Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,48

farmers with you. He has been ill and has fallen behind in rents.”

The hammering from the workmen seemed never-ending, and Nash had an idea. “Shall we step outside and walk a bit?” he asked.

Silence. Finally, Forester said, “If you prefer, sir.”

Nash would have done anything to escape the noise of the workmen. He took his overcoat and stepped into the cool air, happy to move as far away from the house as Mr. Forester and he could walk. When he returned, he knew all about the harvest, the crops that had done well, those that had failed, the farmers who were lazy, and those who were ill. The Smiths seemed to fall into this last category. The husband had been bed-ridden with an illness for much of the summer and had not been able to work the land. The family was now behind in rent and had little food stored for the winter. Forester realized he was expected to evict the Smiths, but he had written to the earl to plead for forbearance and had yet to receive a response.

Nash hardly thought his opinion merited any weight. He was about to be evicted himself—in a manner of speaking. But he told the steward to hold off and to do what he could for the family in the time being. He hadn’t promised to write to his father, but the act had been implied. Nash wondered how he was supposed to advocate for the Smiths when he couldn’t even advocate for himself.

It seemed hours passed before the clock chimed five and the hammering ceased. And then it seemed more hours passed without Miss Howard arriving. Mrs. Brown served some sort of meat for dinner, but whatever it was had been charred past all recognition, and Nash did not eat it.

Where the devil was Miss Howard? Was she not coming? Had he scared her off with his behavior the evening before? If that was the case, why had she implied that she found his attentions pleasing? Perhaps she’d changed her mind. Perhaps...

He thought he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. But Miss Howard came on foot, did she not? Nash went to the foyer and tried to appear as though he was not waiting for a knock on the door. But he was waiting, and none came. Finally, he heaved a sigh and started for the stairs and his room. Miss Howard was clearly not coming today.

And then, halfway up the stairs, he smelled something that made his mouth water. He turned his head and made his way slowly back down, following the scent to the dining room. “There you are,” came Miss Howard’s voice. “I am sorry we are late,” she said, sounding breathless. Nash moved through the door and inhaled deeply. He smelled potatoes and fresh baked bread and spices.

“Mrs. Blimkin insisted on baking a tart. I don’t know why when she had already prepared enough for an army. We had to borrow Mr. Langford’s dog cart to carry it all and ourselves. But we are here now. Have you already eaten? If so, I can have Mrs. Brown put this away—”

“No!” Nash would have snatched the dish out of her hands if he’d been able to see it.

“Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Pope? You look...” She paused. “Quite presentable.” But he heard the warmth in her voice. She might not have intended it, but she sounded as though she approved of how he looked. Perhaps Clopdon was not so bad.

No, Clopdon was a nuisance, but he could be born. Especially if his ministrations made Miss Howard’s voice lower in that fashion.

“I have not eaten,” he said. “What did you bring?”

“Shepherd’s pie. I thought I told you that. Would you like a piece?”

He wanted the entire pie. “Yes. Do you mind serving?” If the pie was put in front of him, he would likely eat it right from the plate.

“Of course. Please sit.”

He did and heard her rattling about until she located a plate. She set it before him and then placed a fork, knife, and spoon where he could easily find them.

“I hope you will join me.”

“Oh! I...yes, thank you.” More rattling and more flatware set on the table. He could see the shape of her, and he thought she moved with efficiency. The food was soon before him, and Nash almost groaned at the smell. For months, the alcohol he’d consumed had dulled his appetite. Mrs. Brown’s cooking had not helped. But he felt like a