I just greeted everyone and tried not to be annoying.”
“That’s my Georgina.”
She studied him, thinking how his dissipation was beginning to wear on him. He was blond and blue-eyed and had once been considered very handsome. But his golden hair was silvering to gray, and he had a bald spot in the back, although she doubted he realized it yet and no one would dare tell him.
He was only thirty-four, but he might have been much older than that, the years of debauchery taking their toll. He was five-foot ten and had been thin when he was younger, but his hearty diet had packed on the pounds. He had quite a paunch around his belly, crow’s feet around his eyes, and frown lines around his mouth. He looked tired, hung over, and drained of vigor.
He’d been Augusta’s beloved boy, Edward’s son and heir. Life had been served to him on a silver platter. He’d been coddled and protected, given everything he ever demanded, never blamed, never made to obey or behave. He was spoiled and entitled and impossibly vain.
She liked him though. Most of the time. He was kind to her—as kind as such an egotistical fellow could be anyway—and when he’d allowed her to manage the estate, it had been a gift she’d always cherish.
“Have you heard from your mother?” she asked.
“Not lately. Why?”
“We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Have you been in London recently?”
“Rarely, and even then, I sneak in and out.”
“So you wouldn’t have gotten any of your mail.”
“I got most of it, but I was traveling. I may have missed some letters.”
She nodded, watching as he went to the sideboard again, as he loaded a plate with food. He refilled his teacup, added more liquor, and she wanted to caution him to slow down, wanted to inform him that she needed him sober and clear-headed, but she wasn’t foolish enough to chastise him. Even if she tried, he’d never listen.
“There’s a man here,” she said. “His name is Damian Drummond.”
Miles froze for an eternity, then he scowled. “Damian Drummond? Really? How curious.”
“You remember him?”
“Oh, yes, I remember him.”
“He insists he owns Kirkwood now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Have you been gambling, Miles?”
“No more than usual. I’ve explained to you a hundred times, Georgina. It’s how a gentleman passes his evenings.”
“I understand. It’s just that Mr. Drummond claims you were deeply in debt, and he bought up all your markers. They included a mortgage on Kirkwood.” There was a lengthy pause as she scrutinized him, hoping he’d deny it. “Did you wager over Kirkwood.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She gasped with affront. “You don’t recall?”
“I gamble, Georgina. I loaf and play and cavort with my friends. It’s what a gentleman does. It’s not a crime.”
That petulant expression crossed his face, the one that indicated he was Miles Marshall and wouldn’t be questioned about any act he perpetrated. Augusta had doted on him, had refused to let Edward inflict discipline, and he’d grown up assuming he was imperious and very grand, like a king whose conduct could never be wrong.
“You wagered over the estate,” she glumly said. “Was it lost with a turn of the cards?”
“I don’t think so but don’t worry, Georgina. I’ll simply win it back. Honestly, why are you fretting? I’ll fix it so I hardly see why I must be interrogated. I’ve only just arrived and you’ve been nagging since I walked in the door.
He dug into his food, pretending to ignore her, but he kept peeking at her. His mind would be awhirl, frantically inventing stories she would never believe.
“What did you do to Mr. Drummond?” she ultimately inquired. “He seems particularly angry with you.”
“What did I do?” he huffed. “You’d be better off asking what he did. He’s a liar and a troublemaker.”
“Yes, so your mother advised me. How old was he when he told all these lies?”
“Ten or eleven, I
“That’s my Georgina.”
She studied him, thinking how his dissipation was beginning to wear on him. He was blond and blue-eyed and had once been considered very handsome. But his golden hair was silvering to gray, and he had a bald spot in the back, although she doubted he realized it yet and no one would dare tell him.
He was only thirty-four, but he might have been much older than that, the years of debauchery taking their toll. He was five-foot ten and had been thin when he was younger, but his hearty diet had packed on the pounds. He had quite a paunch around his belly, crow’s feet around his eyes, and frown lines around his mouth. He looked tired, hung over, and drained of vigor.
He’d been Augusta’s beloved boy, Edward’s son and heir. Life had been served to him on a silver platter. He’d been coddled and protected, given everything he ever demanded, never blamed, never made to obey or behave. He was spoiled and entitled and impossibly vain.
She liked him though. Most of the time. He was kind to her—as kind as such an egotistical fellow could be anyway—and when he’d allowed her to manage the estate, it had been a gift she’d always cherish.
“Have you heard from your mother?” she asked.
“Not lately. Why?”
“We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Have you been in London recently?”
“Rarely, and even then, I sneak in and out.”
“So you wouldn’t have gotten any of your mail.”
“I got most of it, but I was traveling. I may have missed some letters.”
She nodded, watching as he went to the sideboard again, as he loaded a plate with food. He refilled his teacup, added more liquor, and she wanted to caution him to slow down, wanted to inform him that she needed him sober and clear-headed, but she wasn’t foolish enough to chastise him. Even if she tried, he’d never listen.
“There’s a man here,” she said. “His name is Damian Drummond.”
Miles froze for an eternity, then he scowled. “Damian Drummond? Really? How curious.”
“You remember him?”
“Oh, yes, I remember him.”
“He insists he owns Kirkwood now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Have you been gambling, Miles?”
“No more than usual. I’ve explained to you a hundred times, Georgina. It’s how a gentleman passes his evenings.”
“I understand. It’s just that Mr. Drummond claims you were deeply in debt, and he bought up all your markers. They included a mortgage on Kirkwood.” There was a lengthy pause as she scrutinized him, hoping he’d deny it. “Did you wager over Kirkwood.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She gasped with affront. “You don’t recall?”
“I gamble, Georgina. I loaf and play and cavort with my friends. It’s what a gentleman does. It’s not a crime.”
That petulant expression crossed his face, the one that indicated he was Miles Marshall and wouldn’t be questioned about any act he perpetrated. Augusta had doted on him, had refused to let Edward inflict discipline, and he’d grown up assuming he was imperious and very grand, like a king whose conduct could never be wrong.
“You wagered over the estate,” she glumly said. “Was it lost with a turn of the cards?”
“I don’t think so but don’t worry, Georgina. I’ll simply win it back. Honestly, why are you fretting? I’ll fix it so I hardly see why I must be interrogated. I’ve only just arrived and you’ve been nagging since I walked in the door.
He dug into his food, pretending to ignore her, but he kept peeking at her. His mind would be awhirl, frantically inventing stories she would never believe.
“What did you do to Mr. Drummond?” she ultimately inquired. “He seems particularly angry with you.”
“What did I do?” he huffed. “You’d be better off asking what he did. He’s a liar and a troublemaker.”
“Yes, so your mother advised me. How old was he when he told all these lies?”
“Ten or eleven, I
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