Iona didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him. That the cynical earl might even consider running off with her actually offered temptation. It would never last, of course, but oh, the joy of seeing the world with the freedom to be as she wished. . .
“I am not even certain who I am anymore,” she said with a sigh.
“The queen bee, of course,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ve watched you. When you speak, people listen. Hiding is not your nature.”
“Neither is taking orders,” she admitted with wry amusement. That he’d noticed—tightened her midsection even more. When had been the last time a man had actually talked to her as if she had a brain? Around the twelfth of never would be her guess.
He rummaged in a cabinet and produced a bottle of wine. “So what was your plan that you needed to abandon your queen after—I assume—you hauled her all the way here?”
Iona was grateful he kept his hands occupied. Her desire had not decreased despite the grimness of their discussion. She had to resist leaning closer to him.
“I was hoping she would offer me wisdom. Mostly, I want to know Isobel is safe, but I need to know where I’m going before I can write to her.” Iona turned up her nose at the offer of wine. “I don’t touch alcohol. I’ve seen what it does.”
“Not in moderation, but suit yourself.” He poured his own. “Your sister will write you here. There is no reason to leave. Malcolms shelter Malcolms.”
She wanted to yank the boyish lock of black hair on his forehead in exasperation. But the earl was large, solidly built, and all male, including the density of his thought processes. She wasn’t stupid enough to test his reaction. “Even if you trust me when I say the ten thousand pounds isn’t real, you have a household of people with dreams who would like to believe they can put the money to good purpose.”
He lifted a questioning eyebrow.
She glared at his thickness. “Winifred has a son with a case of consumption so bad that even her healing hasn’t helped him. She’s kept him alive by paying a sanitarium on the proceeds from the herbal articles she writes from morning to night and from what little her patients pay. She could take the reward and her son and go to the south of France and be with him for the rest of his days.”
The earl uttered an expletive and drank his wine.
“Mary Mike is saving to buy a farm of her own,” Iona continued relentlessly. “Grace sells her beautiful tartans and blankets in shops to wealthy people so she can provide hundreds of cheap blankets for orphanages and workhouses. She can’t forget growing up cold and wishing only for a blanket to call her own. Can you imagine what she might do with the money?”
“Then let’s go back to negotiating with your wealthy, naïve nabob for a marriage settlement in exchange for your title,” he growled. “Then you can finance every Malcolm here and take sail to anywhere.”
Iona was very afraid that might be the only solution.
Nine
Promising no one could possibly guess Nan—Iona’s—identity until more information was forthcoming, Gerard sent her off to bed for her own good. Even in that droopy gown, she’d been far too enticing for his current state of abstinence. Talking to her had been like playing with a hot firecracker wrapped in pretty golden papers—and just as dangerous. A countess! What more didn’t he know about his unusual tenants?
Was it more dangerous knowing or not knowing? Knowing who might be a danger to Iona seemed essential. He didn’t need the medallion whispering warnings in his head to tell him that.
The next morning, he pleaded estate duties and let Rainford and company ride off without him.
To Gerard’s great relief, Lady Alice found a ride in the carriage hauling Rainford’s baggage, so he didn’t have to worry about being waylaid again. Old acquaintance or not, Alice was a pestilence he didn’t need. Let her father take her in.
He spent his morning with the books in the privacy of his keep, determining everything was in order. The estate still earned enough to pay his allowance, but if he wanted to make improvements, he’d have to use his funds, which meant giving up his rooms in London, and any hope of life outside of Wystan.
The medallion was back in his pocket again, grumbling. Did Lowell think it was a good luck charm and keep transferring it to his fresh clothes?
He swiped at a bee flying too close, scowled at the open window, and decided he was hungry.
Leaving his new valet to fuss over his neglected wardrobe, Gerard warily slipped into the main house for nourishment, entering through the back hall where his Great-Aunt Winifred occupied the official office. She wore her fading blond hair in a high pompadour that he now knew was probably propped up with fake hair, which made her far less intimidating for some reason.
Still, he hesitated. He’d never questioned the ladies over all these years, assuming they functioned fine and didn’t need him. He hadn’t wanted to become involved.
But knowing some of his aunt’s story now. . . He ought to hear the rest. He had cousins by the trainload. He tried to place which one was Winifred’s invalid son. He conjured up a harmless, scholarly sort he hadn’t seen since childhood.
Winifred glanced up and caught him hovering. “Do you realize the price of honey is four times that of sugar? If we can produce clean, unadulterated honey, we can sell it for a fortune. Nan will pay her own way in the first year and make a substantial profit once she has more than one hive in operation.”
Pretending
