They dismounted in the front court, handing the horses off to grooms who moved with practiced efficiency. The household had been alerted to James’s arrival. Graham stood ready. A footman opened the great doors before James reached them.
Inside, the air smelled of wax and stone and something faintly metallic, like old keys.
James walked through the entrance hall without pause, already listing what must be addressed before he could return to town.
There were tenant petitions to review. A boundary dispute with a neighboring earl. A shipment of timber delayed at the docks. Two chimneys that had begun to smoke improperly in the eastwing. And the steward’s latest accounts, which James trusted only as far as he could verify them himself.
The steward met him in the morning room with a stack of papers and a face lined with worry.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Pritchard said, bowing. “I am grateful you have come.”
James accepted the papers without comment. “Begin.”
They spent the next hours moving through the estate’s pulse points, each conversation a small thread in the web James kept tightly wound.
The steward’s reports were precise. The rents had come in. The winter stores were adequate. A tenant farmer’s eldest son had broken his leg and would not manage the plowing in time for early spring.
James made notes, asked questions, issued decisions.
A land agent arrived with maps and ink-stained fingers, outlining the boundary dispute. James studied the documents, finding the flaw in the opposing claim within minutes.
“Send this back,” he said, tapping the line. “They will withdraw.”
The agent blinked. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” James said. “They are relying on intimidation,” James said, already reaching for the pencil. “We will rely on the map they forgot to read.”
Roderick watched from a chair with his brandy, looking entertained.
When they toured the stables, James spoke with the head groom about breeding and feed, then walked the perimeter where repairs were needed. He spoke with the housekeeper about linens, staffing, and the east wing, where dust still gathered in rooms no one entered.
At midday they ate in James’s private dining room, a simple meal set with understated precision.
Roderick lifted his fork. “Do you ever relax?”
“No.”
Roderick chewed thoughtfully. “Your future duchess will have an opinion about that.”
James’s hand paused on his glass. “She will adapt.”
Roderick grinned. “Will she?”
James set the glass down. “There will be ground rules.”
Roderick’s brows rose. “Ground rules?”
“Until I know her,” James said. “Until I can trust her with the estate’s affairs.”
Roderick nodded solemnly, as though this were the most sensible thing in the world. “Naturally. A woman cannot be expected to understand accounts and tenants and–”
“–and influence,” James finished, his gaze sharpening. “This estate is not merely land,” James said. “It decides who waits and who does not. Who eats in winter. Who listens.”
Roderick waved his fork. “Exactly. Women are too soft for such things.”
James did not contradict him, though some distant part of his mind produced the image of Eleanor Barker’s eyes, steady and unflinching, and the quiet steel in her voice.
If you test me…
