Lady Belvington patted her arm as though announcing the arrival of a long-awaited guest. “The Duke of Callbury will be here at three. Do wear something flattering.”
Hazel stared at her, feeling her stomach drop straight to the floor. She had only several hours until she had to sit across from the Duke of Callbury, who was all ice and logic, and make polite conversation over tea, as though they were not being shoved into marriage by the entire structure of the ton.
Hazel’s knees nearly buckled.
Her mother smiled, entirely oblivious. “Isn’t it exciting?”
Hazel swallowed heavily. Exciting was not the word she would have chosen. Not even close.
Greyson found himself in his study at Callbury Mansion, surrounded by dark wood, precise order, and the faint scent of ink. Morning light slanted across the desk, illuminating the neat stacks of correspondence he had already sorted by priority.
A soft knock sounded.
“Enter,” he said.
Mr. Haverton, his estate steward, stepped inside with a ledger tucked beneath his arm. “Your Grace, I’ve brought the quarterly reports and three matters that require your immediate decision.”
Greyson gestured for him to proceed.
Haverton cleared his throat. “There is a tenant dispute over boundary fencing at the west edge of the Callbury farms. Both sides claim the other built into their land.”
Greyson did not sigh. He rarely wasted breath on displays of irritation. “Bring me the maps.”
Haverton placed the rolled drawings on the desk. Greyson unrolled them, allowing his eyes to sweep across the inked lines, the measured angles and the estate borders he knew nearly by memory.
“The line is here,” Greyson said, tapping the page. “The fencing belongs to Mr. Culverton. It lies on his land, not the Cooper family’s.”
Haverton nodded. “Very good, Your Grace. And the second matter, Mrs. Bramble has requested a reduction in her rent for winter. She claims her eldest son is ill and cannot assist with the shop.”
Greyson’s brow furrowed. “Medical confirmation?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Dr. Alton’s attestation is attached.”
Greyson nodded once. “Grant the reduction for the season. And send medicinal supplies. Directly from the house.”
Haverton blinked, then bowed. “Very generous, Your Grace. Mrs. Bramble will be relieved.”
“It is not generosity,” Greyson corrected flatly. “It is practicality. A sick household works less. A household that recovers returns to proper function. We support efficiency, not sentiment.”
Haverton smiled faintly. He had heard this speech before. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Greyson ignored the tone.
“And the third matter?” he asked.
Before Haverton could answer, the door opened again.
Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper, entered with a brisk curtsy. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. But there is a small matter downstairs.”
Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Describe it.”
“Well…” Mrs. Walsh hesitated. “It is Cook.”
Greyson closed his eyes briefly. That was never a promising beginning. “What about Cook?”
“She is… upset.”
“About?”
