Pistols at Dawn (18 page)

"Lord Killingworth." Whitney sounded a bit winded as he trotted over to greet them. And well he might. Despite the stiff breeze, he was stripped to his shirtsleeves and the mud on his person made it clear he had been doing more than just issuing orders.

"The job is nearly done, sir. Another hour or two and there will be no further danger of sheep straying over the edge." He gestured at the sturdy posts and heavy rails that guarded the crumbling rock. "Though it took a bit longer, I had the holes dug a foot deeper and packed with crushed stone. That way, the fence may weather the elements with less danger of collapse. I hope that meets with your approval."

Eliza gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Yes. Good thinking," said the earl as he surveyed the expanse of work. In doing so, his eye caught on a small area near where the rails took a turn inland. "While you are here, should not that bit of overhanging ledge be chipped away? It looks as if one good storm would knock it loose and cause a good deal of damage."

Both Whitney and Eliza looked to where he had indicated. "Aye, milord. You are right," exclaimed the steward. "I'll see to it directly."

"I think the men can finish up on their own," said Marcus, feeling oddly gratified by his contribution to the efforts. Perhaps there was hope that he could be a competent master of his lands.

"I'd rather you accompany us on a tour of the south fields. I may have some suggestions to make, once we see for ourselves how all the work is progressing."

Whitney's gaze made only the slightest flicker in Eliza's direction. "An excellent idea, sir. I'll just be a moment."

As the two of them waited for him to fetch his coat and horse, the earl heard a murmur mix in with the gusting breeze.

"Lesson number three for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include acknowledging when one's employer shows a marked improvement in his attention to detail."

* * *

The earl was improving in his grasp of estate management, Eliza admitted to herself later that afternoon. In leaps and bounds. Her eyes scanned down the ruled page, checking over the past month's expenditures. Why, he had even made some headway in getting the numbers to add up as they should. She made several minor corrections, then let the ledger fall closed.

Would that she could figure out the sum of Lord Killingworth with half as much accuracy.

Thinking his demand that she teach him how to run the Manor was made out of whimsy or boredom, she had been determined to test his mettle. Indeed, the lengthy list of things to do might have intimidated even the most dedicated of pupils. There were dreadfully dull technical treatises on agriculture and animal husbandry to read, practical lectures to assimilate and hands-on inspections to make, not to speak of getting to know his tenants.

If truth be told, Eliza hadn't expected him to stick it out a week.

She let out a harried sigh. Well, not only had the earl stuck it out, he had proven to be an extremely quick study. Unlike many people, he listened well, and when he understood a fundamental concept, he asked intelligent questions to further his understanding of a subject. The afternoon ride had shown he was observant to boot. His suggestion about the ledge had been only one of several excellent recommendations.

In short, the Earl of Killingworth had shown himself to be smart, diligent, thoughtful and determined.

And amusing.

Loath as she was to acknowledge it, she had enjoyed their lively bantering. His teasing lit a certain spark in her that was far more complex than mere anger. It was odd how she had, on first impression, thought him a cold, hard gentleman—
Chilling
worth had seemed a more apt moniker than his true name. Now, it was difficult to imagine she had missed such nuances as the subtle shades of intelligence in his amber eyes, or the rich depth of his laughter, or—

Eliza stopped herself with a rueful grimace. Hell's Bells, she was in danger of sounding like a besotted schoolgirl. It would not do to forget that he was also a practiced charmer, a man who made a habit of seducing women, drinking to excess, frequenting the gaming hells and... engaging in vices she probably couldn't begin to name.

Or imagine.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was waxing poetic about her.

The earl thought her rude. She brushed an errant curl from her cheek. And what of his snide remark concerning hairpins? Her hand came up to fiddle with the tightly wound bun at her neck. He had implied she was rigid, unbending, incapable of having fun.

It was, she thought with a slight sniff, a rather unfair—not to speak of unflattering—assessment. With a sick mother, a younger sister and a dwindling nest egg, she had had little opportunity to think of serendipitous pleasures.

Cupping her chin, Eliza contemplated the drops of rain that were beginning to spatter against the windowpanes. A sudden squall had blown in from the sea, bringing with it a thick mist that had turned the sky a dull pewter and obscured all but the closest trees. As she watched the landscape dissolve into naught but an amorphous blur, she couldn't helping thinking how strange it was that things could look so sparkling clear one moment and so fuzzy the next.

"Am I interrupting your work?"

Eliza turned with a start, then smiled. "No. Just woolgathering, I'm afraid." She hastily opened one of the journals at her elbow. "However, I really should not be wasting my time in idleness. I have a good deal of reading to plough through."

Her sister's brow creased as she took a seat near the desk. "Don't apologize. You should do it more often—woolgathering, that is, not analyzing the latest mechanical devices for cutting a furrow through the earth."

Meredith smoothed at the sash of her dress before continuing. "I fear you are pushing yourself too hard, especially of late. It wouldn't hurt to lay aside the books and spend a few hours doing... nothing."

The journal fell back on the pile with a thump. "You, too?" muttered Eliza through clenched teeth. Before her sister could respond, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and went on. "You think I should... let my hair down, is that it?"

Meredith smiled. "I suppose that is one way of putting it."

"Hmmph. Well, I'd rather you didn't." In the ensuing silence, her fingers unconsciously strayed to the nape of her neck. "Do you find me too stiff? Too serious?"

"Good Heavens, that's not at all what I meant." Meredith's reply was said gently, but the gaze that she fixed on Eliza's taut features was a good deal more probing. "I spoke out of concern, not criticism. At times, I worry that you are taking on too many responsibilities."

"I like keeping busy," she said, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

Her sister looked from Eliza's shadowed profile to the heavy ledgers to the open inkwell. "Is there some particular reason you are working yourself to the bone? I thought you had finished preparing the estimates for Mr. Hardy's alehouse."

"I have." Eliza's mouth quirked. For reasons she could not quite explain, even to herself, she had held off in telling her sister about the arrangement with the earl. It would, she knew, have to come out at some point, so she decided it might as well be now. "But I have a new client."

As expected, the announcement caused a ripple of surprise in Meredith's eyes. "A new client? Given all the recent events, I can't for the life of me imagine when you had time to arrange that. Who is it?"

"The Earl of Killingworth."

* * *

The earl stretched his legs out toward the fire and tried to concentrate on the printed page. Yet try as he might to visualize the alignment of pulleys and levers described in the paragraph, all he could picture in his mind was a pair of exotic green eyes, a tigerish scowl, a...

With a snort of exasperation, he tossed the book aside. Why was he was bedeviled by thoughts of Miss Kirtland when he had a good deal of other, more important, matters to occupy his attention? If he thought of her at all, it should only in the context of their business arrangement—say, for example, to review one of her myriad lectures on estate management. But somehow, contemplating an explanation of crop rotation or tilling methods was not nearly so intriguing as picturing the defiant tilt of her chin, or the way her unruly wheaten curls refused to be tamed by a regiment of hairpins.

Bloody hell.
It wasn't as if she thought of him. Except, perhaps, for the few seconds it took to consign him to whatever circle of the Inferno that Dante had reserved for dissolute scoundrels.

Muttering an oath, he rose and poured himself a generous splash of brandy. It went down in one hurried gulp, no matter that the fiery spirits left his throat feeling a bit scalded.

The sensation was rather like an encounter with the young lady herself—a complex mixture of spice, sweetness and heat that was not altogether pleasant at first, but left one wanting another taste.

After refilling his glass, the earl moved to stand before the blazing logs. Why he should savor the idea of their working together was puzzling in the extreme. She was all business, while he preferred his females to be all pleasure. No matter how he looked at the problem, it simply didn't add up.

But then, he had much to learn before he would be proficient in mathematics.

Chapter 12

The stallion's frightened whinny was nearly drowned out by the crackling flames. Smoke was fast enveloping the stall, thick with wisps of blackened hay. It took only a few minutes for the fire to spread to the adjoining enclosure, setting alight an old carriage harness hung out for repairs. The tangle of burning leather quickly snapped and shattered a lantern.

Glass exploded, spilling oil onto a pile of rags. Sparks lit the soaked fabric and suddenly flames were shooting up to the rafters.

Panicked, the big animal reared up again and again, hooves splintering the singed wood as it desperately sought escape from the growing inferno. The noise finally roused a young stable boy who was sleeping above the tack room. He stumbled down the stairs, finally awaking to the danger below.

Shielding his face, the lad tried to make his way to the stall, but the heat and smoke forced him back. Another snort of terror from the thrashing stallion drove him to try again. Dropping to the stone floor, he managed to crawl half the distance before a falling timber caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder.

He tried to cry out, but the sound was hardly more than a choked sob. The air was acrid and billowing clouds dark as slate...

"Bloody Hell!" Blinded by the swirling smoke, the earl needed several precious minutes to locate the unconscious lad and drag him to safety.

It was a damn lucky thing, thought Marcus, that he had been unable to fall asleep earlier in the evening. Rather than lie awake counting sheep, he had gone down to his study with the intent of finishing the accounting for the millpond project. From the windows opposite his desk, he had noticed the faint orange glow and had lost no time in racing down the graveled path.

"Come, Jem, take a breath!" he ordered, thumping some air into the frightened lad's lungs. "You must run to the house and wake the others." Without waiting for a reply, the earl turned, ready to plunge back into the roaring blaze.

"Milord!"

"Whitney!" he answered. "Ring the alarm. Open the rest of these stalls, then gather what help you can and see if you can prevent the fire from spreading to the other wing."

"But sir—"

Marcus had already disappeared into the spark and flames.

* * *

"More water there!" Whitney paused long enough in his labors at the well to point to a smoking beam. The buckets passed hand to hand down the line of servants, and the threat was quickly extinguished.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he yielded his place to a fresh man and went to inspect the damage. Smoke still wafted up from charred wood, puddles sloshed underfoot and an eerie hissing stirred through the wet embers, but by some miracle the fire had been contained to one small wing of the massive stables.

"Is everyone accounted for?" demanded the steward, as he peered into the rubble.

"Aye, Mr. Whitney. And it appears all the animals be safe as well," answered the grizzled gamekeeper, who had been one of the first to arrive on the scene.