“A baronet? Are you not Sir Felton Tavernash, then?” Gideon asked.
“Should be. Still waiting for the worthless College of Arms to certify me.”
“How was he related to my father?” Gideon said, gently reinforcing his right to be there.
“Old duke? Second cousin. My pater and the duke shared a great-grandfather.”
“I don’t recall meeting him here,” Gideon murmured.
“Didn’t socialize. My mother says Dukes of Glenmoor are too high in the instep for that. She says I’ll be the same.” Tavernash preened as if that was a badge of honor. He tugged at the lace at his cuffs and raised his chin. Gideon thought he heard the creaking of a corset.
“Are there other male Tavernash descendants?”
The would-be heir grinned smugly. “None. M’ mother searched Debrett’s and consulted with the biddies she corresponds with in London. Maiden aunts and girls only. There’s only me.” He glanced around the room with a proprietary smile on his powdered face.
“Did my brother invite you here?” Gideon asked smoothly.
“The duke? Couldn’t, could he? He’s missing. Probably dead, m’mother says. Betting at White’s is he did himself in over some broken heart. More fool he, I say.”
Fillmore served the fish course, his face a mask of disapproval.
“My brother, who is very much the Duke of Glenmoor, is not dead,” Gideon said.
“How do you know?” Tavernash demanded.
“He wrote to me. And his solicitors confirmed it. He sent me here to manage the operation of the estate in his absence,” Gideon said.
“Manage it? You mean like a steward?”
“Something like that,” Gideon said.
“Now I know you’re mentally deficient like Fillmore told me. Already has a steward. Marshall assures me he has the estate well in hand. I’m to enjoy the fruits, he says.”
I’ll bet he does.Gideon shot the butler a fulminating glare.
“You are certainly welcome to do that during your visit, but Marshall has been made aware that I have the authority to oversee Woodglen finances, including household expenses,” Gideon said, glancing pointedly at the footman refilling Tavernash’s glass. “When my brother returns—”
“If the duke returns, you mean.”
“He will. You can ask him his opinion then.”
Momentary confusion marred the fop’s expression, quickly replaced by smug confidence. Clearly Gideon’s claims held no weight beside his mother’s belief that Woodglen was his. “He’s gone,” Tavernash insisted.
Yes, he is, but he damned well better come back, Gideon thought. He was heartily sick of the entire enterprise. Even the glance at the books he’d had so far made it clear Phillip had ignored incompetence and sloppy record keeping no businessman would have overlooked. Gideon certainly didn’t intend to. He would stay until he cleaned up the mess.
Tavernash he could ignore. The arrogant fool was no threat. Fillmore and Marshall were another story.
Chapter Seven
The sound ofthree drunken louts stumbling about and guffawing over pointless arguments echoed up from the front entrance an hour or so before dawn. Her sleep thus disturbed, Mia rose and wandered downstairs early enough to see servants righting tumbled furniture and cleaning up substances on the floor that did not bear close inspection. She paused, tempted to order them to leave the chaos for Uncle Ludlow to see, but of course they would ignore her, and the mess would only cause the servants trouble.
She took breakfast in the kitchen so as not to further tax the staff and made her way to the library, seeking quiet and a good book. She hurried in, closed the door to shut out the cleaning effort, and immediately regretted it. The smells of spirits and the expelled contents of someone’s stomach struck her first. The sight of a gentleman’s waistcoat and a coat with a lady’s stocking dangling from the pocket tossed carelessly over a chair came into her line of sight just before she noticed the breeches strewn across the floor.
“Isn’t this cozy? Nice of you to join me,” a gravelly voice drawled, startling Mia, who had been lost in thought pondering the idea that this mess might get Uncle Ludlow’s attention. Her heart pounded when Betts rose on one elbow and ran a hand across his scruffy face, flicking away some unnamed substance caught on his cheek. He lay sprawled across the settee, empty bottles strewn on the floor next to him.
“I was dreaming about your pretty little cousin, but you’ll do,” he slurred. He beckoned her with one hand.
Mia froze in place.
