“Flood,” he whispered, trailing his lips against her ear, “fire, famine.”
Although the words were said with tender pliancy, she felt their rigidity and pulled away. “The tenants.”
Kesgrave sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “The tenants.”
“I’m sure it’s not at all bad as that,” she said reasonably.
“We have not yet arrived at famine,” he conceded, “but if we do not repair the damage caused by the first two conditions, then the crops might begin to fail.”
“It will not come to that,” Bea said resolutely, “for Mr. Stephens is far too capable a steward to allow you to succumb to base desires while the tenants wring their hands in despair. Even now, I am willing to wager, he is standing on the other side of this door, waiting to return after what he considers to be a reasonable interlude for a recently wedded couple to have a brief midday conference. Ready? He will knock in three…two…one…”
She paused as if genuinely expecting a rap upon the door.
The duke laughed. “I fear it is time for yet another lecture on my importance.”
“Oh, no, your grace,” she said, taking a step backward and grinning with impish impertinence. “If the tenants cannot wait for you to satisfy your base desires, then they certainly cannot spare the time it would take you to convince me of your consequence—and I say that knowing full well the languid thoroughness with which you do the former.”
Kesgrave’s eyes ignited—there was simply no other way to describe the fire that seemed to flair in their cerulean depths. “Mr. Stephens has assured me that if we resolve all the issues this afternoon, he will require nothing of me for a full week. And if he is indeed standing on the other side of the door,” he added, his voice growing louder as if addressing an unseen listener, “his understanding of the situation had better be accurate or he will be turned out without notice.”
Although her association with the steward had been short, she had little doubt the man was smart enough either to resolve all the issues with Kesgrave now or deal with the balance on his own later. Only a truly foolhardy man would detain a newly married duke in his study for more than a day.
Offering consolation, she said, “It is for the best because I am myself otherwise occupied at the moment.”
“Ah,” he said with satisfaction, “so you have found the library, have you?”
“Actually, I have not because your tour of the house was singularly lacking in specificity,” she said. “I recall a lot of things being pointed at from far away.”
“The topic of my base desires has already been addressed in this conversation, but I am happy to defend in great detail a bridegroom’s impatience to bed his wife,” he said, lips quivering with familiar mirth.
That would never do, no, for she found his pedantry far too appealing to resist and if he launched into a dissertation poor Mr. Stephens would be perched on the other side of the door until dinner.
As much as for her own sake as for his, she said rousingly, “The tenants!”
“The tenants,” Kesgrave agreed with a dip of his head. “And while I am ordering thatch for the farmers’ roofs, what will you be doing?”
Ah, yes, indeed!
Since her purpose in interrupting was to provide this very answer, she said easily, “Establishing myself with the staff.”
’Twas vague, to be sure, and if one chose to be fussy about it, misleading, but it was also the unvarnished truth. She was establishing herself with the staff, although she withheld the method by which she would achieve that objective out of fear that Kesgrave would undermine it. It was a daunting task—indeed, she had failed so spectacularly with Mrs. Wallace, she had in fact lost some vital ground there—and if he insisted that they call in the Runners to handle the matter, she had a terrible fear she would concede just to save herself further humiliation.
But that was actually her secondary concern.
The more likely outcome was that he would insert himself into her investigation, and while she adored working in tandem with the duke, whose respect for her skills was as sincere as it was surprising, it was vital to her standing within the household that she accomplish this feat on her own. Marlow’s unequivocal dismissal in regard to the Particular investigation still rang in her ears: I’m sure it was his grace’s ingenuity that carried the day, not the duchess’s.
If she accepted Kesgrave’s help in pursuing Mr. Réjane’s killer, then this misapprehension would be allowed to persist. Her contribution would be relegated to a mere supporting role, and while she did not doubt that Kesgrave was clever enough to identify a murderer on his own, the fact remained that he had not. That honor belonged to her.
Patently, she felt some regret at excluding him from the case, for it was everything an investigative couple could want: Fame! Decapitation! Croquantes!
Nevertheless, it was far more important that she earn the staff’s respect—as much as for Kesgrave’s sake as for her own. He knew how intimidated she was by the prospect of overseeing a large household and had assured her that Kesgrave House required no supervision from her. Mrs. Wallace had everything in order, and Bea was required to manage only as much or as little as she desired.
If she so preferred, she could retire to the library and read to her heart’s content.
If she so preferred!
Of course she so preferred!
Beatrice Hyde-Clare was a bluestocking through and through, and the thought of having access to the Duke of Kesgrave’s magnificent library made her positively giddy with joy. The decades she could pass in happy repose!
Alas, she wasn’t an utter peagoose and no amount of biblio-giddiness could allow her to overlook the fact that retire was merely just another word for hide. Oh, yes, she could hide in the library and read to her
