He glanced at the neat writing and tiny column of numbers and had to respect the woman. Literacy wasn’t as common as it should be, and in her case, it enhanced her value to the estate.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see that it gets delivered.”
She studied him cautiously. “Will there be anything else?”
“Being here reminded me of something. What do you know about Lizzy Carter?”
Her gaze intensified. “Some folks think you took her.”
“Some folks think any number of untrue things about me, Mrs. Millbrook. I didn’t take you for one of them,” he said steadily. “Did she come here often?”
The woman’s posture unbent a fraction. “More than she needed to. I think she came to get away from that father of hers. She claimed she hoped to be hired on, but she was too young and flighty.”
“My wife described her as a sweet, decent girl,” he said. “Why would she want to get away from her father? He seems devastated by her going missing.”
“Decent enough girl but worn to the bone. Bill Carter hates to lose a free cook and housemaid since his wife died. Carter’s a mean drunk, and I don’t doubt Lizzy caught some of his temper.”
“She never made it here the day she went missing?” he asked.
“Carter came roaring up at about dusk, demanding to know why his dinner wasn’t on the table. I told him she never came, but he charged through the whole place, searching for her. He even stormed into the girls’ dormitory like she’d be hiding under the bed,” Mrs. Millbrook said.
“It sounds like he suspected she ran away,” he mused.
“That it did.” She pursed her lips in distaste.
“Did he report it to anyone?”
“A magistrate, you mean? With the duke gone, nearest one is the next shire. Viscount Clavering has no interest in such things.”
He got no more information out of her. A male friend was unlikely. Public coaches didn’t stop in Nether Abbas.
He left Hector in the stables, and his steps picked up the pace on his way to the manor. He had a wife waiting for him in his rooms. He couldn’t keep from smiling.
*
Mia leaned overthe table, trying to concentrate on the papers in front of her. Her bath that morning had been heavenly, once the army of footmen had managed to empty and fill the tub. Mia had hidden in the other bedroom—her room—watching Mercy pretend to hang her clothes while talking a mile a minute, fishing for gossip. Mia confined her responses to monosyllables and orders regarding the clothing. She’d chased them all out and sank against the wall, reveling in blessed silence, before adding her own special lavender soap to the water and settling in for a long soak.
She had lingered in the tub, reliving the night before and growing hot from both the water and her memories, lost in a dream world, wishing Gideon hadn’t left. Eventually reality had returned in the form of cooling water.
Now she worked her way through the box of what Gideon described as family papers and that proved to be a jumble of contracts, receipts, letters, and other odd bits. After fits and starts of various ways of dealing with it, she settled on date order.
She withdrew a receipt for boots. London, 1783. She placed it in that year’s pile. Next she picked up an order with specifications for a new carriage in 1785. She squinted at a scribbled note on the bottom:delivery rejected, Glenmoor. She put it there. A vellum packet bearing a heavy seal came next.Letter Patent…She opened it, taking care not to damage the elaborate broken seal and read.
…do hereby acknowledge Randolph Tavernash, Duke of Glenmoor, and do confer on him the rank, style, title, and privileges of that estate. And We do affirm his sole and exclusive right to bear the following Arms by Letters Patent, to wit…
She scanned to the bottom quickly. The signature belonged to His Majesty, George III, and it was dated April 10, 1785. This, she thought, was why there was a family archive, not some piddly boot receipt! There must be one for the current duke, but that would be in a different box.
She set the letter patent aside, wondering what other treasures she might find. Did Gideon expect to locate a document like the patent? Probably. Her mind pictured him sitting across from her, going over the papers. She pictured him doing other things, too.
The door clicked open, and there he stood as if she’d summoned him with a mere thought, and her face heated. She rose to her feet and took two steps, realizing some worry or frustration marred his face.
“What’s wrong? You’re early,” she said.
His gentle smile relieved her. “I needed to see my new wife,” he said.
When he started forward, she dashed up, about to throw herself at the poor man, but she stopped, suddenly shy. “I’m glad. I was thinking about you.”
He reached out and touched her cheek, and she went into his arms, delighted when he kissed the top of her head. “What’s all this, then?” he asked. She followed his line of sight to the piles on the table.
