The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (best new books to read .TXT) 📗

the steward back, realizing the extent of his demotion and wanting to quarrel after all?

The Reverend Dunhill poked his head around the study door. “Good morning, milord. I just ran into Halbert Grayson in the hall. He looked most relieved. I take it you’re keeping him on as steward? Most wise of you. He knows everyone on the estate and how things run here. Not exactly a fireball, but steady.”

“Actually, I will be keeping him on, but not in his current capacity. I think a new man in charge is what the estate needs.”

“A new man? Are you promoting someone from the estate? One of the crofters?” The preacher’s brow furrowed. “I confess, that would be quite a leap in status for a shepherd or farmer. I’m not certain how the other tenants would react to such a move.”

Charles set his pen in its holder. He supposed some curiosity about his plans was normal, but why should the local preacher care about who had charge of the estate?

“You’ll think me a meddling fool.” Dunhill shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It’s just that the estate and the doings here affect the village in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. A good steward here has a positive effect on the outlook of the townspeople, and thus my job is easier.”

That made sense, Charles supposed. “You may put your mind at ease that I will take care in my selection.”

Dunhill pursed his lips. “I see.” There was a long pause as the man appeared to digest this information.

“I will choose a man of good reputation who will not lead your parishioners astray or provide a negative impact upon the village.” The man seemed overly cautious when it came to his flock.

The reverend jerked slightly, as if coming out of deep thought. “Of course. I would expect nothing less from a man of your character. How are you feeling? You look to be dealing with your injuries well. No lingering ill effects?”

“Other than the fact that it seems as if someone is driving pilings behind my eyes?” Charles held out his hand. “Have a seat.” Though he really didn’t have time for a lengthy conversation, it would be churlish to expect the reverend to leave too soon.

Shipboard protocols would dictate sending for coffee or tea, and he assumed the same held for manor houses. He started for the door to summon one of the girls to ask Mrs. Chapman if she could prepare some, but Dunhill stopped him.

“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve brought someone with me. He’s waiting in the hall.” He held the door open. “Come along, Miles. Don’t be nervous. The earl is quite kind, as I told you.”

A young man stepped into the study, tensed as if to run. He wore a loose tan shirt of some course material and dark-brown breeches tucked into heavy boots. His sandy-brown hair needed a trim, and his eyes were a strange, yellowish gold that reminded Charles of the owl in the boathouse.

Perhaps seventeen or eighteen years? Stocky and keen eyed, like many a midshipman he’d commanded. “Miles? You’re the young man who cares for the Shearwater?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Who taught you about boats?” Nobody kept a craft in good trim by accident.

“My granddad, sir.”

“And where is he?”

“Dead.”

The boy wasn’t exactly loquacious.

“What’s your last name?”

“Enys.”

“Was your grandfather a navy man?”

“No.”

Reverend Dunhill elbowed Miles Enys. “Explain yourself, and stop being short with the earl. If you want to keep your position, show some respect.”

The young man glowered and shrugged. “My granddad had a boatyard near Falmouth. I lived with him until he died. The boatyard got sold to pay his debts, and the new owner didn’t want me hanging about. So I headed along the coast looking for work. I saw the Shearwater down by the dock, looking like it had been in a battle. I came up to the house and asked Grayson if he needed someone to repair the boat. Grayson asked the old earl, and they gave me the job. I fixed up the Shearwater, and they kept me on to sail her for the old earl.” He shifted his weight, flicking his chin so his hair tossed back off his forehead.

Charles considered his story. It made sense. The Pembroke girls’ father had charge of the boat before his death, and the girls reported that while the Shearwater had been wrecked, it had been salvaged. “I didn’t find your name on the employee list in the ledger. What are your wages?”

“Not being paid as such. I have a place to sleep in one of the sheep sheds. Grayson lets me fish in the cove, and I sell the catch in the village. The crofters trade me fish for bread sometimes.” His lips flattened in a look of sheer independence. “I look after myself.”

“And the boat.” Charles stood, clasping his hands behind his back and measured the area behind the desk with his strides. Miles Enys had the type of self-reliance Charles was looking for in a new steward. Too bad he was so young and lacking in experience. “The current arrangement is not satisfactory.”

“You’re not going to make him leave Gateshead, are you?” The vicar put his hand on Miles’s shoulder. “I assure you, he’s a good worker.”

Miles sent an alarmed look at Dunhill and then at Charles.

Why must everyone assume he was some ogre, determined to clear the property of its inhabitants? “I have no plans to dismiss him.” He pivoted on the rug. “What I find unsatisfactory is you working on the estate for no pay. Subsistence living is not something for which I want Gateshead to be known. From today, you will have regular duties with regular pay if that is agreeable to you?”

Miles Enys looked as if he’d been struck on the head with an oar. “You want to hire me for actual wages?” He put his hand on his chest.

“What you mean to say”—the reverend spoke around the side of his hand to hide his smile—“is ‘yes, sir’ and ‘thank you.’”

“Yes, sir.