Several properties had been drawn. Some were north of the lake, a few south. Ashby was there, the lines matching what he’d recently seen while studying his own plat maps.
“What is the purpose of these new surveys?”
Wardlow cleared his throat. “Taxation, I suppose, my lord.”
He stepped away from the desk thinking he could barely afford the taxes that had already been assessed.
He left the Moot Hall and stopped short when he saw Philip Lowell standing outside the draper’s shop, talking with Horace Carew. It seemed more of a conversation than just a passing greeting. Likely they’d known each other for some time.
“Lord Ashby!” called Mr. Carew.
Nash nodded briefly, wondering what reason Lowell had for coming to Keswick. He tied his horse and joined the two men outside the shop.
“My lord,” said Lowell, “I was just about to return to the Hall.”
“Excellent,” he said bluntly. “I will see you when I return.”
“Very good, my lord,” the steward replied. “I’ll get my horse and . . . Good day, sir,” he said to Carew.
When Lowell had left them, Nash turned to Carew. “You and my steward seemed deep in conversation.”
Carew laughed. “Not at all. He merely wondered if I’d commissioned my landau to be made locally.”
Nash glanced toward the expensive carriage, which stood at the ready nearby, with its liveried driver and footmen waiting for Carew’s return. Why should Lowell care about the man’s landau? It would be some time before Nash could afford such an extravagance.
He turned to the question that had bothered him since his interview with Wardlow. “Carew, you did not mention that you were present at Ashby Hall on the day my brother died.”
Carew appeared puzzled. “I did not suppose you wished to speak of that terrible day, my lord.”
“I don’t, particularly. However, I find myself puzzling over exactly what happened. How did my brother happen to find himself in someone’s line of fire?”
Carew’s expression turned somber. “He was delayed at the Hall and came out after the rest of us had scattered. He was shot before he ever reached his sector.”
As Nash pondered Carew’s words, his daughter exited the shop and came to them. She bowed to Nash and greeted him with a smile that did naught to lighten the gravity of her father’s words.
“Miss Carew, it is lovely to see you again,” he said.
“My lord,” said Carew, “my daughter and I would be honored to have you join us”—he tipped his head toward the Market Street Inn nearby—“for luncheon.”
Carew could not have been more obvious. The man was making use of their serendipitous meeting to put Nash and his daughter together.
Nash considered the dowry that would likely be hers, and thought again of Lowell. He could not believe his steward’s conversation had been about a lavish landau.
Perhaps the man wanted a more lucrative position at Strathmore Pond. Obviously, Carew’s estate was a great deal more prosperous than Ashby.
Or maybe Lowell was offering himself as Helene’s suitor. He was a wellborn gentleman, and with his family’s connections, he could introduce his wife into the highest levels of society.
Nash refrained from gritting his teeth, and accepted Carew’s invitation.
Chapter 14
Nash spent the rest of the day in a dark mood. He felt ill-tempered and edgy after his encounter with Peter Wardlow in the Moot Hall, then seeing Philip Lowell with Horace Carew.
Sometimes Lowell’s impatience with the situation grated. Ashby could not yet afford a headman to oversee the sheep herd, but Lowell did not seem to grasp the pacing of good sheep husbandry. Even Nash knew that naught was to be done in spring. The real work began in summer, when the sheep would be herded to their pens and sheared.
Nash jabbed his fingers through his hair, feeling another headache coming on. Obviously, it was not easy, having to build up the estate from practically naught. But Lowell and all the others could damned well leave if they did not wish to remain at Ashby and work toward its success.
He got up from his chair and paced. Worrying about Lowell’s intentions was pointless. He needed the man to help interpret the numbers and notations in his brothers’ ledgers. After that, he could leave, for all Nash cared. He would find someone else to keep Ashby’s books.
In any event, Nash now had in his possession the list of guests at Hoyt’s deer stalking, as well as those who had attended the Landry house party. He would invite them all to Ashby Hall, soon.
His agitation persisted in spite of his resolve. His luncheon with the Carews had not improved his spirits, even though Horace had unmistakably encouraged Nash’s courtship of his daughter. He’d blatantly left them alone together to go outside and greet an acquaintance he spied through the window. And he’d suggested that Nash attend the subscription ball that would soon be held in the assembly rooms in the very inn in which they dined.
Nash supposed he ought to attend the ball, but Helene’s incessantly bland manners had grated on his nerves. After a quarter hour of the most vapid conversation possible, he concluded that she possessed no opinion of her own. She agreed with every word he said, or quoted her father when he asked her a direct question. And she listened to him so bloody earnestly.
Nash had to remind himself that her father was in possession of a blasted fortune, and that a large percentage of it would comprise Helene’s dowry.
With that in mind, he’d agreed to dine with the man and his daughter the following evening.
He couldn’t help but wonder if there were any other heiresses in the district. Perhaps that was reason enough to attend the ball at the Market Inn.
Nash stalked to the library window and shoved the drape aside, catching sight of Miss Franklin and Emmaline down in the garden. They were playing some sort of jumping game, and the governess’s hair had come loose from her chignon to curl seductively down her back.
He could almost smell the lilies in it from where he stood, and he uttered a low curse as he turned away from the window. He did not know what lessons were taking place in the schoolroom, but he had not engaged a governess to play with his niece.
A knock at the door drew him away from the window, and Lowell came into the library, carrying the mail he’d picked up in town. He placed it on Nash’s desk and proceeded to unseal the letters. “My lord, Harper and Roarke found a small grouping of sheep that haven’t yet been counted up on Paswick Fell.”
Nash swallowed his ire. He would deal with Miss Franklin later. “How many, Lowell?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Any lambs?”
“Aye. Several.”
It was good news, but an additional twenty-four sheep would not get them in the black this year.
“What errand took you into Keswick today, Lowell?”
“We seem to be in constant need of eggs, my lord,” he replied. “So I’ve made an arrangement with a local farmer to buy some chicks.”
Nash gave a nod. It was not unreasonable.
“And Miss Franklin asked me to acquire some seeds for her to plant a kitchen garden.”
Nash felt his spine contract with irritation. The steward had paid far too much attention to Emmaline’s governess since her arrival, notifying Nash every time the woman sneezed. Or so it seemed. And now he was her errand boy?
“She sent you to Keswick for seeds?”
“Not exactly, my lord. She mentioned that our diets might improve if she could grow some herbs and vegetables for the kitchen.”
“And?”
“I said that I had an errand in town and would pick up what she needed.”
How very accommodating, Nash thought acerbically, but he said naught. At least she was not some timid miss who needed to come running to him with every question or every time one of his men looked askance at her. As long as she was dealing with Emmaline, that was all that mattered.
And yet . . . he glanced out the window a
gain . . . perhaps it was time to ask the governess about his niece’s progress.
Mercy’s heart warmed at the sound of Emmy’s laugh, and she couldn’t help but draw the little girl to her breast for a brief hug. It might not be exactly proper decorum, but Mercy’s own childhood had been quite devoid of affection. She did not think it was necessary for Emmaline’s to be the same.
She would like to see Lord Ashby take more of an interest in his niece, more than the teasing remarks he’d made for Mercy’s benefit during their walk to the pavilion the previous day. A close bond between Emmy and her uncle would be beneficial to both of them, although Mercy did not know how to accomplish it without having to spend time in his presence.
If the earl did not make it his business to visit the schoolroom, neither did Emmaline seem to miss his presence, although it seemed she’d relaxed a bit during their walk.
The earl possessed an imposing presence—he was very tall, and his voice deep and commanding—so it was quite easy to see how Emmaline would be intimidated by him. But he was the only family the little girl had, and Mercy had a new appreciation for blood ties.
She wished she had some of her own.
Mr. Lowell came into the garden and Emmaline slipped her hand into Mercy’s. He was not nearly as striking as her uncle, but Mercy gave Emmy’s small hand a reassuring squeeze. Mr. Lowell might not be an imposing figure, but he possessed a swagger of importance, or perhaps it was just his misplaced masculine arrogance that grated on Mercy’s nerves every time he came into the nursery.
She did appreciate the seeds he’d brought her from town, but did not understand why it was necessary for the man to visit the nursery several times each day.
“You look quite lovely today, Miss Franklin,” he said, though Mercy knew it could not possibly be true. She wore her black mourning gown beneath her drab brown coat, and her hair was in disarray. She reached up and twisted it back into its neat knot.
She had certainly not dressed to please a man, and yet his smile and the sparkle in his eye smacked of flirtation. She felt vastly uncomfortable with the way he allowed his gaze to drop below her neck, lingering in places it should not.
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Lowell.”
“And you, Lady Emmaline. Your governess has done something wonderful with your hair again.” Mercy became further annoyed with him when he turned the compliment into one for her, and not just for Emmaline.
“ ’Tis a fine day to be outdoors, Mr. Lowell. We were just playing awhile before going back in to resume our lessons.”
“Oh, aye.” He turned his face to the sun for a moment. “Lord Ashby sent me to fetch you. He’d like to see you in the library.”
“Now?”
Lowell nodded. “Aye. As soon as you can manage it. Alone.”
She caught sight of Emmaline’s worried glance.
“Do not worry, Emmy. All is well.” She turned to look at Mr. Lowell. “If you’ll just ask Henry Blue to take Lady Emmaline back to the schoolroom?”
“Of course,” he said. “Allow me to escort you inside.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Lowell. We will wait here for Henry and go inside once he comes along.”
“Very well,” said the steward, who took his leave, albeit reluctantly.
Mercy smiled at Emmy, relieved to be spared Mr. Lowell’s presence. “I won’t be long. All right, Emmaline?”
Emmaline nodded as Lowell left the garden to fetch the young man. Mercy’s good sense warred with her anticipation of seeing Lord Ashby again, but she decided that this time, she would not allow him to provoke her. She’d had years of practice curbing her tongue and speaking only when required to do so. She was certainly capable of following that dictate now.
Once Henry Blue came to take Emmy to the nursery, Mercy followed them inside and made her way to the library. She found the door standing ajar, and inside was Lord Ashby, sitting at a desk cluttered with papers and thick ledgers. He seemed deep in concentration, holding a pen in one hand and rubbing the injured side of his face with the other.
He was unbearably attractive, and Mercy had not been able to avoid thinking of him, of their strangely intimate moments together since her arrival at Ashby Hall.
She knew how very inappropriate some of their exchanges had been, though each one had touched something deep within her.
Yet this would be the first formal discussion Mercy had had with the earl since her arrival, and she paused at the library door and smoothed her skirts, wondering what Lord Ashby wanted to speak to her about.
Lord Ashby suddenly dropped his hand from his head, looked up, and saw her.
And he did not appear to be in good spirits. “Miss Franklin.” His voice was gravelly, as though he had not used it in some time.
She bolstered her courage and walked into the library. She had done nothing to warrant his displeasure. Unless he’d just now learned that she’d changed the arrangement for Emmaline’s meals. Or that she’d asked Mr. Lowell to purchase some planting seeds for her . . . “You wanted to see me, my lord?”
He set aside his quill, leaned back, and crossed his hands over his dark waistcoat. “I would like a report on your pupil.”
“Emmy?”
He frowned at the shortened name, and Mercy realized he must not have heard it before.
“She likes to be called by her father’s pet name for her.”
“I see. I also see that you spend a great deal of time amusing yourselves outdoors. What is her status in the classroom, Miss Franklin? Is she an apt student?”
Mercy bristled. “If you bothered to speak to her, you might already know the answer to that, my lord.” She wanted to clap her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. She could not unsay the words.
Lord Ashby tipped his head slightly down as he studied her, as though she were some strange creature he had never encountered before. Which could not be too far off the mark, for Mercy had never encountered this side of herself before. She’d never been defiant or rude . . . Perhaps it was because his accusation was so unfounded. Amusing themselves, indeed.
“M-my lord, I-I-I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean, Miss Franklin. You are implying that I have neglected my duties with regard to my niece.”
“Well, not your duties, surely.” After all, he had hired her, forgoing all other servants aside from his former military subordinates.
He rubbed a hand across his mouth and chin. “I will admit I have not been quite sure how to approach her.”
“She is just a child, my lord.” But she guessed he had not had much experience with children. Not as an army officer.
“I will bear that in mind in future, Miss Franklin. In the meantime, shall I rephrase my question? How would you evaluate my niece’s classroom skills?”
Mercy clasped her hands together at her waist, relieved that the conversation was moving in a reasonable direction. “She is a very bright young girl, my lord. She can read everything I put before her, and then some. Her arithmetic skills are strong as well, even going beyond simple sums and subtractions.”
He raised a brow. Plain interest, Mercy wondered, or surprise?
“My lord, you may have heard that I’ve forbidden your niece to take her meals in the kitchen with your men.”
He looked at her blankly. “Your point being . . . ?”
“It is entirely inappropriate for an earl’s daughter . . . or niece . . . to dine elbow to elbow with your staff. Such as it is,” she could not help but add.
Ashby leaned back in his chair and gazed at her, and she felt that uncomfortable curling of her toes again. “No doubt you are right, Miss Franklin. But without proper servants and a decent chef, what would you have had me do?”
“Perhaps you should have kept her nurse until there was someone to replace her.”
She had done it again. She was quite capable of carrying on a suitably respectful interchange, and yet something about Lord Ashby made her forget all her training. Maybe she di
d it to fend off the intense attraction she felt.
The earl came slowly to his feet and circled around the desk, his movements half tamed at best, and Mercy wondered if he would chastise her now.
Moving quite deliberately, he came to stand right in front of her. Mercy could not help but take a step back from his powerful presence. He was so very tall, his shoulders enormously wide in his dark jacket and plain waistcoat. His legs were powerful, his booted feet standing apart and solid on the ground. The earl faced her squarely, as though he could frighten her with his damaged visage. But, much to her chagrin, she found his scars far more fascinating than frightening.
She needed to curb this inappropriate attraction. It interfered with her concentration and caused her to lose sleep with unacceptable, fevered dreams. If she had to count the times she’d pictured his strong hands with their blunt-tipped fingers, or thought of the deep timbre of his voice—
“The woman was a shrew, and caused my niece to cower,” he said softly, and Mercy could almost feel the sharp rasp of his voice against her spine as he spoke. “I could not abide her, Miss Franklin.”
Mercy forced herself not to shy away from him, away from the seduction of his gaze and his powerful, masculine stance.
The earl moved closer, sending sparks of awareness skittering across Mercy’s skin. But if he thought he could intimidate her—or even seduce her—he was sadly mistaken.
She raised her chin and faced him head-on. Emmaline needed a nurse, someone with more experience than Mercy. Someone who would stay here and be a companion to Emmy once Mercy left. “My lord . . . is there someone . . . Has Mr. Lowell employed someone—as he did me—to come and function as Emmaline’s nurse?”
In spite of his daunting posture, Mercy intended to make it clear that someone needed to see to Emmaline’s wardrobe and do her laundry. She needed an experienced nurse to make sure she was eating properly, and to care for her if she became ill. Because Mercy was barely qualified to perform her own duties.
“Miss Franklin, my brother died last summer on the very day I was getting half my face blown off at Waterloo.” His voice rumbled through her this time, like quiet thunder before a storm. “I was unable to travel for some time. And now that I have returned to Ashby Hall, I find the estate in . . . shall we say . . . less than ideal circumstances.”
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