The new earl wasn’t going to wriggle out of his duty just by playing hard to get. Not if she had anything to say about it. And she certainly did.
Sighing, she stared up at the Abbey’s impressive Elizabethan façade, noting the signs of neglect on the golden stone. How sad to see the beautiful old house so unloved. Everyone in the village had hoped that the new Lord Channing might be more vigorous and engaged in local life than the last. So far, indications were that he’d prove even less effective than his late brother, whose good intentions had fallen victim to lifelong ill health.
A pity that the new earl promised to be a disappointment. But what could one expect of a man reputed to be a pirate? And a Scottish one at that.
Eventually the heavy door inched open and bespectacled eyes peered out from the shadows. “His lordship isn’t at home.”
“Good afternoon.” She straightened her shoulders and fixed the man with the gimlet stare that always brought recalcitrant parishioners into line. “My name is Elizabeth Farrar. My father is the vicar of St. Martin’s.”
As his lordship would know if he took the trouble to show his face in church.
Strangely, her introduction appeared to puzzle the man, who wasn’t a butler. His lordship was yet to employ any indoor staff. Another bone she had to pick with him. Many village livelihoods relied on finding work at the Abbey, and there had been hardship since the previous earl had moved to Italy for the sake of his health.
“You’re Miss Farrar?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her.
“Yes.”
“Um, good afternoon. And his lordship still isn’t home.”
“I’ll wait.”
“He’s not expected back today.”
Because young Will Potts worked in the stables and passed on any news about doings at the Abbey, she knew that was a lie. She glued a polit
e smile to her face, and kept her tone steady but determined. “I’d still like to wait.”
The man, whoever he was, proved no more immune to that purposeful tone than the villagers. The heavy door gave a gothic creak as it eased fully open.
“Then please come in.” His words were more welcoming than his tone.
On this gloomy afternoon, the great hall was dark and comfortless, and almost as cold as the front step. Nobody setting foot in this frigid stone cavern, barren of all decoration, would guess that Christmas was only a week away. “Surely his lordship wants a fire. This place is like a tomb.”
The tall man in glasses and shirtsleeves was reed thin and looked like he needed a good meal. That’s what came of failing to hire a cook, Bess wanted to tell him—and his absent master.
He swallowed until his Adam’s apple bobbed. “His lordship isn’t here, I told you.”
“I hope he returns before I freeze into a block of ice.” She subsided onto one of two carved oak chairs set against the wall. The hall was mostly devoid of furniture, and in the dull light, the tall windows with their stained glass panels appeared more funereal than heraldic.
“If you leave a note, I promise to deliver it.”
Her lips firmed as she shifted to find a comfortable spot on the unforgiving seat. The noble Earl of Channing didn’t want visitors settling in. Indications were that he didn’t want visitors at all.
Too bad for the noble Earl of Channing.
“So he can ignore it, the way he’s ignored my other correspondence?” she asked sweetly.
The studious-looking man avoided her eyes. “His lordship has been busy since taking over, Miss Farrar.”
Bess glanced around the dusty, empty room. “Not with domestic matters.”
“His lordship—”
His lordship stormed in.
At least Bess assumed that the disheveled auburn-haired man who crashed through the door at the other end of the hall must be Penton Abbey’s elusive new master. He stalked past her, brandishing a sheaf of papers.
“That blasted Farrar besom is hounding me again, Ned. I thought I asked you to put her off.” His Scottish brogue added an exotic edge to his heated remarks.