but they weren’t positive he didn’t. They were desperate to stay on his good side if he was the new master, but to not aggravate Augusta or Miles too much lest he wasn’t.
He climbed to the third floor, having discovered where Miss Fogarty’s suite was located, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so eager to obtain the information. Nor could he deduce why he was visiting her, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
He never bothered with females, deeming them to be especially cruel and duplicitous. Miss Fogarty was a breath of fresh air. She was smart, amusing, and intriguing.
She appeared to be running the estate, a situation he found hilarious and extremely odd. He wouldn’t generally have thought a woman would be interested in a task as tedious as farming, and he, himself, couldn’t name a more boring endeavor. After sailing the globe, surviving in Australia, and practicing his criminal talents for two decades, a rural farm was the dreariest place he would ever hope to reside.
Which certainly had him wondering why he was at Kirkwood. He’d come to wreck it, to ruin Miles and Edward. The prospect had been his driving force, but he’d been focused on it for so long that he had no plan for after he was finished. He’d likely wind up depressed and adrift.
At the end of a deserted hall, he stopped at her door. He knocked once then entered without waiting to be invited.
He surveyed the sitting room, trying to discern what it indicated about her, but there wasn’t anything to provide evidence as to the sort of person she was. She had no paintings on the walls, no knitted throws on the sofa, no portraits on the mantel. It was a very sterile spot, as if it was unoccupied and kept clean in case an unexpected guest showed up.
There was a bedchamber behind the sitting room, and she called, “Sophia, is that you? Where have you been? You won’t believe what’s happened.”
He strolled over to the doorway that separated the two rooms, and he arrived just as she did. She bumped right into him.
“Mr. Drummond!” she snapped like a fussy schoolteacher. “What are you doing in here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
Her hair was down and brushed out, the pretty auburn tresses falling to her bottom, and he was delighted to report that she was attired in her robe. She wasn’t naked underneath it though. He caught a glimpse of a faded chemise before she clutched at the lapels and yanked them more tightly across her chest.
He smirked. As if a bloody lapel could protect her.
“You can’t just barge in,” she insisted.
“I already have.” He scowled. “Haven’t I said that to you at least once before? Don’t tell me what I can’t do after I’ve already done it. It’s annoying.”
“Oh, pardon me,” she facetiously sneered. “I would never wish to annoy you.” She pointed to the door. “Go away.”
“No.”
“Mr. Drummond! Go.”
“No.”
She pushed by him, stomped over, and gestured to the hall as if she could shoo him out like a bad dog, and he finally realized why he’d come. He was greatly humored by her. She was feisty and spirited, and they were traits he never would have envisioned a Marshall to possess.
“If you don’t leave,” she threatened, “I’ll scream.”
“So scream. How will it help you?”
“The footmen will rush to my aid. They’ll send you packing.”
“They tried once—at your command. Obviously it didn’t work, but if you presume they can be more successful a second time, summon them. Feel free.”
He waved her on, pretending to be magnanimous, as if he was giving her permission. He didn’t think she’d scream, but to his surprise, she bellowed out so stridently that she instantly rubbed her throat as if she’d torn a tendon in her neck.
They froze, her expression murderous, but as he’d predicted, no one appeared to render assistance. Kirkwood Manor was a huge mansion, her suite was in a deserted area away from the rest of the
He climbed to the third floor, having discovered where Miss Fogarty’s suite was located, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so eager to obtain the information. Nor could he deduce why he was visiting her, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
He never bothered with females, deeming them to be especially cruel and duplicitous. Miss Fogarty was a breath of fresh air. She was smart, amusing, and intriguing.
She appeared to be running the estate, a situation he found hilarious and extremely odd. He wouldn’t generally have thought a woman would be interested in a task as tedious as farming, and he, himself, couldn’t name a more boring endeavor. After sailing the globe, surviving in Australia, and practicing his criminal talents for two decades, a rural farm was the dreariest place he would ever hope to reside.
Which certainly had him wondering why he was at Kirkwood. He’d come to wreck it, to ruin Miles and Edward. The prospect had been his driving force, but he’d been focused on it for so long that he had no plan for after he was finished. He’d likely wind up depressed and adrift.
At the end of a deserted hall, he stopped at her door. He knocked once then entered without waiting to be invited.
He surveyed the sitting room, trying to discern what it indicated about her, but there wasn’t anything to provide evidence as to the sort of person she was. She had no paintings on the walls, no knitted throws on the sofa, no portraits on the mantel. It was a very sterile spot, as if it was unoccupied and kept clean in case an unexpected guest showed up.
There was a bedchamber behind the sitting room, and she called, “Sophia, is that you? Where have you been? You won’t believe what’s happened.”
He strolled over to the doorway that separated the two rooms, and he arrived just as she did. She bumped right into him.
“Mr. Drummond!” she snapped like a fussy schoolteacher. “What are you doing in here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
Her hair was down and brushed out, the pretty auburn tresses falling to her bottom, and he was delighted to report that she was attired in her robe. She wasn’t naked underneath it though. He caught a glimpse of a faded chemise before she clutched at the lapels and yanked them more tightly across her chest.
He smirked. As if a bloody lapel could protect her.
“You can’t just barge in,” she insisted.
“I already have.” He scowled. “Haven’t I said that to you at least once before? Don’t tell me what I can’t do after I’ve already done it. It’s annoying.”
“Oh, pardon me,” she facetiously sneered. “I would never wish to annoy you.” She pointed to the door. “Go away.”
“No.”
“Mr. Drummond! Go.”
“No.”
She pushed by him, stomped over, and gestured to the hall as if she could shoo him out like a bad dog, and he finally realized why he’d come. He was greatly humored by her. She was feisty and spirited, and they were traits he never would have envisioned a Marshall to possess.
“If you don’t leave,” she threatened, “I’ll scream.”
“So scream. How will it help you?”
“The footmen will rush to my aid. They’ll send you packing.”
“They tried once—at your command. Obviously it didn’t work, but if you presume they can be more successful a second time, summon them. Feel free.”
He waved her on, pretending to be magnanimous, as if he was giving her permission. He didn’t think she’d scream, but to his surprise, she bellowed out so stridently that she instantly rubbed her throat as if she’d torn a tendon in her neck.
They froze, her expression murderous, but as he’d predicted, no one appeared to render assistance. Kirkwood Manor was a huge mansion, her suite was in a deserted area away from the rest of the
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