Gregory turned to find Mrs. Beatrice Croft sweeping into the hall, her expression perfectly composed. Too composed. He recognized that look from his military days—the careful blankness of someone about to deliver bad news.
"Mrs. Croft," he said, inclining his head with the bare minimum of courtesy.
"What a pleasant surprise," she said, though her tone suggested it was anything but. "I was not aware you intended to call today."
A lie. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way her hands clasped just a bit too tightly together. "I sent word of my intention to call upon Miss Croft."
"Ah." Mrs. Croft's smile was thin. "I fear there has been some miscommunication. Anthea is not at home."
Not at home. The polite fiction Society used when someone did not wish to receive a caller. Gregory's hands clenched behind his back.
"I see. When do you expect her to return?"
"I could not say with certainty, Your Grace. She left quite early this morning on some charitable errand or another." Mrs. Croft moved closer, her expression shifting to something that might have been sympathy if it did not feel so calculating. "However, since you have taken the trouble to call, perhaps one of my daughters might provide some company? I am certain either would be delighted to join you for a promenade, if that was your intention."
There it was. Gregory kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will, though anger simmered beneath the surface. Did she truly believe him such a fool? Or was she simply so accustomed to manipulating people that she no longer bothered with subtlety?
"Poppy has been quite eager to become better acquainted with you," Mrs. Croft continued, her smile brightening. "She is a lively conversationalist, very spirited. Or perhaps Veronica would suit better? She is more reserved, of course, but possesses such a gentle disposition. Either would make an excellent?—"
"Mrs. Croft," Gregory interrupted, his voice dropping to the tone that had once silenced entire regiments. "I came to call upon Miss Anthea Croft. Not Miss Poppy. Not Miss Veronica. Miss Anthea Croft specifically."
The woman's smile faltered. "Yes, but as she is not available?—"
"Is she truly not at home?" Gregory asked, letting every ounce of skepticism show in his voice. "Or have you simply told your butler to say so?"
Mrs. Croft drew herself up with obvious affront. "Your Grace, I assure you?—"
"You assured me last time I called that you wanted only the best for your stepdaughter," Gregory said flatly. "And then spent the entirety of my visit undermining her at every opportunity. So you will forgive me if I find your assurances less than convincing."
Color rose in Mrs. Croft's cheeks. "I was merely being honest about Anthea's limitations?—"
"Miss Croft has no limitations that concern me," Gregory said, his patience exhausted. "She is intelligent, honest, and entirely capable of managing the responsibilities of a Duchess. The fact that you cannot see that says far more about your judgment than hers."
"How dare you?—"
"I dare because I am a duke, and you are attempting to manipulate me as though I were some green boy fresh from the country." Gregory took a step closer, using his height to his advantage. "Let me be perfectly clear, Mrs. Croft. I have no interest in your daughters. I have no interest in your schemes or your opinions on Miss Anthea Croft's suitability. I came here with a specific purpose, and I will not be deterred by your interference."
Mrs. Croft stared at him, clearly stunned into silence. Gregory seized the opportunity.
"I will send a letter directly to Miss Croft," he said. "And I trust you will ensure it reaches her without delay or interference. Am I understood?"
"I—yes, Your Grace, but?—"
"Good." Gregory turned toward the door, then paused and looked back. "And Mrs. Croft? Should I discover that you have prevented my correspondence from reaching Miss Croft, or that you have continued to interfere in matters that do not concern you, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that every hostess in London knows precisely how you treat your stepdaughter. ?Your social standing may survive many things, but I assure you, it will not survive my displeasure."
He did not wait for her response. The butler who had been standing frozen by the door quickly opened it, and Gregory descended the steps to his waiting carriage.
Only when he was safely inside did he allow himself to unclench his fists. His hands were shaking slightly with rage. He had faced enemy fire with more composure than he had just shown in that entrance hall.
But the thought of that manipulative woman standing between him and Miss Croft, the thought of her undermining and belittling the one person in London who had spoken to him with genuine honesty?—
No. He would not allow it.
"Peters," he called to his driver. "Take me home. I have a letter to write."
As the carriage lurched into motion, Gregory pulled out his pocket notebook. He would write to Miss Croft immediately. And this time, he would ensure the letter reached her by sending it with one of his own footmen, with instructions to place it directly into her hands.
?Mrs. Croft had made a grave error. She had underestimated both his determination and his resources.
