Hot tears of frustration and anger filled her eyes. She had been a fool to think that he might give her a fair hearing. From the way Lord Carno spoke, it was obvious he had already made up his mind. Of course, his man of business had told him the shambles that the estate was currently in. And the baron had conveniently found someone to blame.
Me.
She slumped to the ground under one of the bare apple trees, her mind and heart in turmoil. With her arms wrapped around her knees, Wister stared back at the house. If Lord Carno’s behavior was any indication, she would be lucky to survive another day at Kington House.
“It’s your own silly fault. What were you thinking, talking to him like that?” she chided herself.
Being a lord, she probably should have curtseyed to him. Or not.
Does one curtesy to a Welsh baron?
Her mother, God rest her soul, would likely be turning in her grave at the notion of her only daughter not showing all due deference to a nobleman. But when it came to men of rank and title, experience had taught Wister not to hold them in high regard.
Lord Kington had shown her that a man may have all the wealth and position that he could want and still be lacking in honor. But he was dead, and she now had to deal with the new lord of the manor.
Speak of the devil.
Baron Carno appeared from around the side of the house. She froze, hoping to avoid his notice. The last thing she wanted right now was another confrontation with him.
As he walked, he wiped at his face. His steps continued in her direction. Blast. There was no way he could fail to spot her sitting on the ground. She closed her eyes and rested her head on her arms.
The rustle of leaves being crunched under foot grew louder as he approached. “Miss York?”
Wister waited a moment before lifting her head and meeting his gaze. What she saw took her by surprise. There was no mistaking the red which rimmed the dark green of his eyes. He had been crying.
“Lord Carno.” To her further amazement, he tucked the bottom of his coat under his knees and sat next to her on the damp grass.
“The apple trees look well-tended. What else do you grow in the orchard?” His voice had lost much of its hard edge from their earlier encounter. If she had to describe it now, Wister would have said it was almost melancholy. There was a sadness to him.
She pointed toward a row of trees close to the far side of the orchard. “Plums. Lemons. A couple of walnut trees. And we have a blackberry bush at the end of the lane just before you step off into the wood.”
“No cherry trees?”
She shook her head. It would have been nice to have had the time and money to plant more fruit varieties in the orchard, but she had learned to make do with what they had.
“Pity. My mother had several cherry trees at Carno Castle. They used to produce the most beautiful fruit,” he said.
“What happened to them?”
“The trees died the year after she did. A bacterial canker took them—the flu claimed her and my father.”
Wister nodded. Lord Carno appeared upset, and she didn’t want to add to his misery by offering up her own tragic story. She barely knew the man and they had not got off to a great start. “I am sorry,” she replied.
“So am I.”
They sat for a few minutes, neither saying a word. Wister finally turned as Rhys got to his feet. To her surprise, he held out his hand. “My cousin has gone inside looking for someone to make him a cup of tea. How about you and I join him?”
Wister reluctantly accepted his offer of assistance, and Rhys drew her up to stand alongside him. A soft, shy smile was briefly exchanged.
He slipped his hat off and Wister got her first glimpse of his rich brown hair. When Rhys ruffled his fingers through his lengthy locks, she wished for nothing more than to be able to stuff her hands in her pockets. It was either that or offer to finger comb his hair.
The green-eyed Welsh devil was delightfully shaggy.
“I don’t suppose you have a gentleman’s barber in the village, do you? I could do with a cut and a shave,” he said.
She could simply say no and leave it at that, but Wister had been raised in a good home where manners were valued. “We don’t, but I’ve a fine pair of sharp scissors in the house and I know my way around a cutthroat blade. I could give you a trim and free you of that beard.”
He gave her an unsure look. Not five minutes ago he had berated her, and now she was offering to hold a blade to his throat.
“Is this the part where I apologize for my rude behavior?” said Rhys.
Wister nodded, offering reassurance. “Trust me, Lord Carno, you are not the first noble to raise his voice to me. If I can survive working for Lord and Lady Kington, dealing with someone who simply wants answers about the estate will be a positive delight. Besides, you have every right to examine the books and question the staff. I overstepped the mark with my earlier comments. It is I who should be offering an apology.”
She gave a quick check of her skirts, brushing off a couple of damp leaves, then started toward the house. Rhys followed. At the back door, Wister stopped and scraped the wet leaves from the soles of her boots.
“Speaking of servants, how many do we have here at Kington? So far, I haven’t seen anyone other than yourself,” said Rhys.
The baron’s man must have failed to mention the issue of servants and the lack thereof in his report. A grand estate such as Kington House would normally retain a full retinue of staff.
Brace yourself, Lord Carno. This is going to be the first of many disappointments.
“Including Polly and myself, you have the grand sum of two.”
Chapter Five
“The books themselves have been kept in good order. It’s just the figures which are so bloody horrible.” Rhys closed the last of the account ledgers and pushed back from the desk.
Deri was seated on a nearby couch nursing a glass of red wine. They had made a thorough search of Lord Kington’s study and private rooms but not found a single drop of whisky or brandy. Any delight they had in discovering the bottle of red wine had quickly dissipated as soon as it was opened.
“Speaking of bloody horrible, I don’t think I can finish this,” said Deri. He screwed up his face and set the glass down on a side table. Things had to be really bad for a house to not have at least one decent bottle of wine in the cellar.
Rhys wandered over to the window and looked out at the orchard and the fast fading light of the early evening. “Tomorrow I shall ride into the village and see what the local store and tavern can offer in the way of wine and vittles. We need supplies.”
If he was going to remain at Kington House for Christmas, the cellar would need to be restocked. He made a mental note to write to his wine merchant in London and have several crates of good French reds delivered.
“Of course, you could ask your estate manager if there is any booze around the place. She seems handy enough,” offered Deri.
Rhys shot him a warning look. Miss York had done a decent job in rustling up a midday meal for them, but he didn’t want her to get too comfortable with him. Chances were, he was going to be asking for her resignation very soon. She was easy on the eye, he could admit to that, but her good looks wouldn’t help to solve his immediate problem—that being the terrible state of Kington House’s bank balance.