“Entirely true.” She would leave of her own accord. Mrs. Black just hadn’t yet realized the situation she’d put herself in. “May I use pen and paper?” He gestured to the desk with a flick of his wrist. Drew was no stranger to gossip. The Sinclairs, after all, were riddled with scandal.
“If you think to send for your solicitor to have him produce another offer—”
“I’ve already told you my generosity towards you has been revoked. And I wouldn’t dream of having Patchahoo waste any more of his time.” He stood and walked over to the desk. “That’s my solicitor. Patchahoo. He’s a lovely man. Much kinder than I.” Drew heard the slip of his upper-crust accent into the gentle rolling of Northumberland. A sign of his annoyance and mounting anger at this entire situation. Mrs. Black was meant to be a pale old woman made of lace and grief who he could settle a small cottage on.
A gnat landed on his cheek, and he slapped at it.
I hate the bloody country.
Mrs. Black was determined, but Drew was just as resolute. He had survived Dunnings, after all. He meant to take advantage of the opportunity with Worth. And he meant to do it without going to his brother Jordan to do so.
“I’m merely writing my solicitor to have my things sent to Blackbird Heath.” He winked at her. “Can you have Mrs. Ebersole prepare a room for me upstairs? I’d be so grateful.”
Mrs. Black stood abruptly, pale beneath her freckles, the lovely blush of her anger gone in an instant. “You plan to stay? But that is improper. You cannot—”
“I most certainly can, Mrs. Black. This…” He waved a hand around. “Is my home as much as yours. Of course, my reputation won’t suffer a bit, wastrel that I am. Oh, I shouldn’t worry about your own. I’m sure you are beloved in Horncastle.”
Mrs. Black paled further.
Drew assumed as much.
“I am—an unmarried woman. A widow.”
“Who refuses to leave my property though I generously offered her a lump sum to do so. I’m sure there will be speculation. After all…” He held up the pen. “Look at me. Why wouldn’t you wish to stay beneath the same roof. It might be my virtue that is in danger. You might have designs on me. Lonely widow and all that.”
“You arrogant—”
“If my presence at Blackbird Heath bothers you, feel free to find other accommodations which better suit you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get off this note to Patchahoo. I’ve a mind to venture into Horncastle and introduce myself. I’ll inform Mrs. Ebersole to prepare a room for me. After all, she is my housekeeper. No need to concern yourself further. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Drew gave her his back, scratching out the letter to Patchahoo.
A sputtering sound came from behind him. An indignant breath. Finally, the agitated swirl of her skirts and the slamming of the parlor door.
Drew hummed out loud, a ribald tune he was sure Mrs. Black would disapprove of, then finished his letter to Patchahoo.
Chapter Five
Hester entered BlackbirdHeath’s small dining room, unused since Joshua’s death. The room wasn’t grand in size, the furniture outdated, but it was a cozy place to have a meal. Hester had been eating in the kitchens because it seemed ridiculous for Mrs. Ebersole to go to the additional effort of serving her here. The lamps had been lit and fresh flowers placed on the table, giving the illusion that Blackbird Heath had once been a moderately grand estate and not the farm it was now.
Mr. Sinclair sat at the head of the table; elegant fingers curled around a glass of wine. Hooded eyes took her in, showing no surprise that Hester’s dress was the same she’d greeted him in hours ago. After their contentious meeting in the study, Hester had gone about her chores, only pausing to tie an apron about her waist and put on her boots. Walking the fields and examining the potatoes and turnips had failed to banish Sinclair from her mind. Returning only a short time ago, Hester washed and repined her hair, seeing no reason to primp for the man trying to take her home.
“In the country, we don’t change our attire at every hour,” she said, just to show her annoyance at his presence. “Nor do I have an army of servants to pour you wine.”
Sinclair shrugged, his eyes following her as Hester settled herself. “I think you meanIdon’t have an army of servants.”
“I stand corrected, Mr. Sinclair,” Hester shot back.
Mrs. Ebersole arrived, pushing a small cart filled with steamed turnips, fresh bread, and a wedge of cheese.
Dobbins, one of Hester’s farmhands, scrubbed and in fresh clothing, came behind her carrying a covered tray which was placed on the table with a flourish.
“Thank you, Dobbins,” Hester murmured.
“Bubble and Squeak.” Mrs. Ebersole grunted, taking the fresh bread and butter from the cart and placing it on the table. “Cheddar.” She slapped down the wedge of cheese. Ripping off the lid of the tray, she gave Sinclair a hostile look. “Dinner is served.”
Sinclair’s lips rippled, nostrils flaring as the aroma of Bubble and Squeak filled the room. “Might there be some roasted chicken, perhaps?”
“No sir. Not tonight,” Mrs. Ebersole said. “I already had things well in hand when you informed us you were staying to dine. Apologies. But I can prepare a chicken tomorrow evening, if that suits you.”
