“The duke is dead.” Lady Tavernash almost shouted the words.
“Praise God, he is not,” Kendrick retorted. “He wrote to me and to his solicitors before he went away.”
The woman made an unladylike noise.
“Mr. Kendrick has been given full authority over Woodglen, my lady. He acts in the duke’s stead. I have verified the paperwork. For now, he’s the duke in all but name.” Marshall tossed Kendrick a speaking glance as if to say,And you can damn well deal with these two troublemakers.Kendrick didn’t respond, so Marshall went on. “Perhaps under the circumstances, it might be better for the two of you to go back home to await word about the duke’s whereabouts.”
“Nonsense! We will stay right here until we hear from the dear duke,” Tavernash’s mother said, glaring at Kendrick. “Or until his body is found.”
Mia swallowed to hold back a hysterical laugh. The entire conversation had the air of melodrama—or farce.
Fillmore opened the doors to the dining room at that moment and announced dinner. Mia’s shoulders relaxed. At least the bizarre conversation came to an end. Lady Tavernash demanded her son’s arm and sailed out first as was her due.
Marshall leaned toward Kendrick and muttered, “You could order them removed.”
Kendrick shook his head. “So could you, but not yet, at least. Let’s see what the shrew is up to.” When he leaned toward Marshall, Mia heard only something about family papers.
Whatever was said, Marshall seemed to agree before offering his arm to Mia. She had no time to tell Kendrick she’d been unable to ask Selina about riding out. She let the steward lead her in to dinner. One thing was certain: when the gentlemen got their port, she would return to her room posthaste. She wouldn’t risk letting the old witch get her alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Gideon went directlyto Marshall’s office in the early morning before seeing to his own work. Something about the Tavernash pair made the issue of inheritance more urgent.
A letter had surfaced the year before that called Phillip’s legitimacy into question. It implied that Gideon was in fact the legitimate son, in spite of what their father had said. If Gideon’s mother had been legally married to their father, Phillip’s mother’s marriage was bigamous. In that case, Gideon ought to have inherited the title. Gideon didn’t care, except Phillip was determined that Gideon’s son inherit next, restoring the legitimate succession. He’d tried to ignore it, but the sight of Felton Tavernash gorging himself at the duke’s table every night gave Gideon a fierce desire to save the succession for his son—or for his brother’s, if it proved to be legitimately his.
The question was clear, and Phillip believed it, but there was no proof. Surely he must have gone through the family papers. Did he find the proof? Was that what sent him running away?
“You’re anxious this morning,” Marshall said, his greeting curt as usual.
“You agreed to show me the Glenmoor archives,” Gideon said.
Marshall heaved a sigh. “After the old woman made the same demand, I thought I better show you.” He opened a drawer and hit a lever to open a hidden compartment. He removed an antique key, heavy iron and several inches long. He held it up. “This belongs to the dukes only—but you’re one in all but name, they say.”
He handed the key to Gideon and led him down the corridor past workrooms and Gideon’s own office to a door at the far end. It opened easily, causing Gideon to glance at the key in his hand. It opened into a stone-walled room lined with shelves and a counter covered with herbs.
“The stillroom?” Gideon asked.
Marshall smirked. He reached for a wall sconce and twisted it. One stone wall opened a crack. Marshall had to push it open. “Need to oil this. It is opened rarely.”
“When was it opened last?” Gideon asked.
“The duke came here in January. Rooted about and left right after.”
So not just before he absconded. Curious.
Another door, ancient and heavy, lay behind the stone. Gideon put the key to the lock, and it clicked open. He took the lantern Marshall offered and peered in at the records of his ancestors. He raised the lantern high. The space appeared to be twelve or more feet deep. Shelves lined three walls, and another shelf up the center divided the room in two. Ledgers and/or journals, their bindings in various states of repair, lined the top shelves. A large book with a cracked leather binding, likely a bible, occupied a bottom shelf. One wall had cubbyholes filled with rolls of documents. To his right, boxes—a newer sort of storage, he thought—were neatly stacked. It amounted to massive amounts of information. Anyone seeking to research the history of the Dukes of Glenmoor and the Tavernash family would face months, if not years, of work.
“Which of these are the most recent? I’m interested only in the current duke and his immediate predecessor,” Gideon said. “Is there some order?”
“I have no idea,” Marshall said.
“Can you make out what that says?” Gideon asked, pointing to a paper nailed to the end of the central shelves.
Marshall squinted at it. “No. Too faint.”
Gideon tucked the key into his pocket and shuffled closer to the stacked boxes. He brought the lantern in close. “Look, you can read the dates.”
Marshall squinted down at them. “Hard to make out,” he said.
