Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,85

another balanced on her hip, she gazed helplessly at a man walking to the other end of the yard.

“Oh, no, Mr. Crummock,” Cassandra called after the man. “You don’t throw a woman and her children out of their home and run away.”

He wouldn’t have done it if Mr. Pooley had been here, but Mr. Pooley wasn’t here. Out looking for work, probably.

Crummock paused and turned. He was a great bull of a man, dressed, not elegantly, but better than most of the yard’s inhabitants. They were nearly all in view, watching.

“Don’t you be starting trouble with me, missus. I been as patient as I ever could with ’em. More’n four months behind, they are, and the one pays my wages ain’t in the charity house business.”

Ashmont started toward the man. “You did this?” His voice was mild and he wore a faint smile. “You threw their possessions into the filth of the yard?” He gestured at the worn clothing, cracked dishes, utensils, and other pitiful odds and ends.

Cassandra caught herself as she was about to grab his arm. She’d told him to hold his tongue. He was here for show, no more. Having a man nearby changed the balance of power.

But she was aware of people watching. Men coming out of their workshops. Women standing in doorways or looking down from open windows.

They paid no attention to her. They were fixed on Ashmont and waiting to see what he’d do.

She folded her hands and waited, too. If matters went awry, she’d simply have to deal with it.

“They wouldn’t go,” Crummock said. He seemed to shrink in size as Ashmont neared.

“You threw out their things,” the duke said. “Onto the stones and dirt. A woman and two children.”

“They don’t pay, mister. Sir. They owed since Lady Day. It’s my job to collect the rents. I been back time and again, and they put me off. Can’t do it no more.”

“We’re waiting for Mr. Pooley’s wages,” Mrs. Pooley said. “He been owed them for months. He isn’t here. Gone to look for work. Never got paid for the last job he took. I been taking in mending and washing. We wouldn’t ask for charity. What we want is time to get right again. It’s all we can do now to feed the children.”

Ashmont’s gaze slid over her, the children, and the collection of belongings scattered over the cobblestones. He clenched his hands.

Crummock took a step back.

Ashmont closed his eyes and opened them again. He unclenched his hands. “Mr. Crummock,” he said in the same mild voice.

Even Mrs. Pooley retreated at the sound, an ominous quiet before a storm.

The rent collector looked about the yard. He couldn’t expect sympathy or allies. He could make a run for it, Cassandra thought, but he must realize he wouldn’t get far with Ashmont in pursuit.

The man clutched his rent book to his chest. “Mister—sir—I got my job to do.”

“Yes, and what you will do now is collect all the articles you’ve tossed out, like—like rubbish,” Ashmont said. “A family’s possessions. You will collect those articles and you will carry them back to Mrs. Pooley’s rooms. You will help her put her household in order once more. You will apologize for disturbing her.”

“Apologize!”

“You will apologize, Mr. Crummock. Then you will return to me and we’ll discuss business.”

Crummock’s face reddened. Though the yard lay in the shadows of the surrounding buildings, though no sun beat down on him, sweat trickled down the side of his face. He studied Ashmont for a time. The duke still smiled. He seemed quietly at ease. But he was a duke. And he was Ashmont.

Nobody here seemed to have any idea who he was, but everybody must sense, as Cassandra did, danger throbbing in the air. The yard was still. Even the workshops had fallen silent.

Crummock walked back and began to collect the family’s possessions.

One thing at a time, Ashmont counseled himself. First, he had to keep his temper. Second, he had to think.

By the time Crummock had carried the Pooleys’ household possessions back to their rooms and helped Mrs. Pooley return them to their rightful places, Ashmont had devised a plan of sorts. He borrowed the rent collector’s book and wrote his solicitor’s name and direction there.

“Call on him tomorrow,” he said. “He’ll arrange matters with your employer.”

When the rent collector left, Ashmont made himself deal with the family. He hadn’t any choice. Miss Pomfret had not uttered a word since he’d gone after Crummock. She said nothing now, only waited, as