“I’m a trifle the worse for wear today, Mr. Townsend, but I daresay I’ll survive. It’s good of you to come so quickly, Your Grace.” She stood back from the doorway, gesturing them inside. “Do come in, won’t you?”
“So gracious, Miss St. Claire.” Max made his way over the threshold, Townsend on his heels. “I’d hardly know you as the same lady who nearly put a pistol ball in my foot yesterday morning.”
“You entered my home without an invitation yesterday morning, Your Grace, and as you can see, my door is rather the worse for wear for it.” She didn’t look at him, but busied herself with the rope, looping it back through the hole and tying the other end around the banister. “I’d just as soon keep it from suffering the same fate again today. One needs one’s door during the winters in Fairford. It’s rather cold out, you see.”
Townsend cast him a horrified look. “Youbroke down Miss St. Claire’s door?”
Heat rushed into Max’s cheeks. Damn it, he’d been hoping that wouldn’t come up. “I didn’t intend to cause any . . . I thought the house was abandoned.”
Townsend stared at him for an instant, mouth agape, then quickly schooled his features into bland expressionlessness. “Of course, Your Grace. I’m certain anyone else would have smashed the door to bits, had they been in your place.”
For all Townsend’s deference, the man had rather a knack for making him look a proper arse, didn’t he? “I beg your pardon for my unexpected appearance here yesterday morning, Miss St. Claire. I assure you I don’t make a habit of breaking down strangers’ doors. I truly didn’t think the house was occupied.”
Miss St. Claire had not, it seemed, expected an apology from him. Her eyebrows rose, and she blinked up at him with those clear, green eyes. The chit had the most damnably innocent face he’d ever seen. No doubt more than one gentleman had been taken in by that face, that winsome smile.
Nothim, of course, but other, less cautious gentlemen.
“Your apology is accepted, Your Grace. Perhaps the less said about yesterday’s unfortunate incident, the better.” She led them from the entryway down the hallway, still strangely familiar to him, even after all these years. If one discounted the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpets, that is.
“The drawing room is rather chilly in the mornings, I’m afraid.” She turned from the hallway into a drafty drawing room with worn draperies at the windows. “I believe you’re acquainted with Sir Richard, Mr. Townsend.”
A diminutive gentleman with a kind face and neatly brushed brown hair rose from a seat near the fireplace. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Townsend.”
Townsend nodded. “Good day, Sir Richard.”
“Your Grace, this is Sir Richard Mildmay. Sir Richard, this is the Duke of Grantham.” Miss St. Claire settled into a chair beside a table where a tea tray had been set out. “Sir Richard is the executor of my father’s—that is, Mr. St. Claire’s will, Your Grace.”
Max had been about to seat himself on a rather dusty-looking settee, but he froze halfway down, his arse hovering over the cushions. “Executor?”
Sir Richard nodded. “Yes, indeed. How do you do, Your Grace?”
How did hedo? Well, that depended on what Sir Richard had to say, didn’t it? “I wasn’t aware Mr. St. Claire had left a will. I was given to understand his death was rather sudden. A fall down the stairs, I believe?”
“The fall precipitated his untimely end, yes.” Sir Richard took a sip of his tea, then set the cup aside with a sigh. “Dreadfully unfortunate, as anyone who had the pleasure of Mr. St. Claire’s acquaintance must agree.”
Not everyone, but Max kept that thought to himself.
“It was a lung complaint that took him off in the end,” Sir Richard went on. “It’s not uncommon, Your Grace, for patients who suffer paralysis to struggle with subsequent infections of the lungs, or so the doctor informed us.”
Paralysis? Dear God. He was no friend of Ambrose St. Claire’s—he’d wanted him dead for decades if the truth were known—yet he wouldn’t wish such an awful death on anyone. Not even, as it turned out, his worst enemy. “He lost the use of his limbs?”
Oddly, Max found himself addressing this question to Miss St. Claire, but she was intent on rearranging the tea tray, and it was Sir Richard who answered him. “I’m afraid so, yes.”
“I see.” Did he really, though? Could anyone who hadn’t experienced it truly understand what it was like to lose someone in the blink of an eye? His mother had suffered a long illness before her death, and his father’s death had hardly been a surprise. He’d died long before his body had expired.
For an instant, it was as if something heavy had fallen on his chest, but he took a deep breath and shook it off. It was a tragic tale, certainly, but there were some who might insist Ambrose had reaped what he’d sown, in the end.
“There’s no money to speak of, Your Grace,” Sir Richard went on. “Mr. St. Claire’s will addresses the matter of the house and property only.”
Max didn’t give a damn about the money. Whatever coins Ambrose had managed to scrape together were sure to be no more than the merest pittance to him. Miss St. Claire was welcome to all of it. Hammond Court was the only thing that mattered to him.
“As for the estate, as you can see, Your Grace, it’s sadly diminished.” Sir Richard waved a hand around the drawing room, indicating the meager fire and the tattered furnishings. “Mr. St. Claire’s business sustained some unfortunate losses over the past few years. What little money there was disappeared rather quickly, and most of the servants along with it.”
That was hardly surprising. Ambrose had been a gamester by profession, and he’d never made the sort of fortune necessary to maintain a house like Hammond Court. Even if he hadn’t been injured in a fall, the house likely would have gone to ruin. It had been the height of foolishness for him to wager against Max’s father for it in the first place.
But Max didn’t say so. He may not care much for Rose St. Claire, but he could at least pay her the courtesy of not abusing her dead, er . . . father-ish figure to her face.
“I daresay you don’t realize this, Your Grace, but Mr. St. Claire greatly lamented the rift between your families. His intentions in procuring Hammond Court were pure, but—”
