Which meant that he was, indeed, overburdened in his role as butler and valet and whatever else Quint required of him in the moment.
He dipped a cloth into the bowl of water Dunreave had drawn and laid before him with the shaving implements, then began to rinse the remainder of the shaving soap from his face. “Would it aid you if I were to hire a valet to attend me?”
“I would never presume to ask Your Grace to do so.”
A telling response.
“But would it help you, Dunreave?” he pressed, rinsing the last of the lather from his jaw and trying not to wince as the small cut on his jaw stung. “That is what I asked.”
“Yes, Your Grace. It would.”
He finished his task and turned to his valet. “Is there a rodent problem here at Blackwell Abbey?”
A flush tinged Dunreave’s cheekbones. “Your Grace should not contend with such matters.”
“Isthere one?”
“There is.”
Damn Mrs. Yorke for being correct.
“And are there loose boards on the servants’ stair?” he asked next, thinking of his unwanted housekeeper’s list of faults she had already found with Blackwell Abbey.
“Peter is meant to repair them,” Dunreave said. “There are so few of us that we know where to step to avoid injury.”
Dear God. She had been right about that as well. What else was she right about?
“Does Cook tipple the sherry?”
Dunreave cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable and giving Quint his answer. “I’m certain I could not say whether Mrs. Steward does so, Your Grace.”
Grimacing, he passed a hand along his jaw. “Is Mrs. Yorke still here?”
He was reasonably certain that the stubborn woman was. That—just like the previous day—she had flouted his orders.
“I believe that she is, Your Grace. When last I saw her, she was instructing the new scullery maid on the most efficient means of scouring a pot.”
Of course she was. Had he doubted it?
“Thank you, Dunreave. Will you tell Mrs. Yorke that I require a word with her in my study in half an hour’s time?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He intended to have a meeting with the meddlesome housekeeper. If she was to remain here at Blackwell Abbey, they needed to set some rules.
Joceline arrivedat the duke’s study at the prescribed hour, prepared to go to war.
He was standing at the window as she entered, a tall, imposing figure presiding over his kingdom, clad in severe black trousers and coat, the same leather gloves he had been wearing the day before covering his hands. She took note because they were clasped behind his back in an indolent pose. Yesterday, she had assumed the gloves had been for riding. Today, however, he did not look as if he were dressed to take one of his horses out across the chilly park.
“You requested an interview with me, Your Grace?” she asked into the stillness when he refused to turn and acknowledge her arrival, despite having bid her to enter when she had knocked at the closed door.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, briefly meeting her gaze before resuming his vigil at the window. “Yes, I did, Mrs. Yorke. Close the door, if you please.”
His voice was not nearly as sharp or cold as it had been the day before when he had confronted her belowstairs. She had expected glacial fury at her refusal to obey his demand that she leave Blackwell Abbey in the morning. She hadn’t expected a polite request for a word with her, however.
She scarcely knew what to expect from him, but she turned and did his bidding, making certain the door to his study was fully closed. When she spun about, it was to find the full, brilliant intensity of his gaze on her.
“Your Grace.” Joceline dipped into a curtsy, the chatelaine at her waist clinking merrily as she did so.
