She peered up at him as inquisitively as a little wren, but there was nothing wren-like about the lady. Today, she wore what was most likely supposed to be her housecleaning, taskmistress gown. It had no lace or ruffles, but instead of a drab brown or gray, it appeared to be a gleaming bronze that set off her riot of copper curls as if she were some rare metallic object.
And she had made it clear that he could not have her. Nothing like rejection to put a man off his feed.
“The tenants will listen. They never talk,” he grumbled. “And they’ll choose the gaffer who says what pleases them most, and not what’s best for all. I’ll ask our potential stewards if they know their multiplication tables.” Theo offered his arm to help her back downstairs.
“Does your brother have an office up here?” She glanced down the hallway, where, from the sound of it, Dunc’s current fit of fury seemed to involve slippers and possibly hounds.
“Next to his chamber,” Theo told her. “He turned a sitting room into a library and office. But I won’t find anything any more helpful there. Ledgers are meaningless to me. Obviously, I took the wrong sorts of mathematics.”
She tapped her good foot and studied the corridor for a moment. Theo watched with interest. He had full confidence in his brains and his achievements, but he had never applied himself to as many different sorts of tasks as this petite whirlwind. He couldn’t help but wait with anticipation to see what fantasy emerged from those deliciously rosy lips this time.
“Tie Ashford up, if you must,” she said slowly, apparently plotting as she spoke. “Have his valet clean him up. Seat him in a corner of his office near the desk where you’ll be sitting. Pull the draperies and don’t light any lamps. Provide chairs for your farmers. I will tell the interviewees that you are occupied, until you send word that you are ready, and then I’ll send them up here.”
“To what purpose?” Theo asked, intrigued despite himself. “The task you’ve assigned is Sisyphean. Duncan is likely to take off all our heads.”
“Knock him unconscious and prop him up then,” she said without a qualm. “Just as long as he’s awake when we show the stewards up. Give me a minute to think this out. Fetch your valet and hot water and whatever. Ashford is a Scorpio, so he’s difficult. Is he involved in any competitions that you know of?”
“Endlessly. He always wins. Or did. That’s half his problem now. He can’t best anyone while blind.”
She offered a smile that would shame the sun. “With a mind like his? Don’t be foolish. Is he decent?”
“Not in weeks,” Theo said dryly. “Don’t you dare go in there.”
“Send the valet, please.” She wriggled her fingers to signal that he was dismissed.
Theo wanted to wring the lady’s pretty little neck when she marched down the hall and knocked on Dunc’s door. She had to knock several times before the roar decreased to a level where she could be heard.
Theo leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. She shot him a glare. He waggled his fingers at her as she had at him. She stuck her nose in the air and knocked again.
“Lord Ashford, it is most urgent that I speak with you,” she said clearly over the angry mutters from the other side of the door. When she received no reply, she spoke more loudly. “I have received a message from a friend who knows Miss Caldwell. You do not wish me to shout what it says to the world, do you?”
Theo pursed his lips in a silent whistle. The lady was devious beyond any politician or snake oil salesman he’d ever encountered. No way could Duncan deny her entry after being reminded of his ex-fiancée.
Sure enough, the door jerked open. Duncan had managed to don his trousers but not his boots or stockings. And his shirt was still untied. Theo wanted to rush down the hall and grab the lady before the dragon devoured her, but she didn’t even scream when Dunc hauled her inside and slammed the door.
Thoroughly improper and beyond outrageous, but she’d done what few others had accomplished these past weeks. She’d made the dragon open his door.
Theo hurried in search of the valet so he could rescue her.
Fifteen
“Your friend says that sapskull Montfort is courting Margaret?” the marquess bellowed.
Aster glanced nervously at the ceiling, expecting the plaster ornamentation to rain down on her head. The marquess had a reverberating bellow.
“It has something to do with field production?” she said tentatively. It wasn’t as if she had any idea if crops or sheep or whatever could be measured, but she was looking for a goal that he would understand—and that would return his interest in farming.
“Roddy doesn’t even know what grows in his fields,” Ashford said in disgust, fumbling with the ties of his shirt. “Your friend is ill-informed.”
“It’s not as if I am a farmer who understands this sort of thing,” she retorted. “Perhaps this Montfort has a relation who knows what should be grown? It did seem as if there were expectations that his income will exceed yours, which interests Miss Caldwell’s father.”
Azenor did not like to outright lie, but she had learned that the more she knew of the situation, the more accurate her predictions. She had read Ashford’s chart—it was littered with danger and earth. She knew exceedingly little about farming. But she understood people. So she fed him what little she knew and let him take it the rest of the way.
“Roddy’s father. And Margaret’s,” the marquess said with disdain, grasping for something on the floor. Apparently not finding it, he flung what appeared to be a dog’s toy at the wall. “Two peas in a pod. Where are my boots?”
She found his shoes on a shoe tree and handed those to him. He growled in protest. She moved quietly out of his way in case he chose to throw them.
Really, she could never care for Ashford as she cared for her family, but she could care for him as one does a querulous patient. Would that be sufficient to prevent the danger in her chart? He really did need her.
Except then all the Ives would be family—which practically spelled Doom and Disaster in capital letters.
“You are saying that Montfort’s and Margaret’s fathers have some means of improving field production?” she asked with interest.
“If Roderick marries Margaret, their lands would be joined and they could use threshing machines for harvest, as just one small example, especially if they enclosed their fields. They’ll reduce costs, tear down those ramshackle cottages, put the tenants in the workhouse, and improve their profits—while starving people who’ve worked for them for years.” He yanked on his shoe rather than flinging it.
“Oh, that doesn’t sound good for the tenants. Is that what you’ve done and why the farmers are rioting?” She hoped that his pulling on shoes was a positive sign.
“We’re the largest estate in the shire. The Swingers are just picking on us because the instigators steered them in our direction. I can’t believe Margaret would actually let that drunken ass court her.” When he couldn’t pry the other shoe on properly, he flung the shoehorn against the wall, and slammed his foot in with sheer force.
“Perhaps she has no choice? I don’t know the lady. But I must see to training the maids. While you and Lord Theo to talk to the farmers, we’ll tidy up this chamber.” She hastily backed out of the room before he could locate her voice and use her as a target.
Lord Theo was still leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for her to be heaved bodily from the room. She marched up and pointed at the office. “I’ll send footmen to arrange the chairs, shall I? He is almost dressed, but he requires a valet. I’ll assume you can manage that much?”
She could swear the silver blue of his eyes laughed as he unfolded from the wall.
“I think I’ll keep you,” was all Lord Scientist said before he loped off, presumably in pursuit of a valet.
Aster didn’t know what he meant by that. She didn’t intend to be kept by anyone. Irritated, she clumped the stupid walking stick down the stairs in search of footmen. The Ives household had a fe
w, although they seemed to be exceedingly dilatory. She nabbed one slinking down a back corridor and sent him upstairs.
The cook and Mrs. Smith, the portly housekeeper, were waiting for her in the downstairs office, their faces stern and unhappy. Aster sighed and prepared herself for the diatribes to follow. The Ives’ servants really were not well trained.
The housekeeper vociferously registered her complaints about Dee and Bree’s interference in rearranging the formal rooms for their anticipated guests. The cook demanded the perfect soufflé recipe if he was to prepare meals—but at least he was back on the job.
Aster resigned herself to not charting anyone or anything until the household was organized. That must be her first goal, preparing Iveston Hall for a tea party so she could introduce Lord Theo’s prospective mates without them running screaming into the night.
Training a few footmen and maids in the process was an extra benefit, although it had been much easier in her small London household. Here, the house was so large, she tended to lose track of who was doing what.
She sent two maids and a footman up to Ashford’s chambers to clear out the ratty carpet and debris. Then she led Mrs. Smith, the Ives’ sherry-tippling housekeeper, into the drawing room with Mrs. Barnes, Emilia’s lofty London housekeeper, to discuss what needed to be done.
The room was immense, apparently running the length of the medieval hall. A massive stone fireplace heated this area as well as the dining hall. Two huge iron-wheel chandeliers hung over two large sitting areas, with various game tables and side chairs scattered around the edges.
Aster gaped at the two-story walls of framed oil paintings above the wainscoting. The Hall’s entire history was probably up there on those walls—coated in centuries of soot.
The footmen had already rolled up the threadbare carpets in the sitting areas under Mrs. Barnes’ direction. Aster ordered them to haul the musty, insect-ridden wool to the dustbin, then settled into a grubby wing chair to consider the hodge-podge of furniture.
She studied an odd contraption of rusted metal and wire on the hearth, surrounded by tools of various sorts. “Is that a work of art?” she asked skeptically, nodding at the . . . machine?
The housekeeper shrugged. “Lord Erran tinkers.”
Deirdre lifted a stack of musty old cloaks off a once-elegant Chippendale chair and dropped them to the floor. “We will never have this place ready in less than a fortnight,” she said in despair. “The draperies are ready to rot off the windows.”
“They’ve been cleaned regular, they have,” Mrs. Smith insisted indignantly. “And so be that carpet. What will go there now, I ask?”
Aster scowled at the lighter square of wood flooring where the carpet had once been. Then she studied the heavy maroon velvet blotting out most of the summer light—except through the moth-eaten holes.
“I’m certain the draperies have been cleaned as they ought,” she said to the housekeeper. “But would you like to venture to guess how old they are?”
Mrs. Smith opened her mouth, thought better of speaking, and narrowed her eyes as she studied the ancient fabric. “Before my time,” was her reply.
Since she looked to be sixty, Azenor would rather not calculate how old that made them. “What condition is the under-drapery in?”
“Stained with damp and mold,” Briana announced, lifting the velvet. “The panes appear to leak and there is rot in the wood.”
“His lordship said we was to wait until his lady wife decided what to do with them,” Mrs. Smith said stiffly. “This room ain’t much used these days.”
Except as a receptacle for storing old schoolbooks, game boards, dog bones, and tennis racquets, if she was to judge by the clutter on the furniture that Mrs. Barnes was sorting disdainfully through. She had donned gloves to do so.
“Is there a seamstress in the village?” Aster asked, examining the size of the windows.
“But his lordship—” Mrs. Smith started to say, before catching Aster’s pointed stare and shutting up.
“Lord Theophilus expects us to give his guests an idea of what this place could be like. Let us burn the moldering draperies along with the carpet. If there are workmen who can begin work on the panes, call them in. And I’ll send for some fabric if we can have the seamstress out immediately.” Aster put her aching foot up on a stool and returned to contemplating the bare floor.
Enthusiastic clapping in the doorway behind her forced her to peer over her shoulder. The blond Jacques and bronzed William stood there, hats in hand, looking—and smelling—as if they’d just come in from a bruising ride.
“Could we have the panes in the library repaired as well?” Jacques asked with interest.
“And the leak over the billiard room?” William added.
“Only if you put yourselves in charge. Get bids on the work, compare references, have Lord Theo approve the expenditures. I know my limits, and they extend to two rooms only.” Aster studied the floor again, then added reflectively, “Unless you know where carpets of that size can be found in the next week.”
The half-brothers studied the large bare spots with frowns.
“Don’t suppose painted canvas would do?” Jacques asked.
“Or we could ask at the re-sale houses in London,” William suggested. “Carpets take a long time to make, don’t they?”
“Exactly,” Aster said. “It would take me forever to inquire of all the carpet-makers if they have any ready that might suit. And Turkey carpets are too expensive for temporary use. It is a very large undertaking.”
“Beans,” Jacques muttered.
“Or Froggy,” William added. “Let’s measure it.”
“Does that mean you know of carpets this large?” she asked in suspicion, since beans and froggy sounded more like infantile torture than a solution.
“Does it matter what color?” Jacques wrinkled his usually smiling visage into a thoughtful frown.
“I can’t order fabric until I know the color. We don’t have much time.”
“Give us a day to inquire about color,” Jacques said. “We should know by then. May take a little longer to haul them down here.”
“I’ll take bids on your window panes while I’m waiting. I’m counting on you,” she warned. “And have your brother Erran remove this contraption outside!”
They saluted and loped off like over-grown puppies after a treat. She hoped they remembered to measure the two sitting areas.
Marrying Lord Theo off to one of her maids might be the easiest of all possible choices, she decided with a sigh of despair.
***
“Where did you find this string of idiots?” Dunc growled from his dark corner of the study, pouring himself a tumbler of brandy. Apparently, even though he’d learned almost nothing else, he’d learned to hear how much liquor he poured into a glass, Theo thought cynically.
The two farmers who had joined them in the steward interviews earlier had given up in boredom and wandered to find their dinners. To Theo’s disgust, they hadn’t added much to the conversation when they’d been present.
“A little early to start drinking isn’t it?” Theo muttered back, sitting at the desk and finishing up the notes he’d taken from the last candidate.
“My head feels like an anvil being pounded by all the demons of hell, and that racket they’re making next door isn’t helping. If you want me to continue sitting here, making an utter ass of myself, I need fortification.”
Aster had sent all her maids and footmen to shovel out the master chambers while Duncan was occupied in the study. Theo hoped to hide on the roof after his brother tried to find his way around the remains later.
“Not one of the men we’ve interviewed suits your needs?” Theo asked in exasperation. “At least that stuffy one told us where our last steward went.”
“Puling coward,” Dunc grumbled. “He could have told me he received one of those damned Captain Swing notes.”
“I assume his gossip about those threats are the reason we�
�re attracting the dregs of the barrel. It’s as if someone wants us to fail.” Theo sighed and shoved his hand through his hair. “If this is the last of them coming up the stairs now, it’s only half the men I invited.”
The ensuing knock on the office door wasn’t as loud as the earlier ones. At Theo’s call to enter, Hugh opened the panel.
“Lady Aster says I’m to sit in on this interview,” the boy said a shade too brightly.
“Lady Aster? You get to call her Lady Aster?” Theo had spent these last hours concentrating on taking meaningless notes rather than wonder what the lady was doing—while this infant was cozying up to her in his absence. Damn.
“She says that’s her fairy name and only people smart enough to believe in fairies are allowed to use it.” Without waiting for reply, Hugh stepped aside for their next prospective steward. “This is Mr. Reuben Browne.”
Theo did his best not to gape as a grizzled, stout old soldier lumbered into the room wearing a rough military coat, a crumpled cravat from the last century, and battered leather breeches and boots.
The other stewards he’d interviewed had been younger, educated gentlemen, born to landed families, capable of wielding authority and demanding respect.
This old man had only one arm. Theo cast Hugh a questioning look, but the boy merely grinned and settled into a chair in a corner opposite his father’s.
“Mr. Browne, welcome,” Theo said uncertainly. Realizing Duncan couldn’t see what he was seeing, not knowing how to explain, he merely introduced the stranger to the marquess.
“If you mean to abscond the instant you receive one of those infamous Swinger notes,” Duncan snarled, “then you may as well turn and leave right now.”
“If you been casting your tenants outta their homes and putting them into the poorhouse with your machines,” Mr. Browne retorted, “then I reckon I’ll just turn around and go.”
Before Duncan could return his injured leg to the floor and wring the man’s neck, Mr. Browne continued speaking. “But I took a good look around this past day and you ain’t one of them kind.”
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