Pistols at Dawn (17 page)

An exasperated sigh stole forth. She made precious few errors when it came to dealing with numbers. If only the same could be said for her dealings with people.

Her gaze lingered on a basket of dried herbs. She stood for several moments, breathing in the subtle scents of lavender, thyme and chamomile, and felt the scrunch of her features begin to ease somewhat. Despite her youth and lack of worldly experience, Meredith was not only a skilled healer, but also an excellent judge of people. And not only was her sister unintimidated by the Earl of Killingworth's growls and snarls, for some odd reason, she actually seemed to like him.

Eliza wasn't quite sure why.

But still, such a realization helped banish her misgivings, at least for the moment.

After adding a roll of pamphlets to the pocket of her pelisse, she reordered the stacks of books on her desk before quitting the cottage and set off at a brisk pace for Killingworth Manor. The die was cast, she told herself, wryly choosing an analogy in keeping with one of the earl's favorite pastimes. If it was a losing proposition, she could always gather up her vowels and leave the table.

In the meantime, she meant to profit from both the salary and the experience the earl was offering. And trifling annoyances such as lordly sarcasm or teasing would not deter her from her goal. She would do whatever it took to get the job done.

She would be tough. She would be patient. She would be hardworking. She would be innovative...

Hell's Bells.

She would even try to be nice to the dratted man, if that was what was necessary.

Chapter 11

"Rethatch Wicker's cottage... a dozen ewes to be added to the north meadows... switch from mangel wurtzel to..." muttered the earl, his writing reduced to a hurried scrawl as he tried to keep pace with Eliza's orders.

"And if you and your new steward are riding out in the direction of the mill, ask Mr. Fleming if the new stone has arrived," finished Eliza. "That is, if Mr. Whitney has no objection to my suggestions."

Marcus laid aside his pen. "Sarcasm is not necessary to remind me of how little you like the arrangement, Miss Kirtland—there is precious little chance I shall ever forget it." On seeing the jut of her chin, he had to repress a smile. "However, even you have to admit that things are progressing rather well."

"Hmmph." With an exaggerated shrug, she went back to consulting her notes. "The young man does not appear unwilling to listen," she allowed. "Nor does he seem adverse to hard work."

Young man? He coughed to hide a chuckle. The fellow was at least a half dozen years her senior. "Well, he does come highly recommended."

"Ha, but by whom?" she said under her breath. Shuffling the pages, she added in a louder voice," It is too early to judge, sir. But I suppose I could be saddled with worse."

High praise indeed, thought the earl. He should hope so, given the amount of effort it had taken to search out the right man for the job. Not only was the candidate required to be diligent, trustworthy and sharp-witted, but also liberal-minded enough to agree to some radical management notions—including a female as his nominal boss.

The earl's inquiries had turned up the name of Jock Whitney, whose father had worked for decades as the bailiff of a vast estate near Exeter. Having served a lengthy apprenticeship under his parent, the younger Whitney was eager for a chance to strike out on his own. Enough so that he was willing to agree to the rather peculiar terms of the contract.

To his credit, the fellow had not sought to change the conditions once he had been hired. There were, mused Marcus, all manner of subtle ways in which a new steward might have tried to discredit Miss Kirtland. Instead, he seemed to hold her and her ideas in genuine regard.

In turn, the young lady's barbs were becoming less and less pointed, as reflected by her last comment.

"Speaking of Whitney," continued the earl when she finally looked up. "He wished me to ask whether you thought the acreage near the millpond might be better used for millet rather than rye."

"An interesting question." Eliza began to chew on the end of her pen. "I suppose he has read Remington's essay on soil nutrients."

"Possibly," murmured the earl, hoping she wouldn't inquire whether he had done the same. He had burning the candles into the wee hours of the night studying on sheep and cows, but he drew the line at dirt.

"I shall have to think on it for a day." Turning from the table she had commandeered as her work space, she moved to the windows. "Why is he not here? There are a number of other matters I should have liked to discuss in person."

"A section of fencing by the cliffs was washed out by last night's heavy rain. He wished to oversee the repairs himself, to make sure they were done right."

"Hmmph." A nod, however, indicated her grudging approval. "In that case, they, too, can wait until the morrow." Eliza's gaze lingered a bit longer on the distant pastureland, as if her thoughts had momentarily wandered far afield. Then, gathering her the ends of her shawl, she stepped back from the leaded panes.

"During my afternoon walk, I shall try to pass by the milking barns and see how work is going on the new churns." The fringe was slowly unraveling in her fingers. "Of course, if I have any suggestions, I shall make note of them and let Mr. Whitney know later."

Marcus felt a sudden twinge of sympathy. Her sense of frustration was entirely understandable. The ideas, the innovations were hers, and yet she must cloak her intellect in the same drab cloth that hid her physical attributes.

"The barns can also wait until tomorrow," he murmured. "Why not ride out with us this afternoon. We'll make a thorough tour of the south end of the Manor, to make sure you are satisfied with the way your plans are being implemented."

Her eyes narrowed, though not enough to hide the spark of excitement that set their emerald color aglitter. "I—I thought you said my role in running Killingworth Manor must remain a secret."

"I did. And it must. But as long as you are a guest under my roof, it will not draw undue attention if you accompany me on a leisurely ride. Nor will it seem odd if my steward joins us for part of the time."

She hesitated, pride warring with a burning curiosity to see how things were progressing.

"Ah, well. If you would rather not..."

"I shall be ready in ten minutes."

Five was more like it, thought the earl with an inward grin on watching her hurry toward the stables. As she drew nearer, his amusement faded. He could see she had not changed her garments, save for replacing the shawl with a short spenser jacket and adding an unattractive bonnet. That she didn't appear to possess a riding habit made him question for a moment whether his suggestion had been a wise one. It hadn't occurred to him that she might not know how to ride and so he had chosen a rather spirited filly for her mount.

The problem was, given her present prickly mood, it was highly unlikely she would admit to not knowing how to handle the reins, no matter if she had never been in the saddle before. He could only hope that she wouldn't take a bad tumble.

His misgivings were quickly dispelled as the groom helped her up and adjusted the reins. Despite her billowing skirts, she had a firm seat and a calm authority that stilled the filly's nervous prancing. And, he added to himself, a nicely turned ankle and calf, which the breeze was now exposing with gratifying regularity.

As if sensing the drift of his thoughts, Eliza urged her mount into a brisk trot. "Where to first?" she demanded over her shoulder.

A light touch of his heels brought his stallion abreast of her. "I thought you might like to see how work is progressing on the mill pond before we meet up with Whitney."

Her only response was a curt nod. They rode on in silence until the way led into a grove of beech and live oaks, slowing their pace to a walk.

Seeing a frown start to form, Marcus sought to allay her impatience. "We needn't rush, Miss Kirtland. If we can't cover all the ground today, there is always tomorrow."

"Perhaps there is tomorrow, but I shall not be a guest for much longer," she muttered. "So I must try to accomplish as much as I can before it's time to take our leave from here."

He mulled over the import of her words before replying. "Yes, thanks to your sister and you, Lucien is well on the mend. I believe that only this morning, he managed a short walk through the garden." With Meredith steadying the young man's steps, he might add—though he didn't.

"It is Meredith who should receive all the thanks. I deserve little credit—you know well enough that my first inclination was not that of the Good Samaritan."

"Yet you allowed your sister to convince you otherwise."

"So I did."

He thought he detected a flicker of emotion shade her profile. Curious, he pressed on. "Have you any regrets?"

"In retrospect, that would be a churlish sentiment to admit to."

The answer was oblique at best, but he let it pass. Their horses splashed through a shallow stream, then climbed a short rise into open meadow. Marcus, too, made a slight change in direction. "They seem to have developed a certain... friendship, despite the rocky beginning."

"Unlike their relatives." The filly gave a wicker and tossed her head, causing Eliza to relax her grip on the reins. Perhaps realizing her tone had grown just as tight, she let out a deep breath and added, "Yes, they appear to enjoy each other's company."

"Unlike their relatives," echoed the earl, though he said it with a great deal more humor than she had.

"This is a business arrangement, Lord Killingworth," she replied. "Whether we like or dislike each other is not part of the equation."

Damnation.
Why did she insist on being as stiff and dry as one of the numbers in his ledgers? He knew she had a keen sense of humor, though she took pains to keep it as well-shrouded as the curves of her bosom.

Grimacing in exasperation, he couldn't refrain from answering her snap for snap. "Ah. I shall make a note of it in my copybook. Lesson number one for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include rebuffing any attempt at polite conversation with gratuitous rudeness."

His words seemed to take her by surprise. Her brow furrowed and there was an awkward pause before she replied. "I—I was not intending to be deliberately rude, sir. Merely... businesslike."

"You might want to make a few notes of your own, Miss Kirtland. When I do business with someone, I prefer it to be a pleasant exchange. That way I am more likely to want to repeat the experience. I imagine most people feel the same way." He slanted a sideways glance at her, interested to catch her reaction.

There was a pronounced scowl, then the scrunch of her lips gave an odd little tweak. "I shall make a note of it in my workbook. Lesson number two for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include humoring one's employer."

Though her expression was not quite a smile, it was getting close. "I would offer to sing, or to dance atop the saddle, but as I do both very badly, it would definitely not be a pleasant experience."

Marcus gave an inward grin, delighted he had unwound at least one layer of her protective covering. "I shall settle for polite conversation."

"Very well." Eliza shifted in her saddle. "What do you wish to discuss, sir?"

"We were speaking of your sister and my nephew. I am curious as to whether you are still dead set against the acquaintance, given your initial opinion of the young man?"

"My initial opinion was wrong," she conceded with hesitation. "Mr. Harkness seems a... decent young man."

His brow waggled. "Miss Kirtland in error? Did I hear correctly?"

"I can be wrong on occasion." Two bright spots of color had appeared on her cheeks, whether from the wind or some other cause was impossible to tell. "Though not often."

Marcus couldn't help but chuckle.

"Fie on you sir! Overt mockery is hardly polite." She was, however, still sporting the odd half smile.

"Ah, but there is a different between teasing and mocking. Teasing is a more—"

A loud hail from up ahead interrupted his words. He looked around, surprised that he hadn't noticed the rocky cliffs or the sound of the surf until that moment.