Townsend blinked. “Murderous vixen? Does this, er, murderous vixen have a name, Your Grace?”
“I presume so, Townsend. Most people do.” Max cast the man a withering look over the top edge of his spectacles. “Damned if I know what it is, though, and neither do I care.”
“Of course not. Only this vixen, Your Grace. Is she a young lady, with fair hair, and green eyes?”
Yes, that was her. He’d thought he was dreaming when that delicate, sylphlike creature had emerged from the shadows with an enormous dueling pistol clutched in her slender fingers. It had been the strangest moment, so incongruous he’d had a wild urge to laugh.
Of course, that was before she’d shot at him. Or shot near him, at least. Far too near for comfort. The hearing in his right ear might be permanently damaged.
It all became a great deal less amusing, then.
“Is she about this tall, Your Grace?” Townsend held a hand up to his shoulder.
“For God’s sake, Townsend, I didn’t measure her, nor did I sketch her likeness, but yes, that sounds like her.”
“Yes, Your Grace. The trouble, Your Grace, is that she’s not a murderous vixen at all, but rather—”
“Ambrose’schère amieif I don’t miss my mark.”
Townsend gasped. “Oh, no, Your Grace! That’s not—”
“The lady has dreadful taste in lovers if you ask me. Get rid of her, Townsend.”
As far as Ambrose’s paramour was concerned, he was only interested in one thing, and that was how to expel her from his house, but God only knew how many other guns she had hidden on the premises. He refused to get drawn into an armed standoff with a young lady who looked like a bit of dandelion fluff.
He was a duke, damn it. It wasn’t dignified.
“Well, you see, Your Grace, it might prove to be a trifle more difficult to toss her out than you anticipate.” Townsend turned his hat in his hands. “The young lady you describe sounds very much like—”
“I don’t see what’s so difficult about it. If she gives you any trouble—and I warn you, Townsend, sheisarmed—then a discreet application of funds should solve the matter. I’ll leave it to you to decide how best to go about it, but make it quick, man. I expect you to report back to me this afternoon to confirm she’s gone.” Max bent over the papers scattered across his desk, waving his hand in a vague dismissal.
Townsend said nothing, only stood in front of the desk shuffling his feet until at last Max looked up. “For God’s sake, Townsend, why are you still here? Get on with it, will you?”
“Yes, Your Grace, but the vixen . . . that is, the young lady, Your Grace. She’s not Ambrose St. Claire’s paramour. She’s his daughter.”
Max froze, his fingers going slack around his quill. “That’s impossible. Ambrose doesn’t have a daughter.”
Townsend gave him a pained look. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’m quite sure the young lady you saw at Hammond Court is Miss Rose St. Claire, Mr. St. Claire’s adopted daughter.”
“Adopteddaughter?” He didn’t like the sound of this. Not at all. “What the devil are you on about, Townsend?”
Townsend lowered his voice, the tips of his ears turning pink. “As to that, Your Grace, it seems . . . well, I don’t like to talk out of turn, but if the gossips are to be believed, Miss St. Claire is the illegitimate daughter of Mr. St. Claire’s former cook. The woman passed away some nine years ago, but Miss St. Claire has remained at Hammond Court ever since, in a sort of, er . . . daughterly capacity.”
Max stared up at Townsend, speechless. Ambrose had taken in some brat born on the wrong side of the blanket? How the devil had the man managed to keepthatlittle morsel out of the gossips’ mouths? He prided himself on knowing everything there was to know about his enemies, but he’d never heard a soul breathe a single word about this Miss St. Claire before.
Then again, Ambrose had always been a cagey devil. He’d had dozens of secrets, and he knew how to keep them. “So, what you’re telling me, Townsend, is that Miss St. Claire does in fact have a right to be at Hammond Court?”
Townsend nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing miserably in his throat.
That spastically bobbing Adam’s apple didn’t bode well. Not well at all.
“She’s, ah, well, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news, Your Grace—”
“Come, Townsend.” Max dropped his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, gesturing to Townsend to continue. “Let’s have it out, shall we?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend cleared his throat. “Miss St. Claire is the beneficiary of Mr. St. Claire’s fortune. Not that there’s much of a fortune to speak of, you understand, Your Grace, but I’m afraid there’s rather a strong chance Hammond Court belongs to her now.”
Belonged toher? Hammond Court, his family’s legacy, his mother’s childhood home belonged to that tiny menace of a chit who’d tried to shoot him yesterday? No, it was impossible. Ambrose himself had summoned him to Fairford, and there’d been nothing ambiguous about that note.
