Amanda Scott Read Online Free PDF

have to come up from the nether regions to do so. Thus, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door was pulled open while she still had her hand on the knocker.
    “Miss Margaret!” The neat, wiry man who stood there regarded her in amazement. “We thought … that is, Mr. Maitland was given to understand … that is, well, we’re right glad to see you’ve come home, miss.”
    “Good morning, Pudd. I am very glad to be back, but news must travel a good deal more slowly than it did before I left Hertfordshire. I arrived at the manor last night and was certain you would have received word of it by now.”
    “No, miss.” Puddephatt did not explain. Nor did he stand aside to let her pass.
    “Pudd, it is chilly out here,” she said pointedly.
    “Yes, miss. Was you meaning to leave a message?”
    “No, I was not,” Margaret replied, speaking more sharply. “I wish to speak to his lordship. And not before time, either,” she added with a sweeping gesture that included the overgrown lawn, the weeds, and the leggy, sprawling borders. “Whatever is he about to have let his servants neglect the place so?”
    “There’s pretty near only me and the rib left, Miss Margaret. So long as he gets fed and don’t have to answer the door, he don’t much care about nothing else.”
    “Then, he is here,” Margaret said, certain the little man must be exaggerating.
    Puddephatt hesitated. “Aye, miss, like as not.”
    “Well, for heaven’s sake, take me to him, or tell him I am here.”
    Nervously the wiry man glanced over his shoulder toward a pair of tall oak doors in the near side of the ancient stone hall. “I’m thinking that it wouldn’t be wise, Miss Margaret. I’ll tell him you was here and that you be wishful to see him. More than that I shouldn’t like to undertake.”
    Margaret looked hard at the manservant. She had known him since her childhood when he was a mere footman who could be counted upon to produce lumps of sugar for her to give her pony or to warn young mischiefmakers when to play least in sight. Now he looked careworn and rather anxious. She hadn’t missed the quick glance over his shoulder either.
    “His lordship is in his bookroom, is he not?”
    “Aye, miss,” he said unhappily, “but I daren’t announce you. ’Twouldn’t be fittin’ for you to see him just now.”
    “Fustian,” said Lady Celeste’s grandniece. “Stand aside. You needn’t announce me at all. I’ve not the slightest notion of what’s what with his precious lordship that he isn’t even of a mind to be civil, but I assure you I mean to see him now, at this very moment, and not at his convenience.”
    “Miss Margaret, no!” But Puddephatt might as well have spared his breath, for she pushed past him, crossed the stone floor of the hall with quick, angry steps and pulled open the doors to the bookroom.
    Adam Fortescue, sixth Earl of Abberley—all six feet, three inches of him—lay sprawled in a tattered leather chair before a cold fireplace, snoring harshly, his light-brown hair more tousled than Margaret could remember ever having seen it before. But even before she had had time to register the sight fully, her nostrils were assaulted by the aroma of stale brandy fumes wafting through the air.
    “Merciful heavens, Puddephatt,” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose, “how long has his lordship enjoyed this disgusting condition?”
    “Nigh onto three months or so, miss,” was the quiet reply.
    Margaret stared at the manservant. “You’re jesting!” He shook his head. “You are saying he has been like this since Sir Michael’s death?”
    “Aye, miss. Took it right hard, he did.”
    “But the land, this place …” She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “All this decay didn’t set in over a period of a mere two months.”
    Puddephatt shook his head. “His lordship lost interest in estate management some time ago. Preferred London, the social scene, gaming, women—that is, parties and the