“Of course,” Mr. Hartwell pressed on with the false concern of a gossip. “Though one hears the Duchess prefers the country. Separate households can make such matters… challenging.”
“What challenges my wife and I face is our concern alone.” Owen stood up and buttoned his coat. “I trust you’ll have the final documents ready by the week’s end?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
Lord Blackwood rose as well. He studied Owen with calculating eyes. “Your Grace… You are quite different from the late Duke.”
“Yes,” Owen said simply. “I am.”
“Good.” Blackwood nodded. “Emotion ruins more fortunes than bad investments. A man who can sell his grandfather’s mines without flinching is a man worth doing business with.”
Owen inclined his head and left. He didn’t tell them that his hands were clenched inside his gloves. He didn’t mention that he still remembered his grandfather’s stories about those mines or the pride in finding that first vein of copper.
But memory didn’t pay debts. Stories didn’t restore a duchy.
The carriage ride to his townhouse passed in silence. He stared out at London’s grimy streets and tried not to think about what his grandfather would say. Dead men held no opinions that might alter necessary choices.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Peters, his London butler, met him at the door. “Mr. Crawford is waiting in your study.”
Owen paused while removing his gloves. “Crawford?”
“Your estate manager, Your Grace. He said you had an appointment to review the quarterly accounts.”
“Ah. Yes.” Owen had nearly forgotten. “Send in some brandy, would you?”
He found Crawford exactly where Peters had said.
The estate manager was a thin man with ink-stained fingers who’d served the duchy for twenty years. Papers covered Owen’s desk in neat stacks.
“Your Grace.” Crawford rose and bowed. “I trust the meeting went well?”
“Well enough. Twenty-five thousand pounds for the mines will certainly help, though…” Crawford adjusted his spectacles. “The drainage work at Carridan Hall can’t be postponed much longer. The east wing is showing signs of water damage.”
“How much?”
“Three thousand minimum. Five if we want to do it properly.”
Owen moved to the window, calculating. “And the London property renovations?”
“Another two thousand. The tenant won’t renew the lease unless we repair the roof.” Crawford cleared his throat. “There’s also the matter of Her Grace’s household expenses.”
Owen turned. “What about them?”
“Well, Your Grace, maintaining two households is… costly. The staff at Carridan Hall, the upkeep, the?—”
“I’m aware of the costs.”
“Of course.” Crawford shuffled papers nervously. “It’s just that some economies might be achieved if the households are eventually combined…”
“Is there anything else?”
Crawford recognized the dismissal in his tone. “Just the usual correspondence. And…” He hesitated. “Another letter from Her Grace arrived this morning.”
Owen kept his expression neutral. “Leave it on my desk.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I also leave the report on the textile mill investment? Lord Morrison sent over the prospectus.”
“Yes. I’ll review it this evening.”
