James scrubbed his face, water cold against his skin. “Discrepancies?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He dried his hands. “Continue.”
“She has ordered the east wing guest chambers aired and the linens replaced.”
“For what purpose?”
Thomas’s mouth quirked. “She said if the Season brings unexpected guests, Blackmere ought not to look as though it has been sleeping.”
James stared at him. The wording sounded like Eleanor.
“She has also met with Mrs. Hargreaves regarding winter stores and requested a written inventory. And she has approved a new arrangement for the kitchen garden.”
James blinked. “Approved?”
“Yes.”
He turned slowly. “Since when does my wife approve anything at Blackmere?”
Thomas’s eyes warmed with something very close to admiration. “Since she asked what authority she held and no one was foolish enough to pretend she held none.”
James stared at him, then gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“I will see the bill for her choices soon enough,” James muttered, reaching for his shirt.
Thomas’s mouth twitched again. “Perhaps, Your Grace.”
James tugged the shirt on, annoyed by the satisfaction in his own chest.
Eleanor had taken control in days.
Of course she had. She had been managing herself in hostile territory her entire life. Blackmere was merely… larger.
“And you find this amusing,” James said, fastening a cuff.
“I find it efficient,” Thomas corrected.
James huffed, then glanced again toward the tray. “Did she say anything else?”
Thomas hesitated.
James paused mid-button. “Thomas.”
“She asked me,” Thomas said carefully, “whether Your Grace often forgets to eat when consumed by work.”
James stilled. “And you replied?”
“I said Your Grace forgets many things when consumed by work.”
James’s mouth tightened. “I see.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “Her Grace then asked whether it would be unwelcome if she ensured certain things were handled without disturbing you.”
James held Thomas’s gaze. “And you told her what?”
“I told her,” Thomas said, “that if Your Grace objected, he would say so. Loudly.”
