Excerpt

Fern took a deep breath, mentally steeling herself for the encounter as animosity rolled off the other man. He could glare all he wanted. It made no difference to her. She had faced far worse in her life, and would not be deterred by the disdain of one man.

Plastering a smile on her face, she said, "Mr Corby, I presume? I am Miss Oakby. Lord Warrington asked me to look at your dead plants."

The scowl on his face deepened, and his top lip pulled upward in a sneer. "You're supposed to be an expert on gardens?"

"My father was Mr Rowan Oakby, the renowned botanist. I had the privilege of learning at his side and maintain his garden of rare and exotic species." Fern held the man's gaze and refused to look away. Her pedigree and experience were impeccable. What was this boorish oaf's claim to botanical knowledge? That he could chew grass?

Mr Corby snorted. "Your father knew an azalea from a camellia. You're just a trousers-wearing oddity."

She didn't move or bat an eyelid. "And yet…I'm the one Lord Warrington sent for to fix the problem. Which rather implies that you failed, doesn't it?"

The gardener took a step towards her, and his hands clenched into meaty fists, but when she didn't flinch or back down, he stopped. Instead, he snarled. "His lordship will hear about this!" He turned on his heel and strode out the door.

"And a pleasure to meet you too," Fern said to the empty space where he had stood moments before. Drawing a deep breath to settle her raised temper, she followed him outside.

The wind had picked up in the short time she had been inside, and dust eddies swirled through the courtyard and snatched up loose dirt and leaves. Mr Corby walked off without a backwards glance. Fern hurried to catch up with him while, at the same time, trying not to look as though she chased him to the curious servants who watched. It was a hard thing to pull off, but she congratulated herself on not having to run thanks to long legs and trousers.

Having made it across the yard, she slowed her pace to take in her surroundings. Let the man complain to Lord Warrington. She would report how instead of assisting, he stormed off and refused to show her the area of concern in the sprawling grounds. If she got lost, it could take her weeks to find the right spot on her own, and she doubted his lordship wanted to pay the sort of bill that would result from wasting her time.

The drop in temperature outside must have chilled Corby's foul mood, as he stopped by a low hedge and pretended he was trimming a bit of unruly growth. "Don't know what possessed his lordship to send a girl to do a man's job. Bet the chit has never even held a spade before," he grumbled to the plant but loud enough for Fern to hear.

She bit her tongue, and with effort, resisted the urge to respond to his obvious baiting. Instead, Fern surveyed the estate with a critical eye. Focusing on the hedges lining the path, she noted the expertly trimmed shapes with a begrudging admiration. A rose garden burst with immaculate blooms, and a Boston ivy on one wall was kept in check and resembled a swath of verdant curtain. In another space, annuals and perennial flowers in muted tones enhanced the tranquillity of a pond. The man was clearly skilled. But his churlish demeanour left much to be desired.

At length her reluctant guide paused by an arch cut in a tall yew hedge.

"You maintain impressive grounds. I understand that it is seen as a slight for Lord Warrington to bring in someone else to tend a problem. Particularly someone younger," Fern said, hoping to soften the man's hard edges.

He grunted and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I've worked here since I was a wee lad and know this estate like the back of my hand. I don't need your help. I've told his lordship it's most likely the hounds peeing."

Fern had to admit that would do it. If all the dogs on the estate relieved themselves in the same place, the urine would poison both grass and hedges. "Have you tried fencing them off so they find somewhere else to go?"

He huffed and walked through the yew to the other side. "I'm not daft. We did that, but the cunning things are drawn by the scent and push through."

Fern followed his broad back and emerged in a sheltered space. In the middle was an ornate fountain, now disused, and its pond held a few inches of green muck. Paths of a soft creeping thyme separated the fountain from beds with sickly perennials. A bench sat to one side under a bower being claimed by an enthusiastic pink rose, the only bright spot in the subdued garden. On the opposite side, an oak tree spread its boughs.

As Fern walked along the fragrant path, the problem became evident. A patch of thyme was sickly yellow and spread over the ground like a dropped bowl of custard. The tendrils of disease curled around box hedging, and those plants also yellowed and wilted. It certainly appeared that dogs relieving themselves were the problem.

"We've dug it up and resown the thyme, but it still dies. So does the hedge. I've replaced that three times now, twice since I insisted all the dogs be kept out of the garden." He crossed his arms, and a smug smile flitted over his face as though he was confident of her failure, even as he dared her to find the source of the problem.

The plants were wilted and sickly, their once-vibrant hues now dull and lifeless. Fern knelt on the creeping thyme and ran a hand across the dead and brittle leaves. There were visible signs of an imbalance in the earth, and the silent cry of plants in distress.

Mr Corby continued to share what he had tried to remedy the problem, though his tone remained dismissive and tinged with annoyance.

If she discounted incontinent dogs, what else might be responsible?