“Where is this Martha?” Her companion or chaperone, presumably.
“In the kitchen—where else?”
“Be so good as to fetch her.”
“Fetch her yourself. You can’t just march in here and start throwing orders around!”
“I think you’ll find I can. I’m your closest relative, which, until you’re twenty-one, makes me your guardian. You’ll do as I tell you.”
“I won’t!”
“If you’ve read and understood these documents, you know the law will support me. Now run along and fetch this Martha, will you?”
As much as anyone could flounce in breeches and boots, his niece Georgiana flounced from the room, making her point by slamming the door resoundingly behind her.
He stood, warming himself by the fire, contemplating his rash statement. But he could see no way around it. He had to take her under his control. This place was a disgrace and as for her behavior, well, it seemed she was running true to form with Rutherford females.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” An elderly woman stood in the doorway, smoothing her apron with anxious hands.
“Martha?”
“Aye, sir, Martha Scarrat, cook and housekeeper, and before that, nursemaid when Miss George were a wee babe.”
Cook and housekeeper? He frowned. “Is there anyone else to help you? Any other servants?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. Not since—well, not for a few years now. Mr. Henry stopped sending the money some years ago. But we manage.” She hesitated, then said, “You have a slight look of Mr. Henry, sir, would you be a relative of Miss George’s?”
“I am her uncle, Lord Ashendon.”
Martha bobbed an awkward curtsey. “Sorry, m’lord. She said someone wanted to speak to me and stormed outside. Got a bit of a temper, Miss George has, but she’s a good-hearted lass.”
Cal nodded. A good-hearted lass? An undisciplined brat,more like. “You said you’d cared for Miss Georgiana since she was a babe. Where is her mother?”
“Miss Mary—I mean Mrs. Rutherford—died not long after giving birth to Miss George. Mr. Henry had left her by then. Fair shattered her heart, he did.”
“My brother married her? You’re sure of that?”
“Oh, yes sir, old Mr. Foster—Miss Mary’s father—made sure it was all legal like. He wasn’t going to have some London rake seduce his precious only daughter and not do right by her. They were married right and tight in the church here—the banns called and all—and he made Mr. Henry buy her this house and make her an allowance. Documents were signed, they were. The lawyer in the village, Mr. Chiswick, has copies.”
“I see.” Documented and legal, he had no doubt. So why hadn’t Henry informed his family?
The old woman added, “Miss George and me have been on our own since her grandparents died. Jem, the stableboy, stayed for a while, but a body can’t live without wages, so he left last summer.”
“And what about your own wages?”
The old woman gave him an indignant look. “I don’t need paying to look after Miss George, sir—I love that child like my own. Were you wanting something to eat, sir, because I’ve some soup on the hob and a nice bit of bread and cheese, if you’d like your dinner early.”
Hooves clattered on the cobbles outside, causing Cal to turn and look out the window. There was a blur of movement and then all he could see was a lithe figure astride a black stallion disappearing into the distance, a gray wolfhound loping along beside it.
Cal swore. “Was that—?”
“Miss George, yes. She does that from time to time—goes off on her lonesome with nothing but her horse and that hound—high spirited, she is—but never you mind, sir, she’ll be back in a day or so.”
“Adayor so?” And where the hell did she stay while she was on these... outings?
The old woman nodded comfortably, not seeming to noticehis outrage. “Aye. Never more than three days. But there’s no need to worry, sir, she always comes back, safe and sound. Now, will you be wanting—”
“A brandy, if there is such a thing in this benighted house.”
