Lord Westwood was studying her. “Our business has lost a great deal of money since Freddy’s death,” he said.
Now they were at the reason for his visit. “That is regrettable,” Harriet replied. When he did not answer, she eyed him curiously. “Surely you do not hold me to blame.”
There was a pause. “I do.”
“What? Why, that is silly. I have done nothing.”
“That,” the earl said, “is precisely the problem.”
Harriet frowned. “The loss of a few pounds could not have seriously altered your finances.”
“Thirty thousand.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thirty thousand,” he repeated. “The decisions I have been unable to implement because of your refusal to respond to my instructions have resulted in the loss of thirty thousand pounds since November last. A king’s ransom, madam. It also appears you have sold some of the stock and availed yourself of a significant sum of cash. Ten thousand pounds, to be precise.”
Harriet was surprised. It was rather a formidable sum. She had not kept track, for such things did not concern her.
“It was my part of the business to do with as I wished, my lord,” she said. “At all events, I have put the proceeds to good use.”
“And what might that be?” His gaze was hard.
Was he trying to intimidate her? “Necessary improvements,” she replied crisply.
“Please explain.” A clear command.
“It is quite simple,” she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. “I sold some stock to pay for the Whitmires’ wheat crop, which was devastated by the rains last year. Now they can plant winter wheat, which many think is a superior grain and —” She broke off. Lord Westwood’s expression had darkened considerably.
“You sold stock in Westwood Imports to pay for a neighbor’s wheat crop?”
“There was also Mrs. Gibson’s cow, which died suddenly last month,” Harriet said. “A family cannot subsist without a cow,” she added defiantly.
“A cow,” he echoed.
“It cannot have escaped your notice, my lord, that the village is in need of repair. Its fortunes have fallen over the last few years, and there is much to be done. And it does bear the Worthington name, a remnant of a time when Freddy’s family owned much of the land. I have a responsibility here.”
“I see,” he said.
“The mill needed to be rebuilt,” Harriet continued. “Squire did not keep it up, and Freddy had done no repairs after winning it from him in a card game. People depend upon the mill. But before the mill could be useful, we had to tear down the old dam, which was diverting the water power and flooding an old pasture. The Reeds needed water to irrigate their fields, so we built a new dam, and everyone is quite happy now. Especially the Smythes, who owned the old swampy pasture. Now they can use it for grazing land. Of course they did not have any grazing animals until —”
“You bought them a herd of sheep.”
Harriet beamed. “How did you know?”
Lord Westwood exhaled slowly. For a moment he did not speak. “Lady Harriet,” he said finally, in a constricted tone, “I am certain that your neighbors are grateful for your assistance. But you have succeeded in severely depleting the assets of a business which I founded, which bears my name and which until last year was extremely profitable, without consulting me. I cannot imagine that you think that is fair.”
She frowned. “When you put it that way, my lord, perhaps not. But perhaps you had too much money to begin with.”
He eyed her incredulously.
“The business never did Freddy any good, if you must know,” Harriet explained. “He had a most unfortunate gambling habit and frittered away his money on unhealthy pursuits. In fact, I believe the business hastened his death.”
“Whatever pursuits in which your husband was engaged, it is hardly fair to take your anger at him out on my business —”
“Oh, I am not angry,” Harriet assured him. “Not at all. Freddy was entitled to do as he wished. But he could not handle wealth, and I believe it shortened his life.”
“I see. So you decided to give the wealth away.”
“It may please you to paint me as a spendthrift, my lord, but the truth is I have used the money for greater good. Reapportioned it, one might say, for a better purpose. As is my right, I believe.”
Lord Westwood rose. He wore an odd expression. A rigid one, she thought.
“I thank you for the sherry, but I cannot stay for dinner,” he said. “To be quite frank, madam, I am having great difficulty controlling my temper. It is a character flaw, to be sure, but there it is, nevertheless. We will continue this discussion on another occasion.”
Harriet regarded him regretfully. “Oh, dear. And I had Celestial prepare broiled salmon with caper sauce.”
“Caper sauce?”
“I find it marries quite beautifully with the raspberry vinegar-marinated asparagus, though one might be forgiven for assuming that the pungent flavors would do battle. They do not, I assure you.”
The earl set his glass of sherry on the table. “I suppose you cook the life out of it.”
“The asparagus? Oh, no, my lord. We steam it slightly just until the color sharpens. Then we plunge the stalks into cold water to stop the cooking. They are quite crisp and more than hold their own with my crusty French rolls. Did I mention the buttered prawns? We dress them with plenty of garlic so they do not fade away amid the other dishes. I like food that makes one sit up and take notice.”
Lord Westwood squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I am sure it is delicious, and I regret ruining your dinner, but I have learned over the years that my temper is not to be trifled with. I am afraid I must —”
“Trifle? Oh, dear.” Harriet rose quickly. “We were to have a trifle for dessert — ’tis my own creation, something of an international dish. Prime English custard layered over a cake soaked in Madeira wine, overspread with candied fruits from Italy. I finish it with ice cream flavored by Turkish apricots. But since you are not staying for dinner, I must tell Celestial not to unmold the ice cream, else it will be ruined. Please excuse me.”
She moved toward the door.
Lord Westwood cleared his throat. “Lady Harriet.” His voice sounded strained.
“Do not worry,” she assured him, waving a dismissive hand. “I am not in the least offended by your premature departure. I have a most open mind about masculine behavior. But that is neither here nor there. Good evening, my lord.”
“It is just —” He broke off.
She turned. “Yes?”
“I would be loath to…” He hesitated.
Harriet smiled encouragingly.
“To ruin your trifle,” he finished.
Harriet frowned. “Does that mean you wish to stay for dinner after all?”
But before he could answer, the door opened and Horace stood at the threshold. “Dinner is served,” he intoned.
An aroma of freshly broiled salmon, pungent caper sauce, raspberry vinegar, prawns heavy with garlic, and musky exotic fruits filled the room. Lord Westwood took a deep breath, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his brow. He closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he declared in a ragged tone. “I believe I do.”
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