Just, newly created first Earl of Rosecroft, was a flat, screaming terror. The man was a Black Irish terror, no matter he paid well and worked harder than any title Holderman had run across. The earl was not an easy person to work for-well over six feet of former cavalry officer, firstborn of a powerful duke, and possessed of both arrogance and temper in abundance. “What?” the earl pressed, and Holderman began to wish he’d heeded his sister’s advice and stayed pleasantly bored summering on their uncle’s estate closer to York. He’d given the word a little emphasis: lee-gal, and his employer shot him a scowl. “In the legal sense, perhaps not,” Holderman prevaricated, clearing his throat delicately. “ That”-the earl jerked his chin-“cannot convey. “And as for the other, well, I gather it conveyed with the estate.” “I’m afraid, my lord, the fountain hasn’t worked in several years,” Holderman replied, answering the simpler question first. “And why, in the blazing middle of July, is my fountain inoperable?” Just, the Earl of Rosecroft, directed his question to the wilted specimen who passed for his land steward.
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