Miles was whisked away, carried down to the front foyer, and thrown out as if he were a sack of rubbish. Though he cursed and tried to rush back in, the door was firmly locked. He knocked, shouted, and knocked, commanding the servants to heed him, to help him, but no one came to his aid.

CHAPTER SIX.

Georgina strolled through the quiet halls of the manor. It was late in the evening so she didn't encounter any servants. She wasn't supposed to be where she was, and luckily she hadn't encountered any guards either. She wondered what would happen if she did and figured they'd toss her out on her ear.

It had been a horrendously awful day, and she couldn't stay in the estate agent's cottage one more second, especially after Miles had mentioned that the cottage was referred to as Drummond Cottage by the elderly retainers. Miles, Sophia, and Augusta were so wildly aggrieved that Georgina had felt she was suffocating.

They'd glared at her, demanding answers-as if she had any. There'd been hours of shouting and recrimination, but none of them dared point out that it was Miles's fault, that he'd finally brought them to ruin. But they were anxious to blame someone, and their censure had fallen on Georgina.

Why hadn't she kept Mr. Drummond out? Why hadn't she summoned the law to arrest him? Why hadn't she warned Miles of what was occurring? Since he never communicated with her and she rarely knew where he was, it was a terribly unfair charge.

When she'd arrived at the cottage, there had been a packet of papers nailed to the door. She'd carried them in and had perused them while Miles paced and fumed. They were the legal documents that proved the foreclosure and change of ownership. She'd sat in the corner and read each page.

She wanted to ask Miles how such a lengthy, important court process could go forward without his paying attention, without his bothering to respond. But it was futile to inquire.

She passed by her old suite, pausing to gaze at the empty rooms. Earlier in the afternoon, servants had packed her belongings and hauled them over to Drummond Cottage. It was depressing to see the spot where she'd been so content. There was a weary air of abandonment, as if she'd moved out years ago instead of hours.

She continued on, wandering the deserted floors. Most of the house appeared as it always had. It was only the family's bedchambers that were different. The Marshalls' private possessions had been whisked away as if they'd never resided in the manor a single minute.

Ultimately she was in the wing where the master bedchamber was located. It was Mr. Drummond's now, and she couldn't deduce why she'd be eager to peek inside.

She just couldn't wrap her mind around the abrupt turn of events. Such a short time prior, she'd been Miles's estate agent, had been happy with her work and her life. Now what was she?

She had no idea.

She was trying to comprehend Mr. Drummond's fury. Whatever the issue between him and Miles, it had transpired when they were boys. What act could Miles have perpetrated that was so horrid Mr. Drummond would still be raging over it?

If she'd been more curious about him-and she wasn't curious!-she'd have chatted with him about it. But she didn't want to hear his version any more than she wanted to hear Miles's.

It was so typical that men could gamble and bicker and fight but that the ramifications would impact the women who weren't involved in any quarrel.

Miles would land on his feet. He had friends scattered across the kingdom and a ton of places where he'd be welcome to weather the storm. Yet what about Georgina, Sophia, and Augusta?

Sophia would likely have to hurry and proceed with her marriage to Harold, but why he'd be interested after Miles's disgrace, Georgina couldn't imagine. If Sophia was about to be jilted, what would become of her? Which was worse? Marriage to Harold or no marriage at all?

Augusta had cousins to take her in, but after being mistress of Kirkwood for decades, it would be difficult for her to struggle as the poor relative. It was a long step down, and she'd have no power or authority.

What about Georgina? Sophia and Augusta wouldn't allow her to accompany them when they departed. Would she wind up in a ditch? In a hovel in the woods?

She'd always known she should have left Kirkwood, that she shouldn't have relied on her aunt and cousins. Augusta had been clear that Georgina should have forged her own path, but she hadn't listened. Why hadn't she?

How humiliating it was to reach the end of her road with them and find she hadn't been valuable in even the slightest way.

She tiptoed into the master suite, having determined that Mr. Drummond wouldn't be present. He was hosting a celebration out in the barn and had opened a whiskey keg for the servants. She wanted to be irked by how fickle they were, but she couldn't blame them for their shifting loyalties.

He was the new owner, and they'd flocked to his side as if the Marshalls had never been their employers. But then, Augusta was a hard taskmaster and Sophia and Miles were lazy and inconsiderate. Who wouldn't be excited?

If Mr. Drummond simply paid their wages regularly, he'd be far ahead of the Marshalls in taking care of everybody. Their lives would go on pretty much as they always had, but without their having to put up with the Marshalls.

Georgina wasn't like Miles or Sophia. She was kind and polite. Where did she stand with everyone? Had anyone noticed all she'd lost that day? Was there a single person in the world who felt sorry for her?

She didn't think so.

She ventured into the sitting room and instantly ascertained that Mr. Drummond hadn't unpacked, but she wished he had. She was curious about him after all and dying to glean some hint of what drove him.

He'd ended her life as completely as if he'd shot her and buried her in the ground. Did he realize that he had? Probably not. He was self-centered and vain. He wouldn't note how he'd harmed her. Or if he did, he wouldn't be concerned by it.

Not sure what she intended, she walked to the bedchamber. She shouldn't snoop, and if she was caught in his suite, she could never explain her behavior. She was tired and sad and lonely. She was also desperate for some answers.

To her dismay, the room wasn't empty as she'd absolutely expected it to be. Mr. Drummond was seated in a chair in the corner. He was drinking, and he toasted her with his glass.

"Miss Fogarty! We meet again."

"Hello, Mr. Drummond."

They stared and stared, the quiet seeming oppressive. She told herself to spin and march out, but she was frozen in place. He sipped his liquor, but didn't break the silence that had festered. There was a table next to him, a decanter on it. He pulled the cork and refilled his glass.

"Would you like some?" he inquired, surprising her.

"No, thank you."

"You look glum as a spinster at a wedding. What's vexing you?"

"Need you ask?"

"No. I'm simply making small talk."

"You're not very good at it."

"I'm not? Most people claim I have too much to say." He smirked, humored by his words, as if he found them very clever. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know."

"You snuck in-"

"I didn't sneak."

"Fine, you didn't sneak, but my presence hasn't sent you fleeing into the night so you must have arrived with a purpose. Were you planning to rob me?"

"Rob you! Of all the gall! As if I would!"

"If it's not robbery, what's brought you? Will you scold me? Will you plead your relatives' case? Or were you thinking of slapping me again?"

Her cheeks reddened. "I apologize for that. I shouldn't have done it."

He shrugged. "I deserved it."

"You did. You were being an ass."

"You should understand though that if you ever hit me again, I'll hit you back. I'm not a gentleman, and I have very few manners."

"When you insult a woman, she gets one blow to retaliate, is that it?"

"Normally they don't even get one. I've been hit too many times in my life, and I don't take it graciously. I made an exception for you."

She studied him, trying to decide if he was being truthful. She suspected there was an enormous amount of bluster to him. He threatened, warned, and terrorized people even though he had no intention of proceeding to violence.

But he'd already proved he could be a brute. She was positive he'd lash out viciously if provoked, but she couldn't imagine him punching a woman. No matter how a female irritated him, she doubted he'd react physically.

"Have a seat." He pointed to the chair next to him. "I have a crick in my neck from looking up at you."

She scrutinized him forever, debating whether she should. It would certainly give her a chance to chat privately with him, to obtain information she was anxious to receive. In the end, she couldn't do it.

"I better not."

"Scared, Miss Fogarty?"

"No, not scared. I simply don't like you, and I don't wish to fraternize."

"You don't like me? You barely know me. How could you have gathered sufficient facts to have formed an opinion?"

"Why aren't you out at the barn?"

"Doing what?" He frowned. "Oh, you're referring to my party."

"Yes, why aren't you there?"

"I wanted to sit up here, like a king in his castle, and survey my domain."

"Was it worth it?"

"Was what?"

"Your quarrel with Miles. Was it worth all this upheaval?"

"Definitely."

"Well...good. I'm delighted to hear it."

"Are you?"

"Absolutely," she lied.

He barked out a laugh, the one that always sounded rusty and unused. "You're the worst liar."

He downed his liquor, then poured a third glass, and she wondered how long he'd been drinking and brooding.

"Are you a drunkard, Mr. Drummond?"

"Not usually."

"Why are you over-imbibing?"

"I'm not over-imbibing. So far, I've had just enough."

"In my experience, men drink to excess when they're feeling bad or unhappy. Which is it with you?"

"I'm drinking because I can, Miss Fogarty. I had the butler bring me several bottles of Miles's best brandy, and I'm enjoying every drop."

"It's not because you feel a tad guilty? Your conscience isn't bothering you?"

"First of all, I never feel guilty about anything. And second of all, I don't have a conscience."

"Everyone has a conscience, Mr. Drummond."

"Not me. It was hammered out of me at a very young age."

He assessed her with those dark eyes of his, his gaze hard and cold. Was it possible for a person to lack a conscience? She didn't think so, but then she could be wrong.

"What did Miles do to you all those years ago?"

"You didn't ask him?"

"I asked him, but I don't necessarily believe what he tells me."

"You're a smart girl then."

"He said you told some lies about him so he'd be in trouble."

"He said that, did he?"

"Yes."

"I'm bigger than he is these days. Perhaps I'll pummel him into the ground for making slurs against my character. I couldn't when I was ten, but I'm betting I could now."

She pictured him stomping over to Drummond Cottage, dragging Miles out and delivering a thrashing. The prospect had her weak with fatigue.

"I won't have you strutting around pummeling people, Mr. Drummond."

"You won't."