She couldn’t win a battle against the Duke of Grantham. She’d been a fool to believe for an instant that she could. Surely, Ambrose hadn’t intended for her to do so. He knew how ruthless Grantham was, and how pointless it would be for her to attempt to fight him.
She was nothing, a nobody, a by-blow with no money, no family, and few friends. The Duke of Grantham would crush her under his boot heel without a second thought, and nary a backward glance. He’d have his way, no matter what she did, so what was the use in struggling? It would be much better for her to give up now before things became truly ugly.
Yes, of course that was what Ambrose would want her to do. That was likely what he’d been trying to tell her, on that last day, right before he’d died.
Only that wasn’t what he’dsaid.
If he’d wanted her to leave Hammond Court, he could have told her so easily enough, but he hadn’t. Instead, with the last few breaths he’d had left in him, he’d spoken of the Duke of Grantham.
A lost soul . . .
He’d said it over and over again, his hand clutching weakly at hers.
If he truly believed the duke would harm her, then why had he thrown her into the man’s path by setting up this battle between them? If he’d intended for her to leave Fairford behind, why had he gone to such pains to make certain she could remain at Hammond Court, no matter how much the duke might wish to be rid of her? He might have left the house to one or the other of them easily enough.
But he hadn’t. He’d left it to them both.
Was it simply a ploy, to get the duke to pay her for her share of the house, and thus ensure she wasn’t left penniless? It was possible, but if that was the case, why not just leave the house solely to her? Why leave it to both of them?
Ambrose had been an unpredictable man, but for all that he’d been maddeningly opaque at times, he hadn’t been the sort who did things on a whim. He’d set it up this way purposely because he’d wanted her to do something for him, something he’d run out of time to do for himself.
But what? She flipped onto her back and threw her arm over her eyes, her head a whirl of confusing contradictions. It was almost as if Ambrose had intended toforceher and the duke together . . .
She bolted upright, her eyes snapping open. Of course! It was so obvious, it was a wonder she hadn’t realized it at once! Ambrose’s one sorrow, his one regret, was that he’d run out of time to make his peace with the Duke of Grantham.
So, he wanted her to do it for him.
Thatwas what he’d been trying to ask of her, the day he’d died! What else could it be?
Ambrose had loved this house, and he’d taught her to love it as well, just as Sir Richard had said. It had never been only a house to him, but a haven of love and hope and togetherness, a place of precious memories. It would have broken his heart to see it torn down.
But the house wasn’t the only thing he wanted to save.
He wanted to save the Duke of Grantham, too.
But how on earth was she meant to heal a wound that had been festering for two decades? Who wasshe, to try and reconcile a bitter, vengeful duke to the events of a past neither of them understood? How was she even meant to go about it? Why, it could take weeks, months—an entire lifetime, even—for the duke to make peace with his past, and that was assuming the thing could be done at all.
But then, Ambrose had always had such faith in her. Why, the silly man had insisted she’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky, and she . . .
Well, she’d thought the same of him, hadn’t she?
She dashed a tear from her cheek. Everything she had, and everything she was, was because of Ambrose. He’d done everything for her, had given her everything. If it hadn’t been for him, God only knew what would have become of her.
He’d never asked for anything in return. Not once, in all these years, had he ever asked a single thing of her.
Until now.
She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in Ambrose’s pillow. It still smelled faintly of him, the mingled scents of mint and clove from the snuff he’d favored tickling her nose and making her heart ache.
In the end, she would leave Hammond Court. She’d never been meant to stay here forever.
But it wouldn’t be today, nor would it be tomorrow. The entire house might tumble down around her, just as the duke had warned it would, but she wasn’t leaving until she’d fulfilled her final promise to Ambrose.
CHAPTER9
Proper gentlemen didn’t sneak up on young ladies.
A wise gentleman—and Max did like to think of himself as wise, if not always proper—didn’t attempt to sneak up upon a young lady like Rose St. Claire. The girl knew how to wield a pistol, by God, and she hadn’t any qualms about using it.
