wall.
Minerva inwardly cursed. She didn’t want Falwell to hear her request.
“So what have we to deal with today?”
Royce’s question refocused her attention. She looked down at her list, and swiftly went through Retford’s warning that in the wake of the funeral they would need to replenish the cellar, and Cranny’s request for new linens for the north wing bedrooms. “And while we’re looking at fabrics, there are two rooms in the south wing that could use new curtains.” Because of the castle’s isolation, all such items were normally procured from London.
Royce looked at Handley as his secretary glanced up from his notes. “Hamilton can make himself useful-he knows what wines I prefer, and for the rest he could consult with my London housekeeper-” He glanced at Minerva.
“Mrs. Hardcastle,” she supplied.
He looked at Handley. “Send a note to Hamilton about the wines and fabrics, and suggest he ask Mrs. Hardcastle to assist him with the latter. Regardless, he should purchase the materials subject to Miss Chesterton’s and Mrs. Cranshaw’s approval.”
Handley nodded, swiftly scribbling.
“The curtains need to be damask, with apple-green the predominant color,” Minerva said.
Handley nodded again.
Royce arched a brow at her. “Is there anything else?”
“Not about the household.” She hesitated; she would have infinitely preferred not to have Falwell present, but she had to strike while this iron was hot. She drew breath. “However, there’s a matter I’ve been meaning to bring to your attention.”
Royce looked his invitation.
“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it-”
Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”
Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”
Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.
He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.
Unfortunately, Falwell was unquestionably correct. The last thing the dukedom needed was to become seen as a general savior of last resort. Especially not to the towns, who were supposed to manage their responsibilities from the taxes they collected.
“In this matter, I must agree with Falwell. However, I will raise the matter, personally, with the appropriate authorities.” He glanced at Handley. “Find out who I need to see.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He looked again at Minerva, met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”
She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder what was going through her head, but then she answered, “No, Your Grace. That’s all.”
Looking down, she gathered her papers, then stood, inclined her head to him, turned, and walked to the door.
As it closed behind her, he was already considering how to use the footbridge to his best advantage.
There was more than one way to skin a cat-Minerva wondered what approach Royce was considering. With the luncheon gong echoing through the corridors, she headed for the dining room, hoping she’d read him aright.
She hadn’t been surprised by Falwell’s comments; his role was to manage the estate as a business, rather than care for its people. The latter was in part her role, and even more so the duke’s. Royce’s. He’d said he would take up the issue-presenting her request more clearly in people terms might help. As she neared the dining room, Royce walked out of the parlor opposite. He’d heard her footsteps; he’d been waiting for her. He paused, met her gaze; when she reached him, without a word he waved her ahead of him through the dining room door.
The rest of the company were already at table, engrossed in a discussion of Margaret’s and Susannah’s plans for the six days remaining before the fair. She and Royce went to the laden sideboard, helped themselves from the variety of cold meats, hams, and assorted delicacies displayed on the platters and dishes, then Royce steered her to the head of the table, to the chair beside his. Jeffers leapt to hold it for her.
By the time she’d sat and settled her skirts, Royce was seated in his great carver, by the angle of his shoulders, and the absolute focus of his attention on her, effectively cutting off the others-who read the signs and left them in peace.
They started eating, then he met her eyes. “Thank you for your help with the sheep.”
“You knew Hamish was the best source for breeders-you didn’t need me to tell you so.”
“I needed you to tell Falwell so. If I’d suggested Hamish, he’d have tied himself in knots trying to acceptably say that my partiality for Hamish’s stock was because of the connection.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “But you aren’t connected to Hamish.”
“No, but Falwell knows I approve of Hamish.”
“But not even Falwell would suggest that you-the farmers’ champion-would urge me to get stock from anywhere that wasn’t the best.” Royce met her eyes, let his lips curve slightly. “Using you to suggest Hamish, having your reputation supporting the idea, saved time and a considerable amount of convoluted argument.”
She smiled, pleased with the disguised compliment.
He let her preen for a moment, then followed up with, “Which raises a related issue-do you have any suggestions for a replacement for Falwell?”
She swallowed, nodded. “Evan Macgregor, Macgregor’s third son.”
“And why would he suit?”
She reached for her water glass. “He’s young, but not too young, a gregarious soul who was born on the estate and knows-and is liked by-literally everyone on it. He was a scallywag when younger, but always good-hearted, and he’s quick and clever-more than most. Now he’s older, being the third son, and with Sean and Abel more than capable of taking on Macgregor’s holding between them, Evan has too little to do.” She sipped, then met his eyes. “He’s in his late twenties, and is still helping on the farm, but I don’t think he’ll stay much longer unless he finds some better occupation.”
“So at present he’s wasted talent, and you think I should use him as steward.”
“Yes. He’d work hard for you, and while he might make the odd mistake, he’ll learn from them, and, most importantly, he’ll never steer you wrongly over anything to do with the estate or its people.” She set down her glass. “I haven’t been able to say that of Falwell for more than a decade.”
Royce nodded. “However, regardless of Falwell’s shortcomings, I meant what I said about the footbridge being something the dukedom can’t simply step in and fix.”
She met his eyes, studied them, then faintly raised her brows. “So…?”
He let his lips curve in appreciation; she was starting to read him quite well. “So I need you to give me some urgent, preferably dramatic, reason to get on my ducal high horse and cow the aldermen of Harbottle into fixing it.”
She held his gaze; her own grew distant, then she refocused-and smiled. “I can do that.” When he arched a brow, she smoothly replied, “I believe we need to ride that way this afternoon.”
He considered the logistics, then glanced at the others.
When he looked back at her, brows lifting, she nodded. “Leave them to me.”
He sat back and watched with unfeigned appreciation as she leaned forward and, with a comment here, another there, slid smoothly into the discussions they had, until then, ignored.
