For a moment, a brief one, compassion bloomed in Miss Keating’s eyes, and he saw her hand twitch as if she were about to reach out for him. Then she must have caught a look at his expression because she swallowed and nodded. “I had no idea, my lord.” She bobbed the smallest of curtsies. “This is for you in that case.” She closed the distance between them, drawing up to him, and it struck Kit that she was very slight. In contrast to his own height. He lowered his eyes and saw she was holding out a letter. From the insignia on the envelope, he recognised it as his relative’s, the Duke of Ashmore’s seal.
“His Grace employs women now?” Kit took the letter but did not open it. He had no idea what his uncle might want. The man had not even bothered to attend his own brother’s and sister-in-law’s funeral five months ago, so frankly Kit felt the duke could go hang. He was about to voice this opinion when he saw that sad, soft look on Miss Keating’s face again.
“It is all rather complicated, but I regret to inform you that the Duke is dead. He was…” She trailed off. Clearly, she had more to say, but was suddenly shy or loath to voice too much, which was strange given her previous verboseness. “It will all be detailed in the letter.”
Slowly Kit examined the letter, playing with the edge and pondering whether he should open it. He expected the girl wanted him to show some remorse from his dead uncle, but having never met the man, it was hard to feel too much sadness for the unknown man. From everything his parents had told him of his uncles, who had taken it in turn at being duke, Kit had the impression of idleness, a reckless streak of self-absorption and a casual disregard for the feelings of their female employees, who were regularly taken advantage of. It had not warmed him to his illustrious and titled side of the family. As the son of the fifth son, Kit might be noble, but he was very distantly connected. There had never been any expectation that the main branch of the family would ever reach out to him, or even remember his existence. His uncle had been expected to marry and beget heirs, and kept away from Kit accordingly. None of which, of course, explained this woman’s presence in the library or why she had been sent to the wilds of Cornwall to seek him out.
Come on you fool, the idea danced through his head suddenly clear.She had to be the old man’s mistress. It was the only explanation. Although it still did not ideally fit. That would be why she had darted off from London so quick—keen to find Lord Phineas and declare him the duke. Although why the lawyer had trusted her was beyond Kit, unless she had seduced the solicitor as well.
“I’m quite certain you have a great deal of questions.” Miss Keating seemed flustered, and she pulled at her damp dress in a vague attempt to straighten the folds. “I will do my best to answer whatever questions I can.” She sucked a breath and then added, “You really should read the letter.”
“I know.”
His answer seemed to annoy her, but she stayed looking up at him. Her face twitched and then she said, “You must see the need for our departure. Immediately. To Town.”
“Our?”
“I will come with you back to London.” She paused and then added, much to Kit’s horror, “Your Grace.”
CHAPTER 3
The man seemed to be in a state of shock. Which did not remotely excuse his general attitude or bad behaviour. Nor the surroundings in which they were located—he had not lied when he said the locals they’d passed had been dubious about the manor. The constant talk of its dilapidated condition, or rumoured haunting, seemed entirely possible now that Elsie had waded into its midst. The dark, foreboding furniture was ancient, at least a hundred years old, black in most cases and worn. There was even a layer of dust and cobwebs covering most of the hangings and drapes. In the myths she’d read about Tintagel, it had been romantic, chivalric, but this wasn’t… She wouldn’t be surprised if a ghoul eased itself out from behind a curtain rather than a knight.
And as for her host…
Beneath the heavy discarded hat, there was an equally unruly wave of black hair, not to mention the dark clothes the new duke wore, added to this image. All in all, it was rather hard not to see that he fit neatly in with the sinister and bleak surroundings.
Still, Elsie tried to think brightly, her host could in some ways argue that he had rescued her from the thunderstorm less thanan hour ago. And despite his grumbling, His Grace had taken the dog up onto the horse with them. Nonetheless, he was not very gracious about this interaction—a rescue poorly done was hardly a proper rescue. Elsie, who had been raised on the tales of how her parents met, involving a crashed carriage, strangers compelled together through dramatic circumstances, and a vast shining moon high above, had always thought a wayside interlude terribly romantic, but now she was less sure. Besides, this accursed man was far too intimidating and grizzled to remotely sit within that category. Whilst he wasn’t as elderly as Margot has said, Elsie had been looking forward to meeting the elderly lord…
Elsie had tried earlier, drawing closer, eager to see if there was any warmth or sadness in the man. Instead, she was met with a ferocious look that made her think of a wild animal. Nor did he appear pleased about his newfound title.
Even from the murky shadows he stood in, she could make out the distaste that seemed to strike him. Which was bizarre—most men on such a discovery would be delighted to learn they were now a duke.
Should she be suspicious? Or even scared? Part of Elsie was, but not for the reason that she doubted him. For this new duke to be guilty of murder, the man would have had to rush from London with more haste and speed than she had. Whilst Elsie thought it might be possible physically, she could see that this new duke was shocked by the news. Either he was a very fine actor, or he had not been to London in the last week and certainly hadn’t murdered his uncle.
“Why did he send you?”
“The lawyer, Mr. Holt?”
“No, my uncle.” He seemed to struggle with the word, as if it sat uneasily on his tongue.
Deciding enough was enough of her lingering near to him, but also growing uncomfortable staring up into his face, Elsie movedacross to a nearby armchair and sank into it. “He didn’t. I barely knew the man… His Grace, I should say.”
“Then why are you here?” his hand was drumming impatiently on the mantelpiece, and Elsie suddenly felt terribly weary as the last few hours crept upon her. Shouldn’t a proper host suggest they talk again once she was dry and rested in the light of the morning? The weight of her dress sat on her, damp and heavy. She should change or risk a cold. Hadn’t she proved who she was by giving him Mr. Holt’s letter?
“I must admit. Miss Keating, I’m somewhat confused by your presence here. Are you perhaps related to Mr. Holt?”
“No,” Elsie said. It would have been easier if she could have claimed to have been.
The idea of explaining how Margot was in fact the illegitimate daughter of this man’s uncle and, therefore, his cousin but also that Margot was Elsie’s sister, suddenly seemed a great deal too complicated. Nothing was going to plan.
He was supposed to invite her to retire. His housekeeper was supposed to show her to a delightful and comfortable chamber. She was meant to dry herself and discard her wet clothes, curl up in a warmed bed and sleep despite the fact she was clearly in a haunted manor house.
He was meant to read the letter, and in the daylight—well, everything would somehow be easier. A picture appeared before her of how it was meant to be, and none of that would be possible currently. It struck her that poor Margot was actually related to this man and hoped to win him over… That was going to be a challenge. The idea that this man had a good nature to appeal to was an absurd idea.
When Elsie lifted her tired eyes up to the new duke, she saw no sympathy there. No patient kindness or common courtesy that a majority of people treated Elsie with. It rankled. Since he was supposed to be a gentleman—why didn’t he act like one?
“I would appreciate a cup of tea,” she said. “And if it would notbe too much trouble, some food. It has been a long and arduous journey.”
