Lord Ives had given Avery the boot. What would he do now?
But mostly, he’d proved he could be trusted. Holding hope in her heart, Iona hurried up the stairs to wash for dinner. If she could trust him. . .
She could leave her hive and head for Edinburgh. Maybe she could borrow a pistol.
Unlike Mr. Winter, she’d learned to shoot to protect what little was hers.
Ten
Lowell snipped at a loose thread, straightened Gerard’s cravat, and stepped back to eye him critically. “You’ll be needing a trim shortly, but you’ll pass for these parts. Your wardrobe, however, is in severe need of replenishing.”
Gerard resisted rubbing his newly-shaved jaw and gritted his teeth. It had been a long rotten day, and he was in no temper for debating the cost of a new wardrobe for riding herd on sheep.
Booting Avery had been necessary. He couldn’t have thieves working for him. But it left him seriously in the lurch.
“Clothes are my least concern. My bank account needs severe replenishing first,” he admonished. “And if I’m surrounded by scoundrels, I may have to examine the damned bank as well.”
Worse yet, he had to go down to dinner and reassure a roomful of rattled ladies worrying about their future. An estate with no steward or land agent would slide into penury soon enough.
This is what he got for listening to a damned beekeeper—correction, a countess! Avery had been right about one thing. Iona was a troublemaker.
The medieval paneled hall grew silent the instant he walked in. Gerard amused himself imagining a roomful of lords falling silent in awe as they awaited his majestic oratory.
Little old ladies with fake hair propping up their white curls simply didn’t convey the desired reverence and respect.
His great-aunt waited expectantly on her throne, however. The women were actually waiting for him to speak first. He’d savor the moment while he could. Gerard poured himself a glass of good Scots malt and donned his practiced nonchalance.
“I will begin a search for a new agent immediately,” he reassured them. “If you wish to write your relations and make inquiries as well, I would appreciate that.”
There, that sounded practical and not like he wasn’t mentally lambasting himself for dismissing one of his father’s hires. What in hell did he know about finding agents? Nothing. Blithering nothing. But he’d spent his life learning diplomacy. He knew how to communicate for the desired result.
“Why did you dismiss Avery?” Winifred asked, unable to hold her tongue longer. “He was a good agent and has worked here as long as I can remember.”
Gerard swirled his whisky in his glass, weighing his words. “I promised him a decent reference if he returned what didn’t belong to him. Let us not malign his reputation further with gossip. I’d rather the subject not go any further than this room.”
Personally, he’d have wrung Avery’s neck and thrown him to the wolves. But letting his temper rule wasn’t necessarily what was best for all—a hard lesson learned over his father’s knee.
Instead, he’d had Avery sign over the property that he’d bought for his mistress and improved with estate funds. In return, Gerard had given him a reference stating that Avery knew his profession but couldn’t be trusted as an agent who handled contracts and funds. Still, he was educated and experienced and could easily fulfill the management duties of a steward. It would be a waste to throw him into the street because he let his cock rule his brain. Avery’s next position might entail dealing only with the laborers, but he wouldn’t starve.
The ladies peppered him with more questions he was either reluctant to answer or couldn’t. Over his glass, Gerard searched the shadows for the little countess. She had a bad habit of hiding, but he found her in a wing chair that nearly engulfed her. She was pensively studying the fire.
Tonight, she wore a lacy adornment on her cropped hair and not the false chignon. The only difference between her dumpy morning gown and the dinner gown she wore tonight was the fabric and color—a light gold crepe versus her usual drab gray wool. She’d draped a blue-and-gold shawl over her shoulders so he couldn’t see the neckline, but he ventured it wasn’t as daring as last night’s. She had a dreadful seamstress.
As if making a decision, she set aside her untouched glass of sherry and interrupted the pestering questions. “Ladies, the earl is a gentleman. You’ll not pry gossip from him. The question becomes, what can we do to help until he is able to locate a new agent or steward. The apple harvest is under way, the fields need plowing, and the wheat needs threshing. It’s an important time of year. Does anyone know anyone who can help?”
That nicely summed up the situation and diverted the conversation. Did she really think his eccentric tenants would thresh wheat? Or even know how?
“Will you be staying until someone is found?” the countess asked, making him pay for the diversion. She rose from her hiding place and fixed her long-lashed, golden-brown eyes on him.
Well-practiced in detachment, Gerard resisted tugging his cravat. “I need to find a buyer for some property in the village. Once I start receiving replies to my inquiries on both the property and the position, I may have to consult with solicitors and interview references. I’ll be away a good deal.”
He’d wanted to be in London this week. He wanted to find funds, not spend them. He didn’t want these women to start relying on his presence. But he knew his duty. Orchards had to be improved, and at minimum, a steward must be hired. He had to stay—for now.
“Your workers aren’t likely to listen to women.” Iona added one more concern, while overriding all the other ladies without raising her voice.
Or maybe he was more attuned to her than the others. She was completely correct in her assessment. His workers weren’t bees. They wouldn’t work for women, not even a queen bee. Of course, from her tale,
