There was only one place in Fairford that could boast such luxuries.
Grantham Lodge. Where else? How could she have forgotten? The duke had appeared at Hammond Court just after dawn, taken one look at the destruction of her bedchamber, and in typical ducal fashion had begun issuing orders. Why, she’d hardly had a chance to say a word before he’d bundled her into his carriage and . . . andabscondedwith her back to Grantham Lodge.
“I’m Mrs. Watson, Miss St. Claire,” the lady was saying. “I’m the housekeeper here at Grantham Lodge.”
Mrs. Watson. Of course. She recognized her now. “It’s kind of you to take such good care of me, Mrs. Watson.”
“Oh, I’m happy to do it, Miss St. Claire.” Mrs. Watson beamed at her. “You’re the first guest we’ve ever had at Grantham Lodge, you know.”
“Am I? How delightful.”
“It’s a shame, for such a big house as this to always be empty.” Mrs. Watson tutted. “Why, such a grand house is meant to be filled with children. Don’t you think so, Miss St. Claire?”
“I, ah, yes, of course.” Though one couldn’t quite picture the Duke of Grantham as a doting father. “Might I trouble you for a bit more of your ginger and peppermint tea, Mrs. Watson? It’s quite soothing.”
“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Watson patted her hand, then rose and reached for the teacup. “I’ll just nip out and fetch you some more, shall I? I’ll see to it a bath is brought up, as well.”
“Oh, there’s no need, Mrs. Watson. I don’t like to put you to any trouble.” Though she couldn’t deny a bath did sound heavenly.
“Nonsense, Miss St. Claire. You rest now, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“All right. Thank you, Mrs. Watson.”
Rose waited until the housekeeper had bustled out the door before sinking lower in the bed and pulling the coverlet over her face. How easy it would be to hide here, to burrow into this dream of a bed until her heart no longer ached, and all her troubles vanished.
But it was out of the question. Now that fate had done her worst, what was to prevent the duke from finishing the job, and tearing what remained of Hammond Court to the ground?
Not a blessed thing, aside from her continued presence there.
Oh, fate was a wicked, vengeful creature, and must even now be chortling with glee over the trouble she’d caused!
But there was nothing to be done about it now except scurry home at once before the duke seized on this little mishap with the roof as an excuse to do what he’d been longing to do all along. Otherwise, all her plans and dreams to save Hammond Court—to persuade the Duke of Grantham to fall in love with it and keep her promise to Ambrose—were in utter ruins.
She’d stay for the bath, but that wasit. No more ginger tea, or blazing fire, or soft, fluffy bedding, no matter how seductive it was. She already owed the duke her thanks. The longer she remained, the greater her debt to him would be.
The sooner she left Grantham Lodge and the Duke of Grantham behind her, the better.
* * *
“How does Miss St. Claire do?” Townsend, who’d managed to hold his tongue for the better part of the afternoon, looked up from the stack of letters he’d been answering. “Is there any news of her yet, Your Grace?”
Max had been writing his own letter, but his hand stilled at the question, and black ink spilled from the nib, spoiling the page. “Damn it, Townsend. You’ve made me blot my letter.”
“Oh, dear. I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
Max glared down at the dripping end of his pen, then tossed it aside with a sigh. There was no sense in blaming poor Townsend. He was just out of sorts today, for no particular reason.
It certainly wasn’t because he hadn’t heard a single word from Mrs. Watson, or because Miss St. Claire had yet to venture out of her bedchamber. Or, more accurately,hisbedchamber—his, that is, in the sense that all the bedchambers at Grantham Lodge belonged to him.
Not in any salacious, improper sense. Of course not.
But it was just as well if Miss St. Claire kept out of his way. The last thing he needed was the troublesome chit underfoot, distracting him with her nonsense.
Unless . . .
Was it possible she’d fallen ill? She’d been soaked to the skin when he’d come upon her this morning, and the bedchamber was positively arctic, what with that broken window. If she hadn’t developed a lung complaint, it would be a blessed miracle.
Mrs. Watson hadn’t asked his permission to send for a doctor, but perhaps he’d better check with her, just the same. He was reaching for the bell to summon her when there was a light tap on his study door. “Yes? Come.”
