She stiffened, her hands clenching in her lap. “You don’t know a thing about my—”
“Your financial situation? Of course, I do, Miss St. Claire. Do you suppose I would come all the way to Fairford before I had possession of all the facts? I was well aware Ambrose had died without a penny to his name, even before Sir Richard confirmed it.”
“How dare you pry into our—”
“I think you’d be shocked at what I’d dare, Miss St. Claire. You may argue all you like, but we both know you can neither afford to repair the house, nor continue to live in it as it is.”
“I don’t see why not. I’m living in it now, am I not?”
“Three of the bedchamber windows on the third floor are cracked, Miss St. Claire. The front door is, er . . . compromised, the roof looks as if it’s a stiff wind from caving in, and I can feel the damp seeping into my bones after an hour in your drawing room. It’s only a matter of time before you’ll be forced to leave, and then what do you intend to do? Where will you go, without any money?”
A frigid smile rose to her lips. “You’ll forgive me, Your Grace, if I don’t choose to confide in you.”
“Very well, but be aware I’m prepared to offer you enough money to enable you to live quite comfortably wherever you wish. I daresay you’d find plenty of diversions to amuse you in London. Or the Continent, perhaps?”
She’d likely never set foot outside of Fairford before, but Miss St. Claire didn’t look in the least tempted by his offer. “Tell me, Your Grace. If you do take possession of Hammond Court, what do you intend to do with it? You already have Grantham Lodge. What do you need with another estate in the same neighborhood?”
“Forgive me if I don’t choose to confide in you, Miss St. Claire.”
She studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod, as if he’d somehow confirmed precisely what she’d expected, without his having said a word. “You intend to tear it down, despite your purportedly deep sentimental attachment to it.”
He did, indeed, if it didn’t collapse first. He wanted to be free of it—for it to be gone, so he never had to think of it again. But he didn’t say so. Instead, he gave her his haughtiest look. “What I intend to do with it is no concern of yours, Miss St. Claire.”
“It might not be if this were merely a house to me, but it isn’t.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s my home.”
Those three words, so softly spoken, struck him in the center of his chest, but he pushed the swell of emotion away. Hammond Court had been his mother’s home once, and his own home, too, but in the end, that had meant precisely nothing. “There are other houses, Miss St. Claire. Ones with proper fireplaces, and without cracked windows.”
She shook her head, but she didn’t bother arguing, and instead rose to her feet. “I thank you for your visit, Your Grace. I trust I won’t be the recipient of any further surprise calls from you.”
“Is it a call, Miss St. Claire, if I’m half owner of the house?”
She didn’t answer, and there was nothing more for him to do then but follow her into the entryway and take his leave. But if she thought she’d be rid of him so easily, she was very much mistaken.
He’d only just begun.
He offered Miss St. Claire a curt bow and made his way toward the entrance hall and out the door. It was snowing still, harder than it had been earlier, the flurries so thick he could only just make out Townsend huddled under the eaves, waiting for him. “I don’t think Miss St. Claire much cares for me, Townsend.”
“No. Not much, Your Grace.”
They picked their way over the ice, Max’s boots slipping with every step. “She seems to find you tolerable enough, however.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Townsend agreed dutifully, skidding along behind him.
“Do you fancy marrying her, Townsend? It would be one way for me to get my hands on Hammond Court.” Max paused, straddling a particularly deep, icy puddle. That wasn’t a bad idea, now he thought of it. It was diabolical, yes, but then the best ideas generally were.
If Miss St. Claire married, the house would become her husband’s property. No man of any sense would refuse to sell to him, particularly not at the sum he’d offer.
The skidding behind him stopped, and Townsend cleared his throat nervously. “Er, I don’t think Mrs. Townsend would like that, Your Grace.”
“There’s a Mrs. Townsend?”
“Yes, Your Grace, for nearly ten years now.”
“Well, how exceedingly inconvenient of you, Townsend.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, as does Mrs. Townsend.”
Max grunted. Townsend’s begging didn’t solve the problem at hand, did it? Miss St. Claire still owned half his house.
