“I beg yours,” he growled. Apparently, dukes did not use oaths, at least not in the presence of their hapless stewards. “Please cease referring to me asYour Grace. I prefer Stone. Wycombe if you must.”
Saunders extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to mop his sweating brow. “Wycombe, then.”
“Do I make you nervous, Saunders?” he asked, curious.
The man averted his gaze. “Of course not.”
He was lying, Hudson thought. He had conducted enough interviews with criminals to detect when a man was not being honest. Evading a man’s stare was a clear indication of guilt.
“Hmm,” he gave a noncommittal hum. “Does the entire roof need to be replaced on this monstrosity?”
“There is significant leakage in the eastern wing, and the—”
“A simple yes or no answer shall suffice,” he interrupted, consulting his pocket watch.
“Yes,” said Saunders, wiping his brow once more.
The last Duke of Wycombe had passed away in spring. But the line of succession had been, apparently, rather murky thanks to old family rifts between the sixth Duke of Wycombe and his son, Hudson’s grandfather. Hudson had carried on with his life, solving a very important case earlier that summer. Ultimately, no amount of praying he would not be deemed next in line had saved him, and he had been forced to leave his post and settle his life in London before arriving in Buckinghamshire to a dilapidated estate, countless debts, and severely depleted coffers.
But there was another matter facing him, one which was due to arrive in one quarter hour, that displeased him more than becoming the ninth Duke of Wycombe had. And that was no easy feat.
Hudson flicked his pocket watch closed and returned it to his waistcoat. “Have you any estimates on the replacement?”
Red stained the younger man’s cheekbones. “His Grace had not made attempts. I believe he was awaiting his nuptials.”
Ah, yes. There it was. The eighth Duke of Wycombe had been betrothed to Lady Elysande Collingwood, whose fat dowry would have been the savior of the entire affair. But the poor fool had broken his neck before doing so. Of course, Hudson had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question. It was entirely possible that breaking one’s neck was a preferable alternative to marrying her.
“Undoubtedly, the former duke was anticipating the coin his marriage would bring,” he said.
Saunders cleared his throat. “I did not question the former duke concerning his decision. However, Brinton Manor is not profitable and has not been in years.”
And none of the most recent dukes had done a damn thing about it. Not the eighth duke, and nor his father before him.
Now, it would appear Hudson was tasked with being the sacrificial lamb. Best to prepare himself.
“If you will excuse me, Saunders, I have an engagement.”
“Of course, Your Gr—ahem, Wycombe. Sir.”
Hudson sighed as he took his leave. He was accustomed to intimidating others. Doing so was his job. Strike that. Ithadbeen his job. Christ, he had loved every moment of being a part of Scotland Yard.
In the hall beyond the study, he was greeted by a harried-looking housekeeper who informed him that his guest was early. Lady Elysande was accompanied by her mother, the Countess of Leydon, and her sister Lady Isolde. They were awaiting him in the golden salon which connected to the gardens.
Despite its lofty name, the golden salon was hardly palatial. And the Brinton Manor gardens were thoroughly overgrown and in desperate need of a head gardener, who had apparently been sacked on account of his expense some time ago. But none of that was what troubled Hudson the most.
He hadn’t the slightest inkling what he was meant to do with guests. His grandfather’s lineage may have been aristocratic and born in the purple, but Hudson had cut his teeth in the ugly heart of London, and he had spent his time as an investigator in the seamiest parts of the East End, rising through the ranks.
“What shall I do with them, Mrs. Grey?” he asked the housekeeper.
“What shall you do with what, Your Grace?” she asked, looking as perplexed as she sounded.
Not anotherYour Grace.
He allowed himself the luxury of grinding his molars for a moment before responding. “Theguests, Mrs. Grey. I confess I am not accustomed to hosting a countess and her daughters.”
Hell, he was not accustomed to hostinganyone. He preferred solitude. His bachelor residence in London had not been large enough in size to host a damned mouse, even if he had wished it. Which he most certainly had not, and hardly because he fervently loathed rodents. Rather, quiet and peace and order soothed him. People did not.
“You will take tea with them of course, Your Grace,” said his housekeeper now.
