insisted proved his point by providing a comprehensive and astute character study for each incumbent.
His memories of her from long ago weren’t all that detailed; what he had was an impression of a no-nonsense female uninclined to histrionics or flights of fancy, a girl with her feet firmly planted on the ground. His mother had trusted her implicitly, and from all he was learning, so had his sire.
And his father had never trusted easily, no more than he.
By the time they reached the end of her lists, he was convinced that he, too, could trust her. Implicitly. Which was a huge relief. Even keeping her at a physical distance, he would need her help to get through the next days, possibly weeks. Possibly even months. Knowing that her loyalties lay firmly with the dukedom-and thus with him as the duke-was reassuring.
Almost as if he could trust her to protect his back.
Which was a distinctly odd notion for a man like him to have of a woman. Especially a lady like her.
Unknowingly underscoring his conclusion, having re-gathered her scattered papers, leaving those he’d appropriated, she hesitated. When he caught her eye and arched a brow, she said, “Your father’s man of business is Collier-not the same Collier as Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, but their cousin.”
He could now read her tone. “Whom you don’t trust.”
“Not so much don’t trust as have no confidence that he knows all that much about managing money. Heaven knows, I don’t, but I’ve seen the returns on the dukedom’s investments, and they don’t impress. I get significantly better returns on my funds, which are handled by another firm.”
He nodded. “I have my own man of business-Montague, in the city. He does get impressive returns. I’ll instruct him to contact Collier and go through the books, then assume control.”
She smiled. “Excellent.” She shifted, looked at the lists before him. “If you don’t need me for anything else…?”
He wished he didn’t, but he had to know, and she was the only one he could ask. He focused on the pen in his hand-his father’s. “How did my father die?”
She stilled. He didn’t look up, but waited; he sensed she was ordering her thoughts. Then she said, “He had a seizure. He was perfectly well earlier-we met over breakfast-then he went into the library as he always did on Sunday mornings to read the news sheets. We don’t know when he was struck down, but when he didn’t ring for his elevenses, as he invariably did, the cook sent Jeffers to check. Jeffers found him lying on the floor behind his desk. He’d tried to reach the bellpull, but had collapsed.”
She paused, then went on, “Retford summoned me. I stayed with your father while they sent for the doctor and made a stretcher to carry him to his room. But he didn’t last that long.”
Royce glanced up. Her gaze was far away, unfocused. “You were with him when he died?”
She nodded.
He looked down, turned the pen in his fingers. “Did he say anything?”
“He was unconscious until quite close to the end. Then he stirred, and asked for you.”
“Me?” He looked up. “Not my sisters?”
“No-he’d forgotten. He thought you were here, at Wolverstone. I had to tell him you weren’t.” She refocused on him. “He passed away quite peacefully-if he had been in pain, it was before we found him.”
He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “Thank you.” After a moment, he asked, “Have you told the others?”
She knew to whom he was referring-his father’s illegitimate children.
“The girls are on one or other of the estates, so I sent letters out yesterday. Other than O’Loughlin, to whom I sent word, the males are out of reach-I’ll pen letters once we know the bequests, and you can sign them.” She looked at him. “Or Handley could do it, if you wish.”
“No. I’d appreciate it if you would handle that. You know them-Handley doesn’t. But leave O’Loughlin to me. I don’t want to start mysteriously losing sheep.”
She rose. “He wouldn’t, would he?”
“He would, if nothing else to gain my attention. I’ll deal with him.”
“Very well. If there’s nothing more you need from me, I’ll start planning the funeral, so once your sisters arrive we can proceed without delay.”
He nodded curtly. “Please God.”
He heard a soft chuckle as she glided to the door. Then she left, and he could, at last, focus on picking up the dukedom’s reins.
He spent the next two hours going over her lists and the notes he’d made, then penning letters-short, to-the- point scrawls; he was already missing Handley.
Jeffers proved invaluable, knowing the fastest route to fly his communications to each of his holdings; it appeared he needed a personal footman after all. Through Jeffers he arranged to meet with Wolverstone’s steward, Falwell, and Kelso, the agent, the following morning; both lived in Harbottle, so had to be summoned.
After that…once Jeffers had left with the last of his missives, Royce found himself standing at the window behind the desk, looking north toward the Cheviots and the border. The gorge through which the Coquet ran was visible here and there through the trees. A race had been cut into the steep bank some way north of the castle, channeling water to the castle mill; only the mill’s slate roof was visible from the study. After the mill, the race widened into an ornamental stream, a series of pools and ponds slowing the pummeling torrent until it flowed peacefully into the large manmade lake south of the castle.
Royce followed the line of the stream, his gaze fixing on the last pool before the view was cut off by the castle’s north wing. In his mind, he continued along the banks, to where the stream reached the lake, then farther around the western bank…to where the icehouse stood back from the shore in a grove of sheltering willows.
He stood for a while more, feeling rather than thinking. Then accepting the inevitable, he turned and walked to the door. Stepping out, he looked at Jeffers. “I’m going for a walk. If Miss Chesterton looks for me, tell her I’ll see her at dinner.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned and started walking. He supposed he’d get used to the form of address, yet…it wasn’t supposed to have been like this.
The evening, blissfully quiet though it was, felt like the lull before a storm; after dinner, sitting in the library watching Minerva embroider, Royce could sense the pressures building.
Viewing the body laid out in the icehouse hadn’t changed anything. His father had aged, yet was recognizably the same man who’d banished him-his only son-for sixteen years, the same man from whom he’d inherited name, title and estate, his height and ruthless temperament, and not much else. Yet temper, temperament, made the man; looking down on his father’s no longer animate face, harsh featured even in death, he’d wondered how different they truly were. His father had been a ruthless despot; at heart, so was he.
Sunk in the large armchair angled before the hearth wherein a small fire burned incongruously bright, he sipped the fine malt whisky Retford had poured him, and pretended that the ancient, luxurious yet comfortable surroundings had relaxed him.
Even if he hadn’t sensed storms on his horizon, having his chatelaine in the same room guaranteed he wouldn’t-couldn’t-relax.
His eyes seemed incapable of shifting for any length of time away from her; his gaze again drawn to her as she sat on the chaise, eyes on her needlework, the firelight gilding her upswept hair and casting a rosy sheen over her cheeks, he wondered anew at the oddity-the inconvenient fact-that she wasn’t attracted to him, that he apparently didn’t impinge on her awareness while he-every sense he possessed-was increasingly fixated on her.
The arrogance of the thought occurred to him, yet in his case was nothing more than the truth. Most ladies found him attractive; he usually simply took his pick of those offering, crooked his finger, and that lady was his for however long he wanted her.
He wanted his chatelaine with an intensity that surprised him, yet her disinterest precluded him from having her. He’d never pursued a woman, actively seduced a woman, in his life, and at his age didn’t intend to start.
After dressing for dinner-mentally thanking Trevor who had foreseen the necessity-he’d gone to the drawing
