Mrs. Page bustled in without knocking, and Edwina hastily dropped her eyes to her plate, pulse racing. For the first time since coming to Rose Abbey, Edwina actually welcomed the woman’s presence.
“My lord,” the housekeeper announced, “the leak in the east wing has grown exponentially larger according to Thomas. I believe several tiles have flown off the roof, threatening the guest room at the end of the third floor. Your attention is required.” A tiny nod of her chin was the only acknowledgment of Edwina’s presence.
“Very well, Mrs. Page, though I’ve yet to finish breakfast.”
Mrs. Page glanced at Bascomb’s empty plates with a dubious look.
“Tell Thomas to grab the necessary tools, and I’ll be along in a moment.” He dismissed her with a wave. “I won’t have time at present, Collins, to review your work. I will have to trust it is acceptable.”
“I’ve sorted through a great deal of your correspondence and will start on the ledgers today,” Edwina replied.
“So soon?” Bascomb’s face held a look of surprise. “It took Fielding nearly a week to sort through everything.”
“Perhaps Fielding wasn’t proficient at balancing estate ledgers or household accounts. I am.” Edwina patted her lips with a napkin.
Mrs. Page smoothed her skirts, eyeing Edwina with one brow raised in disbelief.
Well, Edwina didn’t give a fig for the housekeeper’s opinion.
“Is there anything else, Mrs. Page?” Bascomb muttered. “Or do you wish to stand there and watch me eat the remainder of my breakfast?”
Mrs. Page’s face tightened at the rebuke from her employer. “I only wished to inform Miss Collins that I’ve already had the fire lit in the library should she wish to begin her work directly after breakfast. I’ll have a tea brought later.”
Bascomb rolled his eyes. “Don’t coddle Collins.” His eyes swept over Edwina. “She doesn’t require it. And make sure the contents of the tea tray arehearty, Mrs. Page. None of those silly little iced biscuits Mrs. Oates likes to make. Collins will waste away eating nothing but bits of toast. It’s barely enough to keep a mouse alive.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Page bobbed politely and finally left the room, closing the door behind her.
“I’m not overly fond of breakfast, my lord,” Edwina said, finding it necessary to explain why she wasn’t tucking into the ham and eggs as Bascomb did.
“Neither am I.” He sopped up a bit of egg with his toast.
“Yes,” she replied smoothly. “It becomes more apparent by the moment.”
Bascomb grunted in annoyance, though amusement lit his gray-green eyes. “You’re not endearing yourself to me, Collins. Certainly you haven’t made friends with Mrs. Page. Not entirely your fault, Collins. She hasn’t liked any of my secretaries. Detested Merryfort.”
“Merrywimple.” Edwina corrected.
“My mistake.” Bascomb was stunning when he smiled, as he was doing now. A soft, buttery glow spread across her midsection. The awareness of him returned, fiercer than before the appearance of Mrs. Page.
“Didn’t like Fielding either. Tolerated Worthless.”
“Worthington, my lord.” Edwina bit her lip to keep from grinning. Bascomb was trying to make her lose her composure. “You’re botching their names on purpose, I think. I’m curious, my lord. Why didn’t Mrs. Page like your previous secretaries?”
“Mrs. Page doesn’t like anyone, including me, Collins. Surely you’ve noticed. Tolerating is not liking. One of the stipulations of the inheritance of Rose Abbey was her continued employment as housekeeper indefinitely. I can’t dismiss her. My uncle made sure of it. As previously mentioned”—his voiced lowered as if they were conspirators—“I believe Mrs. Page and my uncle were…quite close. If you take my meaning.”
Bascomb was terrible to suggest such a thing. But likely correct. It explained a great deal about the housekeeper’s proprietary attitude about the estate. “I do, my lord.”
“As to the ledgers, Fielding was terrible. Complained nonstop about missing bills of sale, incorrect notations, and the like. Constantly bothered Mrs. Page for receipts. Pestered her with questions on what purchases had been made for the household. I’m sure she was relieved when Fielding fled down the hill, never to return.”
Edwina thought carefully about her next words. “Did you review the accounts yourself, my lord, and find irregularities?”
Bascomb rubbed at the spot where the scar sprouted from his left eye with one large finger. “When I have time.” His tone was defensive. “Which is rare.”
She nodded in polite understanding. Bascomb wasn’t looking at his own accounts; that much was clear.
“I rarely have time, Collins,” he snapped at her. “Which is why I need a secretary. A competent one. But I suppose you’ll do for the moment.”
Edwina didn’t flinch from his anger, knowing that it wasn’t truly directed at her but himself. The scar told her Bascomb had suffered a head injury of some sort, possibly one bad enough that it affected his ability to read the ledgers or, at the very least, be able to discern any inaccuracies. “Your scar, my lord. May I ask how you came to have it?”
