I have too much to say.” He smirked, humored by his words, as if he found them very clever. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You snuck in—”
“I didn’t sneak.”
“Fine, you didn’t sneak, but my presence hasn’t sent you fleeing into the night so you must have arrived with a purpose. Were you planning to rob me?”
“Rob you! Of all the gall! As if I would!”
“If it’s not robbery, what’s brought you? Will you scold me? Will you plead your relatives’ case? Or were you thinking of slapping me again?”
Her cheeks reddened. “I apologize for that. I shouldn’t have done it.”
He shrugged. “I deserved it.”
“You did. You were being an ass.”
“You should understand though that if you ever hit me again, I’ll hit you back. I’m not a gentleman, and I have very few manners.”
“When you insult a woman, she gets one blow to retaliate, is that it?”
“Normally they don’t even get one. I’ve been hit too many times in my life, and I don’t take it graciously. I made an exception for you.”
She studied him, trying to decide if he was being truthful. She suspected there was an enormous amount of bluster to him. He threatened, warned, and terrorized people even though he had no intention of proceeding to violence.
But he’d already proved he could be a brute. She was positive he’d lash out viciously if provoked, but she couldn’t imagine him punching a woman. No matter how a female irritated him, she doubted he’d react physically.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to the chair next to him. “I have a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”
She scrutinized him forever, debating whether she should. It would certainly give her a chance to chat privately with him, to obtain information she was anxious to receive. In the end, she couldn’t do it.