“Dukedom?” Mr. Walpole echoed, staring at him in astonishment. “Vast holdings?”
“Oh, did I not introduce myself? Forgive me.” Max removed his hat and bowed, by now thoroughly enjoying his role. “I am the Duke of Westbourne. Also, Marquess of Denby, Earl of Rievaulx, and Viscount Marbury, of course.”
One didn’t usually rattle away all one’s titles, but Max felt that Mr. Walpole needed to hear them all. When the insurance agent failed to reply, however, Max decided he may have overdone it, and his permission to speak would clearly be needed. “And you are...?” he prompted.
“Walpole, Your Grace,” the insurance agent muttered, looking a bit green and wilted, and reminding Max of a boiled lettuce. “Mr. Edgar Walpole, at your service.”
“Are you indeed at my service, Mr. Walpole? I’m gratified to hear it, for Miss Harlow’s establishment is my favorite bookshop in London, and the unreasonable stance you have taken on her claim makes me inclined to doubt your assurances. Further,” he went on, overriding the other man’s feeble attempts to reply, “this intransigence on your part might force her to close Harlow’s permanently, which would cause me a great deal of inconvenience. I’m sure you don’t wish me to be inconvenienced, do you?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace,” Walpole whispered, now ashen white.
“Excellent.” He condescended to bestow a hint of a smile on the other man. “You will, I trust, expedite Miss Harlow’s insurance claim and schedule all the necessary restorations to begin immediately? Be sure they are careful in packing up the books for storage. Most are rare and precious volumes in need of delicate handling.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Walpole’s head bobbed up and down. “It will be done.”
“And,” Max went on, taking full advantage of the other man’s newfound cooperation, “if you could have the contractors send their bills to you directly, it would make this stressful time so much easier for Miss Harlow. That is possible, I’m sure?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Walpole said, so desperately eager to please that Max was sure ordering him to jump off the roof would send the poor fellow scurrying for the stairs.
He suppressed the impulse to test this mischievous theory. “I knew I could count on Metropolitan to do the right thing,” he said instead. “I am most grateful, Mr. Walpole. I look forward to seeing workmen here first thing tomorrow.”
Amid stammering expressions of regret for ever having given offense, hopeful queries that his superiors would not be told of his error in judgment today, and reassurances that the work on the bookshop would begin tomorrow as requested, Mr. Walpole took his departure.
“Now that,” Max said, laughing as the door closed behind the agent, “must rank as one of the most gratifying uses of ducal privilege I’ve ever exercised.”
Beside him, Miss Harlow made a smothered sound, and when he glanced at her, he was struck by something extraordinary. “Why, Miss Harlow,” he murmured, turning toward her and leaning closer to study her face, “is that a smile I see? Directed at me? I am all astonishment. Can this mean I am forgiven for my conduct yesterday?”
Her expression turned rueful. “Given you may have just saved my shop from permanent closure, I can hardly do otherwise, especially since I was getting nowhere with that awful man.”
“Perhaps not. But if I may offer a word of advice, it never does to lose one’s temper with pettifogging clerks who have power, such as insurance agents.”
“I kept trying not to, but after nearly an hour of discussion that made me feel as if I were banging my head into a stone wall, I was finding it hard to hold on to my temper.”
He glanced over her face, noting the same signs of hardship and worry that had struck him upon their first meeting, reminding him how close to the bone she lived. She had not only been frustrated earlier, he realized, but also frightened.
“An understandable reaction,” he said gently, “when one’s entire livelihood is on the line.”
“Yes.” She stirred, as if she could sense what he was thinking and it made her uncomfortable. “Which means you could not have arrived at a better time. Are your holdings really insured with Metropolitan?”
“One.” He paused, considering. “I think,” he amended.
“You’re not sure?”
“Well, it’s a bit hard to keep track, if you must know. My land agents usually handle that sort of thing. It hardly matters anyway. Shall Mr. Walpole ignore the wishes of a duke?”
“I suppose not. Either way...” She paused and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I’m very grateful.”
“No gratitude is necessary, truly. I can’t recall the last time I enjoyed myself so much. And besides, what are friends for?”
“Friends?” She sniffed, though he suspected she wasn’t really displeased by the presumption. “Are we, indeed?”
“Well, I live in hope. Especially given that you sent me an olive branch this morning.” He reached into the breast pocket of his morning coat and pulled out her note. “I take it you may be reconsidering my proposition?”
She sighed, gesturing to their surroundings. “I have little choice. Until repairs are made, my flat is uninhabitable, the shop will have to be closed, and with the season on, there isn’t a decent room available anywhere in London that I can afford. I stayed with my friend Anna and her son last night. She owns the confectionery shop next door, so it’s convenient, but I can’t stop on there too long. The renovations could take weeks, and the flat above their shop is tiny.”
Unable to resist teasing her, he said, “I’m surprised you didn’t take up residence with your cousin. She offered you a room in the attic, if I recall. It even has a window.”
She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “I’d rather not.”
