Pistols at Dawn (15 page)

There was a slight pause. "When do I start?"

"This afternoon. Just as soon as I give Hastings the boot."

* * *

Lucien's eyelids fluttered open but it seemed to take a moment or two for him to focus on his surroundings. "Never imagined I would be allowed past the Pearly Gates, but I must be in Heaven as I see an angel..." He sighed as he closed his eyes and shifted on the pillow. "Mmmm. No doubt it is but a dream."

"It is no dream, Mr. Harkness, and you are, thank the Lord, still in the land of the living." Meredith rearranged the coverlet. "I am so glad to see you have finally come awake. We have been very worried about you."

"Miss Meredith! What on earth are you—" Lucien tried to sit up, but fell back with a small groan.

"Oh, don't try to move, sir. You have suffered some very nasty injuries, and although I think the worst has passed, you mustn't tax your strength." She pressed a cup to his lips. "Try to drink a bit of this broth. Then I shall go downstairs and let your uncle know the good news."

"No, please. Don't go just yet," he asked as she made to rise. "I don't understand. How is it that you are here? I mean...." His words trailed off in some confusion.

"You needed care, and I am eminently qualified to give it."

His mouth tugged into a lopsided grimace. "Somehow I doubt it is quite as simple as that. To begin with, what the deuce happened to me? I feel as though a regiment of Boney's cavalry has run roughshod over every particle of flesh and bone."

Meredith regarded him through lowered lashes. "Do you not remember anything about what occurred?"

"No. That is what is so horrible—once again, my memory seem to have failed me. I mean, I do recall walking with Ajax. We were headed toward the village when I heard a voice—a cry, really—coming from the woods. We went to see if someone needed assistance, then..." He shook head. "Then, everything is a complete blank."

"Just as well," she murmured.

"But what is wrong with me, that I can't recall such things?" His whisper was harsh with self-loathing. "Am I some monster whose mind is addled? Did I attack someone else?"

"Mr. Harkness—"

Ignoring her gentle attempt to interrupt, Lucien became even more agitated. "Good Lord, perhaps Uncle Marcus ought to have me locked away, before I do any more harm—"

She cut off his recriminations with a touch to his cheek. "Listen to me, Mr. Harkness. You have harmed no one."

He blinked.

"No one," repeated Meredith firmly. "The reason you cannot remember the first incident is because you had no part in it. We have proof of that now. And as for the second one, there is no question that someone attacked
you
and not the other way around."

She brushed back a lock of hair from his brow. "There is a monster in our midst, but it is
not
you." Her expression turned troubled. "Although the real miscreant is going through a good deal of trouble to make it appear as if it is you."

"T-That is good news, indeed." A wave of relief washed over his face, yet after a moment, some of the pinch returned to his expression. "But... why me?"

"We have all been wondering that as well. The answer is still a mystery." For the first time, a slight smile came to her lips. "However, Lord Killingworth seemed quite determined to discover who is responsible. And I, for one, would not like to be the guilty party when he does."

"Uncle Marcus?" The young man sounded doubtful. "Can't imagine he would care to expend much effort on my behalf."

"Oh, I think the earl may surprise us all."

* * *

"It was on account of the cankers, milord," explained the earl's steward. "Half the herd had to be slaughtered before it was ready for market, to keep the disease from spreading. That's why the profit for mutton is not more for the past season."

"When one spends more on feeding the animals than one gains in selling them, it is not called a profit, Hastings. It is called a loss." Marcus turned to another page of the records. "What about this entry for wheat? I was somewhat surprised at the price per bushel used for the calculations. I was under the impression that the going rate was nearly double what is written down here."

"T-There was a short spell when prices dipped, er, due to a temporary glut in the market. Unfortunately, we had no choice but to sell at the time, else see the grain spoil." The man wet his lips. "A bit of bad luck."

"Bad luck seems to dog your steps, Mr. Hastings. Bad harvests, sick animals, flooded mill ponds, accidental fires, untimely market ventures." Marcus looked up. "Why, another year or two under your hand and my estate may be reduced to naught but barren earth."

"But, sir, the place had been neglected for years. You saw it yourself—the farmlands gone to weeds, the buildings in disrepair, the flocks depleted, the tenants prone to laziness," replied his steward in a wheedling whine. "It takes time to turn things around. If Your Lordship will just have a bit of patience, I have every expectation that the coming season will bring better results."

"So do I," snapped the earl. "For I plan to make a number of changes in the way things are run around here. Beginning with hiring a new steward. One whose efforts will be directed at real improvements rather than in robbing me blind."

The man's mouth went through a number of contortions, reminding the earl of a fish on a hook. "S—slanderous lies, milord! Whoever has been whispering such poisonous words in your ear is naught but a sniveling malcontent. I swear on the Bible—"

"Numbers do not lie. And the only poisonous words are the ones dripping from your forked tongue." Marcus snapped the ledger shut. "You have a half hour to gather your things and slither off my lands, Hastings."

"Y—you are turning me out?" The man gaped in disbelief. "Impossible! I—You can't do that!"

"But I just have. You should be grateful that I haven't called the authorities to haul you off to the gaol where you belong. Now get out of my sight, before I change my mind about having you arrested for theft."

The former steward's color went from white to a mottled purple. "You will be sorry," he replied, his voice squeezed to little more than a hiss by a spasm of rage.

Marcus's pen hovered over the blank sheet of paper he had placed on his blotter. "Is that a threat, Hastings?"

The man backed up several steps, then spun around and fled from the room. It wasn't until the door had slammed shut that he dared to turn and spit an answer at the oaken panels.

"Oh, it isn't a threat, Lord Killingworth. It's a bloody promise."

Chapter 10

The earl scratched out the number he had written. "Blast," he muttered. "That can't be right." Adjusting his spectacles, he took a moment to recalculate the column, then penned in a new total beneath the blot of ink.

"Correct." Eliza leaned in over his shoulder. "You see, you are beginning to get the knack of it now."

"I daresay the East India Company will not be vying for my services anytime soon," he replied. "However, as a page of numbers no longer looks like Greek to me, I should be able to tell in the future whether I am being robbed blind."

She turned away from the desk, but not quite enough to hide a half smile. "You read Greek, sir. Fluently."

"And how would you know that, Miss Kirtland?"

Eliza traced a hand over the carved acanthus leaf edging the shelves. She had, he realized, a very graceful hand, long fingered, with a firm yet gentle touch. He watched it come to rest on the top of the book, and couldn't help wondering what her palm would feel like, sliding insides the fastenings of his shirt.

Provocative, he imagined. Just like her intriguing emerald eyes. Which could be hard as gemstones or soft as the underside of a spring leaf, depending on her mood.

"You make notes in the margins of your books. Rather lengthy ones."

At the moment, her mood seemed quixotic—half serious, half teasing. Was the straight-laced Miss Kirtland actually loosing her hair enough to engage in a bit of banter?

He rather wished she would. The scraped-back curls, wound tight in a prim bun, were particularly unflattering. Not to speak of the slate gray gown, with its choking neckline and long sleeves.

Realizing that his thoughts were in danger of straying into dangerous territory, Marcus made himself return to the subject at hand. "How do you know they are mine, and not those of some long deceased scholar of the family?"

"I recognize your handwriting," replied Eliza. "After all, I've seen quite a bit of it lately, what with having to correct the ledgers and check over the requests you are sending to your bankers."

A low chuckle greeted the answer. "Are you, perchance, thinking of taking up a job as a Bow Street Runner in addition to your other endeavors?"

"I doubt they would pay me nearly as much as you do, sir." Turning in profile, she gazed out the window and the quirk of her lips quickly straightened to an expression that was all business. "Speaking of blunt, I have been going over the costs of repairing the mill, and we may need to ask for additional funds."

Marcus was sorry to see the humor die away from her face. The warmth of a smile, however fleeting, brought a glow to her skin and a sparkle to her eyes that made them appear far richer than cold, hard-edged jewels. A young lady of her years—for she was young, despite her assertions to the contrary—should not always be looking so serious, as if the weight of the world were resting upon her slim shoulders.

A rueful sigh nearly escaped his lips as he realized that he was only adding to her burdens. The job of running Killingworth Manor was an enormous responsibility to take on, as he was quickly discovering.

Forcing his attention back to the matters of finance, he drawled, "I fear Mr. Countt may suffer a fit of apoplexy when he sees the amount you deem necessary for the job."

"Well, if the coffers are running low, I suppose you could always pay a visit to London and make the rounds of your usual gaming haunts. It is said you have the devil's own luck at the gaming tables, so that should solve the problem."

His jaw tightened. The casual barb sliced through any lingering illusion of camaraderie between them. Surprised at how deeply he felt the cut, he parried with a sharpness of his own.

"I thought you claimed to be far too intelligent to pay any attention to gossip and rumor." After a slight pause, he could not help but add, "And besides, gambling is not quite as simple or predictable as adding or subtracting a column of numbers."

Eliza's gaze remained grimly focused on the distant fields. "I wouldn't know, sir."

"No, I imagine not. You do not strike me as someone who takes any chances in life. Indeed, you are quite as rigid and unbending as one of the neat little numbers you pen on the page, aren't you?"

Marcus removed his spectacles and let his eyes slowly travel from the tips of her half boots to the twist of her tightly coiled bun. "Don't you ever wonder what it might be like to let your hair down, Miss Kirtland, if only for a moment?"

He was childishly gratified to see that his words had brought a flush to her cheeks.

"I will leave my suggestions for the cultivation of the south fields here atop the projection of prices for wheat and rye," she replied flatly. "Do try to study what is there so that you won't be utterly lost when we meet to discuss the project this afternoon."

Slapping the papers down on his desk, Eliza turned for the door. "In the meantime, I must return to Rose Cottage and fetch a few of my books on agriculture."

"I shall have the carriage brought around."

"Don't bother, sir. I feel in need of a breath of fresh air."

* * *

Odious beast.
Eliza kicked at a pebble, knocking it clear across the cart path and into the shallow ditch. How dare the infamous Black Cat assume the right to make such snide assessments of her character! Why, he didn't know the first thing about her. His judgments were based on naught but presumptions...

Hells Bells.

Another stone skittered through the dust. It was not the same thing, she assured herself, though her toe stubbed on one of the ruts. She knew a great deal about the Earl of Killingworth. Certainly enough to form a valid opinion. He was a jaded rake, who took pleasure in all manner of vice. After all, everything she had heard or read had indicated as much.