“No one compelled you to come down here.”
“No,” she agreed, annoyance was mounting within her, an emotion Elsie was not used to feeling. Generally, she found herself and others to be agreeable. People often said what a pleasing temperament she had. It seemed that this host was determined to disabuse her of this temperament. “But circumstances being what they are, I am here, nonetheless.”
“That hardly answers my question.”
“Ring the bell for tea and give me one of those sandwiches, then I would be happy to explain all.”
For a moment, Elsie wondered if the man would refuse. He was gazing at her in the manner of some looming predatory hawk in no mood to agree. But then to her surprise, he sighed and moved forward to the rope bell. His movements were awkward, and for the first time, Elsie saw him walk and he seemed stiff and uncomfortable. She wondered whether he might have been injured when helping her and the dog today, and a wave of guilt lapped up within her.
Minutes ticked by, and when the door to the library opened, a rather severe-looking woman in her late fifties entered. She was dressed in a plain gown of navy and wore a bob cap of clean white. Her sharp eyes moved from the duke down to Elsie, who gave her a friendly smile.
“Mrs. Clarke, thank you for coming. We require some more refreshments, both tea and if the cook can be woken, then more sandwiches. I suspect”—he glanced outside at the unrelenting blackness of the night— “that some rooms must be prepared for two servants, and a guest room for Miss Keating as well.”
For a moment, the housekeeper did not move. Her eyes were blank as they took in Miss Keating, utterly unable to account for her presence in the library. The silence stretched awkwardly until there was almost a texture to how uncomfortable all three ofthem were. At least that was how Elsie felt, and she could not vouch for the inscrutable duke.
Finally, Mrs. Clarke spoke, a creeping note of uncertainty to her voice, “Miss Keating?”
“That is right,” the duke said. “She is down from London.”
The housekeeper finally showed some emotion, surprise darting over her face. “London?”
“That is right,” Elsie cut in, starting to feel annoyed at the housekeeper’s reaction. “I brought His Grace’s letters from the London lawyers. The previous posts had not been responded to.”
“We had received none,” the new duke said, his voice quiet. “As you must have noticed, we are somewhat cut off down here. Post when it arrives—if it arrives, it is seldom prompt.”
“You have a newly delivered letter right there.” Elsie pointed towards the still unopened envelope clasped in the duke’s hand. “It is from Mr. Holt, who details the death of the former duke. And commands you to come to London. Most quickly. Time is of the essence.”
She felt it was too early to explain about Elsie’s sister. The priority was getting him ready. It was what Margot needed, wanted. A supportive relative who would ensure she was given her annuity, as well as protection and respect as the supposed “goddaughter” of the late duke. Dubious though Elsie might be about the generosity or good nature of the duke’s heir, surely, he could not refuse a relative or a request from his late uncle. At least she was hoping that was the case. Distantly, she felt a looming threat that Margot and she would end up back home as spinsters forever, or worse, up with Grandmother Keating.
To this outburst there was a slight shuffling of the housekeeper’s feet, but Elsie paid her no mind, her attention entirely focused on the noble before her. His face was unreadable, but when her eyes dropped to his large hands, she saw they were tense, a muscle flexing in his right hand.
Before the new duke could speak, there was a small cough andMrs. Clarke said, “I will get that all arranged for your guests, Your Grace.”
The sound of the door closing was the only sign that the two of them were now alone again. It was then she caught the muttered curse from the duke. Elsie wondered if he had a ridiculous aristocratic name too. It must be a family tradition. And if so, what might the new duke’s name be? How she wished she could ask. Nothing too flowery, he was too austere for that, so it would not suit him. In appearance, he was much like a wild man with his beard.
“I wish you had kept that particular piece of news to yourself,” he said, interrupting Elsie’s wandering thoughts. He walked forward and to her surprise reached for a globe, which when opened revealed it contained a bottle of what looked like whisky. He extracted the bottle and then offered her a glass.
Now he was away from the shadows, and the blaze of the fire illuminating him a touch more clearly, Elsie made out the jut of his nose better, and the shape of his brows. She studied him. He was not quite so wild, and with a neat haircut and a visit from a valet, perhaps he would actually be a good companion to protect her elder sister in Town. “Well?” he prompted.
It was clear he did not know enough good manners to know that a gentleman did not offer young ladies glasses of whisky. Although Elsie was hardly conforming to the rigid rules that had dictated her life for the last five years—perhaps she was not really a lady anymore. The idea should have worried her, but instead she found herself smiling at the thought.
“Yes.” She moved forward, curious to taste the masculine drink her father declared was hearty, although he was not a heavy drinker. After tonight’s storm and this particular interaction, restoration sounded heavenly. “Thank you.”
He poured her a generous glass and one for himself as well.
She took a hearty sip. It burnt as it slid down her throat, hot, sweet, and intense. When Elsie lowered her glass, she found ithad brought a slight smile to her lips. Her companion however did not look remotely restored, if anything he appeared even more strained than before, and just as inclined to silence as ever.
“You do not trust your household staff?” She asked, returning to his wish that she kept quiet about his newly inherited dukedom. It struck her as odd, surely someone in his position should have been well aware he was the heir. Wasn’t it the dream of a great deal of young men, that a relative die and leave them a fabulous estate? It certainly had been Elsie’s impression of the bucks she met in Edinburgh, each of them eager to escape the drudgery of their lot whether in the army, navy, or church.
But this did not seem to be the case for the towering and grim-faced man before her. No, he gave her an exasperated look, one which creased his black brows and thinned his lips. “I did not say I did not trust. Merely that…” He trailed off, as if he was not sure how to explain something so obvious to someone as dense as her. “The very walls have ears.”
To such silliness Elsie could not help but giggle. He was being absurd. To her response he moved away back to the shadows, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his own drink, seemingly set on ignoring her.
Tension built through the eerily quiet room. Elsie wondered whether she and the dog should ease their way out, but as she finished her whisky, newfound confidence surged through her body, and she thought she would try again.
“You know there would have been no need had you read the letter I gave you. Everything should be neatly laid out before you by Mr. Holt.”
“Do you, Miss Keating, always have an answer for everything?”
