“What can I do, Ian?”
He walked a few steps away from her. “We’ll have to give the American back her money and send her packing.”
Tish studied the pattern on the carpet briefly. “Ian, we can’t do that. The money, Abby’s money, has all been spent on the pipes in the cottages.”
Ian’s shoulders slumped. Tish thought he looked tired and beaten. His long dark hair, loosed from the tieback, fell across his cheeks. The pallor of his skin, shadowed blue by the growth of beard, gave him a sickly appearance that worried her. Could he take one more blow?
“Ian, there’s something else. Only Abby showed up. She hasn’t got any clothing with her—that’s a long story—but the other person, the one who didn’t come…we have to pay her back.”
His expression couldn’t get any darker. “Imp, we’re done for. I can’t pay back five thousand dollars right away.”
The young woman started to walk toward the door, then stopped and spun around. “Ian! We can sell something!”
“No!” he blurted out. “We cannot start selling anything, not now!”
Tish rushed over to her brother. “No, that’s not what I mean. Abby said that some of the furniture in the old rooms is worth a small fortune. She said that people in the States would pay lots and lots of money to have some of those old tables and beds and candlesticks in their houses. She’s something of an art historian and knows the value of things like furniture and paintings.”
Her brother shook his head despondently. “I wouldn’t know how to go about it, Tish. And I don’t exactly have time right now to worry about it.”
“I’ll do it,” she stated. “I got us into this mess; I can get us out.”
Ian raised his head. “Let me think about it. Maybe we can come up with a better plan. If not, I’ll let you handle the particulars.”
Filled with relief and the positive optimism of her youth, Tish beamed at him. “I’ll talk to Abby.”
A look of alarm flashed across Ian’s face. “Imp, under no circumstances are you to let her know that we cannot refund her money right away. We’re good in the village; we know enough people and our family name is good enough to allow you to show this woman around the countryside without costing us a great deal. For once, we may have to call in some favors, but we won’t—we cannot—let on that we are in need of funds.”
Tish reassured him that she would do what was best; after all, she was a Wincott.
Ian laughed, but there was bitterness behind the empty sound.
“Come with me, then, Ian,” Tish begged, grabbing onto his hand and giving it a tug. “If you’re lucky, and you apologize for spoiling Abby’s morning with your grump, perhaps she’ll cook for you. She’s quite good at it. Come—use some of your charm. Maybe she’ll forget about the money if you’re the handsome Earl Bowness from the papers.”
Heaving a sigh, her brother glanced over the work piled on the desk, moved a few pencils about, then gave in. “All right. I’ll see what I can do, although I doubt I can ever live up to what they write about me in the papers. Give me a few minutes, though.”
Even after all that fuss, she was proud to be related to him.
Abby breathed out her relief when Tish entered the room alone. She’d followed Mrs. Duxbury’s menu for breakfast and, although the stove was full of pans and the sink full of bowls and utensils, there were platters of sausages, thick English bacon, scrambled eggs and toast, and broiled tomatoes on the counter ready for the earl and his sister.
But no earl.
Abby waited for Tish to tell her whether she’d done things right.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Duxbury will be so pleased to know her kitchen is in such good hands.”
The anticipation that had weighted Abby unconsciously lifted. She answered Tish’s casual questions about America, filling the young woman in on some of her background. Art school followed by the need for a real job, then culinary school.
“I learned that I couldn’t eat art history. There isn’t much call for art history majors fresh out of college, but chefs are in great demand. So I went back to school.”
“Which was more fun?”
Abby didn’t hesitate a second. “Cooking school. My class was full of comedians. Every day they joked and worked really hard. Pulled some stunts, I can tell you. It wasn’t quite proper for kitchen behavior, but they got serious when it was necessary, and it was great.”
Tish appeared to hang on Abby’s every word. “Oh, it sounds like so much fun.”
Abby wiggled an eyebrow. “That’s not the half of it. The evening of our graduation, the school had a wine tasting. All of us drank way too much. As a result, I have a little tattoo in a place…oh.” Her hand moved to her side; then the list popped into her mind. Don’t get personal. She stopped just in time to see the earl standing in the doorway. “Never mind,” she whispered. “Tell you later, maybe.”
Tish giggled.
He walked right in front of her. The almighty Earl of Bowness. Mr. Antarctica.
Making a conscious effort to be pleasant, Abby smiled ever so slightly. She had to get serious. Remember the list! Besides, what did Americans know about nobility? Zippo. Did she care that this guy was descended from a long line of grumpy, old, boring men? That he might have a crown hidden somewhere that he wore only on special occasions? Hah. And as she looked at this particular earl now, he looked scruffy, his hair long and well onto his shoulders, his face unshaven, his clothing casual to the point of comfortable, not fashionable.
He could almost be her older brother, home from work, ready to take on the neighbor kids in a game of horse. Only this guy didn’t seem the basketball type.
Polo, she figured, from the air of dignity he had surrounding him.
Tish spoke first. “Abby, this is my brother, Ian Wincott.”
The earl said nothing until Abby saw his sister poke him in the ribs.
“Good morning.”
Tish rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
What a stiff, thought Abby. Pity that he looked like Hugh Jackman but had the personality of Hugh Laurie’s character on House. Hugh Grant hair, but definitely a stiff.
Impulsively, Abby stuck out her hand. “Abigail Porter,” she said.
The earl looked surprised. Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a slight smile as he took her hand. The smile broadened to downright wolfish while he held on just a little too long, she thought.
Feeling slightly embarrassed because of the contact, Abby withdrew her hand and busied herself with the food.
“I don’t know how you want to do this…. I thought we’d just all eat in here,” she said, her confusion making her speak much too quickly even to her own ears.
The earl cleared his throat softly. “I guess my sister has neglected to show you the breakfast room, but this will do.”
He looked around, found the plates warming alongside the hob. The kettle boiled, the teapot waited for the hot water, his favourite Earl Grey tin open and awaiting his pleasure. He deliberately held back the pleasant smile he would have given Mrs. Duxbury. This untenable situation, eating breakfast in the kitchen, eating with a paying houseguest, left him slightly off kilter. He wasn’t sure how to act—friendly was entirely out of the question, though he certainly couldn’t behave as if he were eating with the help.
It just wasn’t done.
But