“That is true,” Ariadne admitted. “But my idea of what love was mired by all those novels I read. I formed an idea of a handsome prince with all the virtues of an angel.
“I’m realizing that I didn’t need a handsome angel. Maybe a scarred curmudgeon with a permanent scowl and a precocious little girl that loves cats.”
Isolde gazed at her. “Are you telling me you’re…. You are in love with Duke Holloway?”
“I feel like I am,” Ariadne admitted. “But what about your happiness?”
“I don’t know,” Isolde said.
“Was Duke Igthorne rude to you?” She asked.
“No,” her sister said, sniffling. “He was perfectly nice and a gentleman through and through. He told me about Scotland and how the women there are so different from English women.”
Joining her sister at the balustrade, she gazed down at the flowers below, and the subtle scents of honeysuckle, musk rose, and wildflower wafted up.
“Different how?”
“They’re independent and strong,” she said with a note of yearning. “He told me a story about his grandmother who held down his home when his grandfather went to war. He told me she wielded a weapon as well as any man.”
That is something you want.
Considering her words carefully, Ariadne asked, “Is it the fear of finding some unexpected love or is it the anticipation of being disappointed and hurt that is stopping you from trying?”
Her sister’s eyes widened comically. “Is that— is that a riddle?”
“Life often is,” Ariadne wrapped her sister into a tight hug. “Don’t fret too much about it, Isolde. I know you will figure it out.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
You’re making a fine duchess after all.
As her carriage centered through the business epicenter of London, monikered the “Square Mile”, Ariadne’s destination was notRoyal Exchange, or Cheapside; she was heading toLombard Street,where her late father's steward had his business offices.
Cedric was out at a meeting of prospects, looking for a new steward, and while he was at his work, she had decided to use her social and politicalcacheto take control of her mother’s situation on her own.
When the carriage stopped, and the footman helped her out, she headed to a two-story building of her late father’s steward, the brass plaque on the door simply read, “William Jacob Baur, Esq.”
Stepping inside, Ariadne paused on the threshold and noted the understated affluence of the interior. Fine furnishings clustered around a marble hearth, and she saw a carpeted corridor leading to a suite of private offices. A small waiting area boasted comfortable seating and newspapers to peruse, and while she took a seat, her footman remained
“Miss Ariadne, what a pleasant surprise!” Mr. James, a young bespectacled clerk who had started his job at nineteen, five years before her father had died, came to greet her with a pile of files in hand. “My apologies, I should address you properly as Your Grace now.”
“Good morning, Mr. James, and thank you,” she said. “I need to see Mr. Baur.”
“Of course,” James nodded and fixed his glasses. “One moment.”
The clerk hurried back and announced that Mr. Baur was ready to see them and led them to a spacious suite, outfitted in mahogany furniture and shades of burgundy.
Baur rose from his desk, and for a moment, Ariadne could not believe what she saw. Who was this short, balding man with a heft to his belly and double chin? When had her father’s steward devolved from the well-maintained man with dark, keen eyes?
“Never in my life did I expect little Lady Ariadne to be the wife of a duke,” Baur said, his accent polished over time with dealing with peers. “Welcome to my humble establishment,Your Grace,” He waved them into the seats facing him. “May I offer you tea?”
“Thank you,” she said.
“James, fix a pot of tea as quickly as you can,” Baur told his assistant and then handed him another folio, “And make copies of this.”
“I do not want to take too much of your time, but I need to know the affairs of my late father. I need to know how much debt my uncle had sunk the estate in,” she said as James ducked out the door.
Baur’s face shuttered. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot give you those records.”
