He examined the chambers, then went back down. “It is not good news, but it could be worse. The roof is bad in two places, but it can be fixed for now.”
“I will put the bucket beneath this one here until we are done with our business, then see to hiring a man before I return to London.”
He gazed at that hole. “It will only get larger with the autumn rains. Nothing will ruin a house faster than water.”
“Except fire.”
Her words made his spirit pause, as his heart skipped a beat. “Yes.”
“It will have to wait.”
“I will bring you back to the inn and get a chamber for you there. You can’t live here with the house in this condition.”
“The bed I used last night is back there, and is dry enough. A bucket is all I need, so I am not mopping up rainwater.”
There had been a light hesitation before she refused, but her refusal had come through firmly.
“It is far more sensible to stay at the inn.”
“I will stay here, thank you.”
“Then let me see what else can be done.” He left her and walked through the house, then outside to the coach.
“You have some tools with you, I assume,” he said to Napier, his coachman.
“Of course. Never know when there will be a problem with a wheel or what have you.” Napier walked around to the back of the coach and opened a box there to reveal a hammer, some pegs and an iron bar. “Can I ask why you need them, Your Grace?”
“The roof of this house has been damaged. I don’t need it fixed. I just need it patched until someone who knows roofs can see to it properly.”
Napier bit his lower lip. “I’d gladly do it, except that my bad leg has been giving me trouble of late. Can’t be climbing on roofs with that, can I?”
Napier’s bad leg always gave trouble when its owner did not want to do something.
“Then I will do it. There must be a barn here or an outbuilding where salvage slates were stored.” He went looking for it.
Some distance from the house in the back garden, he found the structure that served as carriage house and stable. With a little searching, he discovered the stock of salvage tiles. With several in one hand and a ladder on the other shoulder, he went back to the front. He shrugged off his frock coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“Move the coach close to the portico so I can use it to get up there. Then you will have to hand me the ladder, tools and this slate so I can get them to the roof proper.”
Shaking his head, Napier climbed into his seat and maneuvered the horses so the coach seat was right below the eaves of the portico. “If you break your neck, I hope no one will blame me.”
Eric climbed up and stood on the seat. Damned if he knew what he was doing. He might well break his neck. He had even less ideawhyhe was doing it. Yet here he was, hauling himself onto the portico’s roof. If he could figure out how to do for himself after a night in a brothel when he was seventeen, he could figure out how to do for Miss MacCallum today, was how he saw it.
He was only being practical. The roof needed to be patched or the house was unlivable. None of this had anything to do with those naked legs.
* * *
When the duke did not return quickly, Davina sat down and finished her breakfast. She had forgotten to buy coffee, so she had only well water to drink, but after her labor, it refreshed her. She took the rest of the water into her chamber and washed and changed her dress. Then she took the bowl outside to pour out the water.
It had been over a month since she had taken care of household duties, and her time in Mr. Hume’s home had spoiled her. If a duke could do for himself, she certainly could too, but she had never liked such chores. Of course, the duke would have water brought to him while living at the inn, and food cooked for him, and a servant would mop up any water on the floor, so his doing for himself was not at all the same.
She should have accepted his offer that she stay at the inn. She almost had. It was a very sensible solution. Only a second of consideration had her refusing. She did not want to be beholden to him, for one thing. For another—she admitted to herself that the very notion of sleeping under the same roof as Brentworth evoked a very odd reaction in her. A thrilled warning had throbbed through her like a plucked harp string, as if the idea presented danger. Stupid, of course, but it was enough to have her condemn herself to living here.
Realizing that a good half hour had passed, she ventured outside to see what he was doing. To her surprise, his coach all but blocked her way off the little portico. His coachman stood at his seat, looking up, grimacing.
She found her way down and turned to see what arrested the coachman’s attention. Up on the roof, the duke walked, his coat discarded, carrying some slate tiles. It was a wonder he didn’t simply slide off.
“What is he doing?” she asked the coachman.
