Except . . .claim your treasure. There’d been no mention of what treasure that might be, or how he was meant to claim it.
Damn it, itwasbloody ambiguous, wasn’t it?
But what could Ambrose have meant bytreasure, if not Hammond Court? God knew there wasn’t a single thing Max wanted in Fairford, aside from that house. Was this just another of Ambrose’s pranks, then? A final move in the game they’d been playing for years, the last twist of the blade?
He tore off his spectacles, his fingers tightening around them until he nearly snapped them in half.
Damn. This was a disaster.
He tossed the bent spectacles on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You’re quite sure about this, Townsend?”
“Reasonably sure, Your Grace. All of Fairford has been talking about it. It’s just gossip, of course, but gossip in Fairford generally turns out to be true.” Townsend sighed. “That grand house, Your Grace, and poor Miss St. Claire all alone in it.”
Ah, so it was poor, lonely Miss St. Claire, was it? Max rolled his eyes. “I can assure you, Townsend, that Miss St. Claire is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but that house is quite a burden for such a young lady.” Townsend shook his head. “The whole thing is likely to collapse around her ears before the winter’s out.”
Yes, that was true, wasn’t it? The house was a catastrophe waiting to happen. It wasn’t surprising, really, given it had been in Ambrose’s possession for nearly two decades. He’d always been careless with his things.
Houses, windows, gardens, doorknobs.
Friendships.
And now his daughter, as well.
It would cost a fortune to make Hammond Court habitable again—a fortune Miss St. Claire didn’t possess—and that was to say nothing of the upkeep required.
Far better just to tear the thing down and be done with it.
Even if it had been in proper condition, what was a young, unmarried lady like Miss St. Claire going to do with such an enormous house? She couldn’t hope to make proper use of it.
Perhaps all wasn’t lost, after all. The girl likely only wanted money, and he had plenty of that. A flash of guineas, and the house would be his. Once he had it in his possession, he’d see her sent on her way quickly enough.
“Your Grace?” There was a knock on his study door, and his housekeeper poked her head inside. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I have a note here for you.”
“A note? From who, Mrs. Watson?” No one in Fairford knew he was here, and even if they had, they were likely to keep well away from him, unscrupulous London dukes not being quite the thing in a rustic little village like Fairford.
“The boy didn’t say.” Mrs. Watson approached the desk and handed him the note. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He waved Mrs. Watson away, his attention already on the paper in his hand. His name was written on the front in an elegant, flowing script, quite pretty, and certainly feminine.
There was only one lady in Fairford who knew he was here.
No, surely not.
But if not her, then who? He ripped open the note with an odd twist of . . . something in his chest. Not anticipation. Certainly notthat. Irritation, perhaps. Yes, that was what that twinge under his breastbone was.
Irritation.
The note was one line only, an invitation for him to call on her at Hammond Court at his earliest convenience. He stared down at it for a moment, then folded it, slipped it into his pocket, and rose from his chair.
There was no sense in putting it off. He’d wasted two decades on this business already, and he was ready to be done with it. Done with Ambrose, with Fairford, and with Hammond Court and all the memories lurking inside those crumbling walls. “Come along, Townsend.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Er, where are we going, Your Grace?”
Max grabbed the coat he’d draped over the back of his chair. “Miss St. Claire has summoned us to Hammond Court.”
“Has she, indeed? I would have thought you’d be the last person she—” Townsend broke off, clearing his throat. “I mean, that’s a bit curious, is it not, Your Grace?”
