She eyed him uncertainly. ‘It is …?’
‘It is.’ Gray nodded tersely. ‘I have already been outside and spoken to Ned this morning, and he has assured me that several of the servants and estate workers still living in the village have been unable to find other employment, and should be only too pleased to return to their previous positions here. Including the previous estate manager, Mr Davies, who is not in the least enjoying his retirement,’ he added with grim satisfaction.
‘I—But—Do you now have the money with which to pay the servants’ wages, My Lord …?’
Gray’s mouth firmed. ‘I have always had the money, Amelia.’
‘But—’
‘How well did you know Mr Sanders, Amelia?’
‘Mr Sanders …?’ She frowned her puzzlement. ‘Not terribly well. Though I did not like him very much—found him to be a dour and taciturn man whenever I chanced to speak with him. I am sure that my stepfather would never have employed him to replace Mr Davies—Oh!’ She looked up at Gray guiltily. ‘I apologise, My Lord. I did not mean to sound as if I were criticising—’
‘Criticise all you wish, Amelia; in this case it is as deserved as your earlier remonstrations concerning your own wellbeing.’ Gray’s expression remained grim as he began to pace the room restlessly. ‘Perhaps more so.’
Gray had risen from his bed at six o’clock that morning—he had seen no point in lingering any longer when sleep had eluded him for most of the night—to go to the study in search of the estate ledgers. Estate ledgers that completely matched the ones submitted to Worthington. Falsified ledgers in view of the fact that half—almost all!—the servants supposedly employed in the house and on the estate, just as supposedly collecting their wages, had left some time ago.
A fact that had no doubt—once Sanders had received Gray’s letter informing him to expect his arrival at the estate—caused the other man’s immediate and hurried departure!
‘The man was a thief,’ Gray revealed flatly, having every intention of hunting the man down and making him pay for his crime. ‘A thief and a liar. In fact, Amelia—’ once again his mouth tightened grimly ‘—if the man were still here, then I might feel inclined to load your pistol myself and let you loose in a room with him!’
Amelia felt the colour warm her cheeks at this reference to her less than ladylike behaviour of the evening before. At this reminder that Gideon Grayson himself had been the one to suffer the last time she’d held a pistol in her hands. ‘I had assumed—believed that—’
‘That I am such a reprobate that I must have squandered away the family fortune—including the money to pay the servants’ wages and for the upkeep of my estate— on gambling and womanising?’ Lord Grayson raised dark brows.
Amelia’s cheeks felt as if they were actually on fire as she recalled the circumstances under which she had made that particular comment. Of being held in this man’s arms. Of how, in defending herself, she had also laid claim to being this man’s wife …!
She knew by the mocking speculation in those shrewd grey eyes that Lord Grayson was thinking of at least one of those events as he allowed his gaze to move slowly over each of her features—and then lower still to the column of her throat and the pulse that beat so erratically there, the now rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Breasts that seemed to swell beneath the bodice of her gown. To ache. Filling Amelia with an unaccountable restlessness.
Gray caught himself up short as he realised exactly what he was doing. As he sternly reminded himself that Amelia was his ward and, as such, must be completely beyond his sexual interest.
He scowled darkly. ‘I shall be going out shortly, and I do not expect to be back until later this afternoon.’
‘I—But—I thought we were going to talk this morning, My Lord?’
Gray still had every intention of talking to Amelia—on several subjects, but not until he had all the appropriate answers to give in response to the questions she would no doubt ask him! ‘We will talk when I come back, Amelia,’ he assured her sternly.
‘Come back from where, My Lord?’
The problem of servants well in hand, as well as a locksmith to deal with the front door, it was Gray’s intention to ride over to Wycliffe Hall this morning to offer his apologies to the Earl of Stanford for not having believed the sincerity of the concerns voiced in the other man’s letter to him. It was the least Gray could do when he considered the terse reply he had sent two weeks ago!
It was also Gray’s hope that by his visiting Wycliffe in person the Earl’s bride of less than a year might be of some help in the problem of what Gray was to do with Amelia …
Something Gray did not feel the need to share with his overly curious ward! ‘I am not in the habit of having my movements questioned in this way, Amelia.’ He eyed her haughtily.
‘I was merely curious, My Lord.’
‘Then might I advise a little less curiosity and a little more discretion?’ Gray eyed her coldly. ‘It is time, Amelia—past time!—that you resumed your proper place in this household.’
‘My proper place, My Lord …?’
Exactly what was Amelia’s ‘proper place’ in his household? Gray considered. At nineteen, she perhaps believed herself too old to be referred to merely as his ward. But she certainly could not be referred to as the mistress of the house!
She raised curious blue eyes at Gray’s frowning silence. ‘My Lord?’
Gray’s irritation with this conversation grew. Along with his inability to find a suitable answer to her previous question …
‘Or perhaps I might call you Uncle now that we have finally met?’
‘Certainly not!’ Gray gave a shiver of revulsion at the mere idea of being addressed as ‘Uncle’ by this young lady. Damn it, it made him sound as old as Methuselah! ‘If you feel you must call me something else, then my associates usually refer to me simply as Gray,’ he invited stiffly.
‘If you please, My Lord, I believe I would rather call you Gideon …’
Gray stiffened. ‘No!’
Amelia eyes snapped mutinously at his obvious coldness. ‘I do not understand why not, when you call me Amelia …?’
‘I refer to you as Amelia because that is your name.’
‘And is Gideon not your own name …?’
It may well be, but no one ever called him by it. Not any more. Not since his brother Perry had died …
Amelia eyed Lord Grayson from beneath lowered lashes, aware that she must have said or done something to bring about that grimly bleak expression upon his rakishly handsome face. Simply because she had asked if she might call him Gideon …?
It had seemed like such a small thing to ask—especially as he had already given her permission to address him as Gray. ‘I had not meant to offend you, My Lord …’
He eyed her impatiently. ‘I am not in the least offended, Amelia, merely impatient to be about my business without further hindrance from you or anyone else!’
‘But should you not stay and have breakfast first—?’
‘Mrs Burdock supplied me with an ample breakfast several hours ago,’ he assured her quickly.
This did not fit in at all with Amelia’s image of Gideon Grayson as an inveterate rake and a gambler, either. Was it not the habit of rakes to remain out at their clubs or with their mistresses all night, before spending the day in bed sleeping off their excesses?
Perhaps rakes behaved differently when in the country?
Or perhaps Lord Gideon Grayson was