“Ihear youmake free with Woodglen’s coal. You obviously think highly of yourself.” Marshall had sauntered in and led with an attack. The steward had let Gideon cool his heels for half an hour in the estate workroom in the lowest level of the great house, the far back wing that held offices and storage of various sorts after Gideon had sent word demanding an interview. Now he scrutinized Gideon across a battered worktable where Fillmore had directed him to wait. The steward’s calculating expression hovered between anticipation and triumph.
It’s to be chess, then. Good.Gideon played very well.
“Nothing escapes you, Marshall, not even a trivial bag of coal. I’ll make note of your diligence about inventory in my report,” Gideon responded.
Gideon’s talk of a report hit home. “Report? To whom?” Marshall snorted and raised his chin insolently, but his eyes were wary.
The magistrates if you’re stealing. But of course, this wasn’t about inventory. Marshall’s men spied on Gideon, not the coal supplies. “Sadler and January as a first step. The duke ultimately.”
“The duke has gone missing.” Marshall’s response was reflexive. Gideon had actually wondered if Phillip had left clues to his plans here at Woodglen, but obviously he had not. A better chess player would have revealed less.
“Has he? Did he fail to tell you where he went?” Gideon held Marshall’s eyes, hoping the weasel took his intended implication that he knew more than the steward did.
“Dukes are not required to explain themselves to their staff,” Marshall growled.
“Exactly right,” Gideon retorted.Family is another matter; damn my brother anyway.“I will need an office. Perhaps I could make use of yours. I will also want clerical supplies and access to the ledgers.” He didn’t know where they were kept now, if he’d ever known.
For the first time, it occurred to Gideon that family papers would be somewhere in this place. He probably should have considered it before. Phillip would have known. Would their father have kept proof of his bigamy here? Gideon doubted it, and he didn’t care to pursue it. Not now. He wanted to keep his time here as short as possible. Besides, Phillip would have told him if he’d found proof about their parentage one way or the other. At least, Gideon believed he would have.
“Who do you think you are?” Marshall sputtered.
“I am the duke’s brother and his trusted agent. I have authority to act on his behalf.” Gideon gazed implacably back at Marshall, arms folded across his chest. “Did you read the papers I gave you?”
“I don’t have time for that,” Marshall said, glaring right back at him. “They’re somewhere in my office.”
Gideon retrieved another copy from his coat pocket. “Shall I read it to you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Horace Sadler, solicitor, etc., etc. Doth confirm and warrant, and so on…,” he read. He skimmed down to the meat of it while Marshall’s mouth opened and closed and he groped for a retort.
“…all authority to act including but not exclusively, surveying all accounts and contracts, inspecting all premises and holdings, ordering changes, and so on it goes.” Gideon glanced up. “My favorites are ‘ordering staff’ and ‘selling property of any kind as he deems fit.’ Or not. You can review the whole list once you find that copy in your office.”
“No duke gives away that kind of power. Why would he permit it?” Marshall demanded.
“It isn’t for us to question him, is it? The last bit here is important,” Gideon said, waving the papers. “‘Mr. Kendrick has full authority to act, and such authority shall be treated as if coming from the duke himself.’” Gideon smiled then, a cold, dry stretching of the lips. “You may consider me the duke in all but name.”For now.
“I’ll do no such thing. I’ll send to Sadler and January for confirmation of this insane document myself. I’ll inquire about the duke’s sanity while I’m at it,” Marshall said, striding to the door.
“An office, Marshall. And supplies,” Gideon demanded.
“Fillmore will find you something. I have no time for it.” The hostile butler himself stood in the hall. He had been listening no doubt.
“You heard him, Fillmore. Find me a place to work.” Gideon raised his voice so Marshall couldn’t miss it. “And bring me last year’s ledgers. I’ll start there.” He tamped down resentment. Gideon had lost a pawn but opened up his rook. Compliance would come with resentment and no little pettiness, but it would come.
*
Mia wrote toGreat-Aunt Hortensia Hodge, last of her mother’s family, monthly, assuring her that she enjoyed good health, remembered her prayers, and remained simple in her habits and rigid in her morals—not that she had much opportunity to do anything else. She didn’t tell the old woman she used her pin money to send her letters and hid them from her uncle, avoiding his frank, nor that she retrieved replies from the postal service herself. It was a small rebellion, but it saved her Uncle Ludlow’s ugly words about her mother’s origins. She had realized quickly that he read everything and was not shy about voicing his stern disapproval of her Hodge relatives.
Aunt Hortensia wrote back reminding her she lacked suitable female guidance now that Aunt Harriet Selwyn, the viscountess, went to her great reward and warning Mia about the pitfalls of idleness, the dangers of society, and the perils of a season—which Mia would be wise to refuse. As if she would.
The missives tended to languish at the stationers’ shop that served as the post office in Nether Abbas, awaiting Mia’s attention. They were all so similar she didn’t rush to read them. They differed only in which bits of random advice regarding everything from dress to eating habits Hortensia Hodge chose to sprinkle in.
A twinge of guilt eventually brought her to town to fetch her aunt’s letters as it had this day, a sunny November morning that promised at least an enjoyable walk to the village. Passing a shilling from her pin money to Mr. Adcock, the stationer, for the newest, she felt a similar twinge of guilt when she recalled that they almost always ended with “…and Cuddles sends his love.” The old cocker spaniel loved her; there was that. She would read this one. She always did.
“A penny more, Miss Selwyn,” Adcock said, “Northumberland being well over three hundred miles.”
She paid him, tucked her letter in her reticule, and passed over her reply to the last. That might have been it, but Adcock’s sudden frown caused her to turn around to find the cause of his disgust.
Gideon Kendrick stood near the door, frowning back. “Still in business, Adcock?” he asked, peering around the shop with distaste.
She couldn’t fault the man his upturned nose. Truthfully, Mia had always found Adcock’s premises a bit shabby and in need of a good dusting, if not an actual scrub.
