Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical) Read online

  ‘Get your things and get the hell off my land, Miss Nithercott! I do not want to see you here again.’

  She bristled instantly, those insultingly fine eyes shimmering with a stubborn flash of temper which suddenly burned in her golden-flecked irises, and her hands positioned themselves staunchly on her generous hips, drawing his eyes reluctantly to them before he tore them away. ‘Now see here...’

  Max held up his palm to stop whatever tirade she was about to launch into. He really had no patience for politeness any more, nor did he see the point in it. The need to behave like a gentleman died the exact same day as his face and his dreams.

  ‘We are done, Miss Nincompoop. Take your shovels, and whatever all that other nonsense is, and go. From this point forth, you are banned from setting one foot on Rivenhall Abbey and, as I’ve already told you, all agreements you once had with the uncle I never knew have been rescinded.’ He did not bother to wait for a reaction, instead, desperate to escape, he nudged Drake in the ribs and let the big horse gallop away as fast as he could make it.

  Chapter Two

  Dig Day 756: no progress whatsoever due to entirely unforeseen circumstances...

  Despite her best attempts at being calm Effie was so incensed, even the pretty two-mile walk from Hill House to the Abbey had done little to soften her temper.

  How dared he be so rude and obnoxious?

  How dared he try to ban her from excavating the past? When the past was her everything and she couldn’t imagine what she would do with her days if she didn’t have the Abbey and all its hidden secrets to keep her occupied. What had begun as a diversion to avoid the despair of her strange lot in life had rapidly become her salvation. The only place she truly felt as though she belonged now.

  Horrid man! What difference did it make to him if she dug around the ruins anyway? It was on the furthest edge of his land, the soil too filled with the deep foundations from a bygone era to be of any agricultural use and a good distance from his house. He had plenty of better acres to ride his big horse in. He was simply being difficult and unreasonable. Two traits she had little time for under the normal course of things.

  However, legally Lord Rivenhall actually had a point. He was under no obligation to honour a neighbourly agreement made by his uncle years before because the land was now his to do with as he pleased. There was no written contract—there had been no need of one between friends—and as far as she understood things, a gentleman’s agreement died with the gentleman. Unless Effie could negotiate otherwise with their surly new neighbour, Lord Rivenhall was completely within his rights to prevent her from digging up his land.

  This prospect angered her even more. How dared that awful man be so...insensitive to the important work that she was doing at the Abbey? Did he seriously expect her to abandon her study just because he said so? She had half a mind to march right up to his front door, demand an audience and give him a piece of her superior mind. Of course, if she did that then she could wave goodbye to any further investigation of the site alongside her purpose and her sanity.

  If her father had been alive, typically, he would have urged restraint and caution.

  ‘Effie,’ he often said when her frustrations got the better of her or she had rubbed people up the wrong way. ‘Appeal to their better nature. Argue your corner using sound logic and reasoning, not emotion. Do your best to find a compromise. Compromise is always key. And remember, as Benjamin Franklin said, “Tart words make no friends; a spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar.”’

  He had been fond of learned quotes, probably because he hated arguments of any sort, whereas Effie was more than happy to have an argument if she felt the situation warranted it. The obnoxious Lord Rivenhall warranted it. If he had not been the custodian of the very land she needed to dig, she’d have brought one of her shovels along to clonk him over his thick head with it. Horrid man!

  Thanks to him, she was wasting her morning on a wholly unnecessary mission of diplomacy when what she really wanted to do, what she had spent all of yesterday and most of the long, sleepless night impatiently itching to do, was to excavate the rest of the magnificent pot still partly submerged in the ground. Unfortunately, a great well of patience was not a virtue that she naturally possessed.

  In all the years she had been digging at Rivenhall she had never uncovered anything which had looked quite like the treasure she had discovered yesterday. Just thinking about it made bubbles of sheer excitement fizz and pop within her. Not liberating it from the soil for further study and not thoroughly digging around its current location would be a tragedy. She paused a few yards from the horrid Earl’s front door and forced herself to inhale several slow, calming breaths before she marched into the breach.

  ‘Tart words make no friends.’

  Not that she currently had any friends left, but that sad fact had little to do with her occasional tart mouth and more to do with her unique peculiarity, but the new Lord Rivenhall wouldn’t know about that yet. Unless the good news had already travelled to him via the gossips or his servants, which in itself made a bit of a mockery of being a recluse.

  Hoping her father’s often-repeated words of wisdom would calm her, Effie said the phrase over and over in her mind. Not that the house intimidated her. She had been visiting the previous Lord Rivenhall alone since she had been about ten. The old man had always been thrilled to see her and took an active interest in her passion for antiquity. She had had free rein to explore his vast scholarly library as well as dig in the ruins. Right up until his death twelve months ago, Effie had taken tea with him at least twice a week. Unfortunately, this wasn’t tea with her father’s old friend. It was critical to all she held dear and her fate rested entirely in the hands of his scowling curmudgeon of a nephew.

  Out of politeness to the new master, Effie knocked on the imposing front door rather than let herself in through the kitchens as usual. In the spirit of friendship, she also carried a basket of freshly baked cakes for the surly Earl as a peace offering, hoping a few sweet treats and the fine bottle of brandy from her father’s old stash might make him more agreeable.

  Smithson, the butler, appeared amused that she had done so and even more bemused by the sight of her in a frock, but embarrassment soon clouded his face, his darting eyes saying much more than his mouth. ‘I believe Lord Rivenhall is indisposed again, Miss Euphemia. Perhaps you would like to leave your basket and I will tell him that you called?’ His wary gaze was pleading now, begging her to leave.

  Effie had expected this. The village was awash with gossip about how the new owner of Rivenhall Abbey had refused to see anyone thus far. Aside from her, the vicar and his wife had been turned away both last week and the week before when they had called to welcome him to the parish. So, too, had the local magistrate and the physician, Dr Samuels. Although after her run-in with Lord Surly yesterday and his curt ‘I have a deep well of loathing for the medical profession’, she wasn’t particularly surprised the latter gentleman had been denied an audience. But he would see her today.

  By hook or by crook, he would see her today!

  She had even donned a dress for the occasion, something she rarely needed on the long and solitary days filled with digging, but she knew from bitter experience the male of the species always reacted more favourably towards her if she resembled what they expected a gentleman’s daughter to resemble. As if the mere presence of skirts and ribbons somehow made her less intimidating or odd. To that end, and because he was new to the parish, she had also vowed to disguise the bulk of her intellect, too. Nothing terrified or aggravated a man more than an excessively clever woman—even if she wasn’t in breeches.

  She smiled at the butler apologetically. ‘No, thank you, Smithson. I shall wait here until His Lordship is disposed. Can you please tell him that I have taken root in the parlour and will not be budged until I have an audience with him?’

  Smiths
on nodded slowly, a slight wince on his face. ‘I will try, Miss Euphemia.’ Then he leant closer to whisper, ‘Although I do not fancy your chances. He is not the most sociable sort and prefers privacy.’

  He moved off down the hallway, so she showed herself into the parlour and sat in her preferred seat nearest the large French doors which overlooked the beautiful garden, wishing she was outside working rather than stuck indoors wasting valuable hours on this ridiculous errand.

  The butler returned in minutes, obviously agitated. ‘I am to tell you that His Lordship is indisposed and will remain so for the foreseeable future, Miss Euphemia. Furthermore, I am to remind you that you have been...’ he looked down at his highly polished shoes as he swallowed uncomfortably ‘...banned from setting one foot on this land henceforth. I am so sorry.’

  Effie rolled her eyes, then pasted a cheery smile on her face. ‘Thank you for appraising me of His Lordship’s position, Smithson. But as I have already stated, I am quite determined to wait.’ Because everything hinged on him granting his permission. Effie wasn’t cut out for the traditional spinster’s life and she certainly wasn’t marriage material. Experience had taught her that as well. Her unusually active brain would send her mad if she was forced to embroider or knit, or, heaven forbid, sit through endless polite teas pretending to care about the typical inane nonsense ladies talked about over tea. Her brain needed constant feeding with new knowledge and challenges, not tired, well-worn gossip. ‘No matter how long that takes.’ She sat primly in her seat, attempting to look every inch the lady for once while poor Smithson visibly paled.

  ‘He is not going to take that well. I am under strict instructions to get rid of you.’ And it was patently obvious the servant much preferred to get rid of her, the woman he had known since she was baby, rather than deliver this unwelcome news to his belligerent new master.

  Effie shrugged then offered the butler a regrettable smile in apology. ‘Then tell him if he wants me gone, I shall be gone quicker if he sees me. And while you are about it, please tell him I believe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and that I wish to make amends for upsetting him. Tell him I come bearing gifts.’ Only the most hardened, rude curmudgeon could refuse both an apology and a present. ‘Edible gifts.’

  Smithson nodded and she watched his shoulders slump a little as he went off to impart the bad news. Less than a minute later she heard Lord Rivenhall’s explosive reaction echo down the hallway.

  ‘Get rid of the blasted woman now! When I told you that I do not wish to see anyone I meant it, Smithson. How dare you come to me and tell me that she will not budge? You should never have let the chit in! Get a couple of burly footmen and throw the wench out.’

  Effie knew the house too well not to know his bellowing shouts came from the study. She also knew that she was not going to stand by and allow the man to abuse one of his servants so abominably on her behalf regardless of the need to butter up the new Earl. She stood decisively and marched out of the French doors gripping her basket, determined to take the mountain to Mohammed. The quickest route to the study was outside and around the rose beds to the side. The study also had a pair of French doors connecting it to the garden. His Lordship would certainly not expect her to use them.

  Steeling herself to do polite and reasonable battle, she slipped outside and dashed past the roses. Fortunately, the doors were cracked open to let in the fresh spring air. She grabbed the handle and, before she sailed through imperiously, reminded herself of her mantra.

  Honey, not vinegar.

  ‘Good morning, Your Lordship.’

  The butler gaped at her intrusion. Effie had no idea how Lord Rivenhall initially reacted because he had his back to her. She watched his shoulders stiffen before his head whipped around. Despite the tousled, long black hair practically covering his face like a shroud, she had the satisfaction of seeing he appeared to be temporarily lost for words.

  ‘Isn’t it a lovely morning, my lord?’

  ‘Have you no respect for either etiquette or boundaries, madam?’

  ‘Usually—but I urgently needed to speak you.’

  ‘And you assumed barging into my private study was appropriate when you had already been refused an audience?’

  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures and I knew you were in because I heard you shouting.’

  ‘If you heard me, then you should already know I have no inclination to suffer your presence, Miss Nuisance.’ Lord Rivenhall turned his back rudely and addressed the butler instead as he started towards the hall. ‘Show her to the door and make sure she uses it!’

  ‘If you wish to be rude to someone, my lord, I would appreciate that you direct it at me. It is not Smithson’s fault that I have refused to leave or encroached on your privacy. And to be clear, I have no intention of leaving until I have said my piece, Lord Rivenhall, so you might as well hear it. Seeing as you are plainly here...’ she let her eyes travel around the pristine study until they settled on the completely clear desk. ‘...and hardly strike me as particularly indisposed.’

  He paused mid-stride and slowly turned, clearly unsure of quite how to react to her bold statement. Bravely, Effie smiled, then walked towards the big, mahogany desk and sat in the chair opposite his vacant one to emphasise her intention to remain exactly where she was. Lord Rivenhall did not move from his spot on the Persian rug, piercing her with a glare which could have curdled milk.

  ‘Thank you, Smithson,’ she said, dismissing the servant with a smile she did not feel. ‘I shall see myself out once I am done. It shouldn’t take long.’ She fixed her gaze defiantly on her new nemesis. ‘Or at least I hope it won’t.’

  The butler eyed them both warily, then bobbed his head once and swiftly fled the room at a speed that was not at all dignified. Lord Rivenhall let the silence hang ominously, but made no move to approach the desk. Instead, he folded his arms insolently and positively glared at her as he tapped one large booted foot impatiently. Effie decided to take his lack of shouting as a good sign.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but I felt it imperative to apologise for yesterday.’

  Honey, not vinegar. Honey, not vinegar...

  ‘With hindsight, I imagine it came as quite the shock to see a stranger digging up your land so early in the morning, so it is hardly surprising we got off on the wrong foot.’ For good measure, she wiggled the basket now resting on her lap before sliding it on to the desk. ‘I brought fruitcake and brandy as a peace offering. A bottle of my father’s finest and one which goes particularly well with our housekeeper Mrs Farley’s famous fruitcake. It is her own secret recipe and she guards it with her life—much to the consternation of the rest of the village who would kill for it. But she baked this one yesterday upon my instruction. Just for you.’

  ‘That...was very kind of her...and you.’ He practically had to choke out the simple pleasantry through gritted teeth as it appeared to take a great deal of effort—but at least it proved he did possess some gentlemanly good manners and was capable of using them if pushed. ‘But wholly unnecessary.’ She watched his jaw set stubbornly. ‘It changes nothing.’

  But changing the subject might give her a few more minutes’ leeway. She beamed as if she hadn’t heard his latest refusal. Pretending not to hear insults or see the pointed looks was second nature to her nowadays and certainly made life easier than chastising herself for being so unnaturally different. ‘What I urgently need to talk to you about is a pot.’

  ‘A pot?’ As she had hoped, the abrupt and seemingly bizarre change of topic confused him. ‘Why the hell should I care about a pot?’

  ‘Because this is not just any old pot, my lord.’ Her cheerful smile was met with open hostility. She could feel the anger at her intrusion shimmering off him in waves despite his statue-like, wary posture. But she would persevere regardless. What other choice did she have? It was only her entire reason for being he was determined to d
eprive her of. ‘This is different. Unique. In the two years I have been seriously digging around the ruined Abbey, I have never seen anything quite like it.’ While she apparently had the floor, there seemed little point in pausing. It would only give him the chance to dismiss her out of hand, when he needed to realise first exactly what it was he was dismissing. Whether he wanted to or not.

  ‘I discovered it purely by chance yesterday in the new trench I have started on the eastern boundary. I am not even sure what possessed me to dig there when there are still such rich pickings coming out of the ground near the Roman settlement by the western foundations...’

  ‘Roman? As in Ancient Roman?’ Curiosity was getting the better of him, something which clearly disgusted him as he remembered to follow his question with another scowl.

  Beyond the scowl, she could not help but notice the Earl of Rivenhall was a handsome devil in a brooding sort of way, when she had been trying so hard to avoid noticing such pointlessly futile if pleasing aspects of the male form. Two dark brows furrowed in consternation over equally dark hooded eyes. A straight nose, strong jaw. The unfashionably dark and windswept hair only adding to his mysterious appeal. Excessively broad shoulders filled his coat and made him appear almost menacing from her angle in the chair below, although why he was buttoned into such a warm coat, the tall points of his shirt collar swathed in a cravat practically tied to the chin when the weather was unseasonably warm was beyond her.