“Oh, dear.” Townsend jumped to his feet and hurried across the room. “There, there, Miss St. Claire,” he murmured, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m sure His Grace didn’t mean—”
“Yes, I bloody did. I meant every word of it.” Hehadmeant it, too, but . . .
Well, perhaps he hadn’t needed to shout it quite so forcefully, because now Miss St. Claire was making soft, whimpering noises, and her shoulders were shaking. Soon enough, she’d commence wailing, and that wouldn’t do.
A young lady’s tears were diabolical things, and enough to unman even a heartless duke like himself. “I, ah, I spoke too hastily. I beg your pardon, Miss St. Claire. I shouldn’t have—”
That was as far as he got, because she dropped her hands then, and threw her head back, the oddest sound emanating from her lips. It wasn’t wailing—that is, itwasloud, and her face was as red as a peony, her pretty features distorted and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, but it was higher in pitch, a light, joyful sound, almost like—
“Dear God, are youlaughing?” Had the chit gone mad? “What the devil are you laughing about?”
“It’s just, it’s . . . it’s soAmbrose, isn’t it?” She slapped a hand over her mouth, gasping, but there was no stifling the merriment. “Why, if he could have found a way to do it, he would have divided Hammond Court right down the middle!”
Sir Richard let out a chuckle. “Ambrose never much troubled himself with convention, did he? He didn’t do things the way most people do, that much is certain, and he did love a prank, did Ambrose.”
“Aprank? Is that what you call this?” For God’s sake, couldn’t they see this was a disaster? What the devil was he meant to do with half a house?
“Come now, Your Grace.” Miss St. Claire peered up at him, her green eyes twinkling. “You must admit it’s a novel solution. Ambrose was nothing if not creative.”
He stared at her, flummoxed. She was part owner of a ramshackle house that was one stiff wind away from collapsing entirely—a house she couldn’t afford to repair, much less maintain, and she’d be obliged to share it with a duke who didn’t find her nearly as charming as everyone else did.
Given her circumstances, Miss St. Claire didn’t have much reason to be twinkling.
Then again, now he considered it, what had she really lost? She might remain at Hammond Court as long as she liked now. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, and now he bore partial responsibility for the burden and expenses of the place.
A neat trick, that.
Unless, of course, he decided to tear his half of the house down and leave her with the carcass. God knew it would serve Ambrose right, for putting him in this ridiculous situation.
“I’m certain you and His Grace have quite a lot to discuss. I’ll take my leave now, Miss St. Claire.” Sir Richard reached for her hand. “Permit me to express once again, my dear young friend, my deepest sympathies for your loss. I’ll miss Ambrose dreadfully. He was a wonderful friend to me, and truly one of a kind.”
Max smothered a snort. One of a kind, yes. A liar and thief in a class of his own.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss St. Claire, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.” Sir Richard gulped down the last of his tea and rose to his feet, but he paused on his way to the door to turn a stern eye on Max. “One last thing, Your Grace. The will stipulates that neither owner may threaten or coerce the other into forfeiting their share in the house.”
Was tearing down half the house considered coercion?
“If either of you attempts to take the house by any nefarious means,” Sir Richard added, “you will forfeit your share, and the entirety of the house will revert to the other.”
“And how, Sir Richard, does one define nefarious in this context? Who decides whether an action is nefarious?” Mightn’t there be a little room to bend the rules, after all?
Sir Richard plopped his hat onto his head. “I do, Your Grace.”
No, no room. Not even the thinnest margin, the merest sliver of room.
Damn Ambrose. The scoundrel was likely looking up at him from his place in hell and laughing his head off.
“Good day, Miss St. Claire, Mr. Townsend.” Sir Richard gave Max a grim smile. “Your Grace.”
Then he was gone, and Max, Townsend, and Miss St. Claire were left gaping silently at each other, frozen in place like a trio of waxed figures, until finally, Max cleared his throat. “I wish to have a word with Miss St. Claire in private, Townsend. Wait for me in the drive.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend jumped to his feet with the alacrity of a man who’d slipped a noose and vanished through the drawing room door.
But once Max and Miss St. Claire were alone, he found himself at a loss for words. He knew how to order people about—his servants, the scores of gentlemen who owed him money, or were otherwise indebted to him to some degree or other, his mistresses—but when was the last time he’daskedsomeone for something?
Years. No, decades.
He’d do well to tread carefully. That pistol could make a reappearance at any time. “Perhaps it would be best if we simply got down to the business at hand, Miss St. Claire.”
