Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

She looked up, saw him; a fro

wn formed in her eyes. She glanced at the twin sofas, the only place they might sit, then faced him. “We’ll do better going over these in the study.”

She was uncomfortable having him in her domain. But she was right; the study was the more appropriate setting. Even more to the point, it had a desk behind which he could hide the worst of his reaction to her.

Stepping aside, he waved her through the door. He trailed her around the gallery, but finding his gaze transfixed by her subtly swaying hips, he lengthened his stride to walk alongside her.

Once they were ensconced in the study—once more firmly in their roles of duke and chatelaine—he went through her list of his stewards and agents, extracting every detail he deemed useful—in addition to the names and positions, physical descriptions and her personal opinion of each man. At first she balked at voicing the latter, but when he insisted proved his point by providing a comprehensive and astute character study for each incumbent.

His memories of her from long ago weren’t all that detailed; what he had was an impression of a no-nonsense female uninclined to histrionics or flights of fancy, a girl with her feet firmly planted on the ground. His mother had trusted her implicitly, and from all he was learning, so had his sire.

And his father had never trusted easily, no more than he.

By the time they reached the end of her lists, he was convinced that he, too, could trust her. Implicitly. Which was a huge relief. Even keeping her at a physical distance, he would need her help to get through the next days, possibly weeks. Possibly even months. Knowing that her loyalties lay firmly with the dukedom—and thus with him as the duke—was reassuring.

Almost as if he could trust her to protect his back.

Which was a distinctly odd notion for a man like him to have of a woman. Especially a lady like her.

Unknowingly underscoring his conclusion, having re-gathered her scattered papers, leaving those he’d appropriated, she hesitated. When he caught her eye and arched a brow, she said, “Your father’s man of business is Collier—not the same Collier as Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe, but their cousin.”

He could now read her tone. “Whom you don’t trust.”

“Not so much don’t trust as have no confidence that he knows all that much about managing money. Heaven knows, I don’t, but I’ve seen the returns on the dukedom’s investments, and they don’t impress. I get significantly better returns on my funds, which are handled by another firm.”

He nodded. “I have my own man of business—Montague, in the city. He does get impressive returns. I’ll instruct him to contact Collier and go through the books, then assume control.”

She smiled. “Excellent.” She shifted, looked at the lists before him. “If you don’t need me for anything else…?”

He wished he didn’t, but he had to know, and she was the only one he could ask. He focused on the pen in his hand—his father’s. “How did my father die?”

She stilled. He didn’t look up, but waited; he sensed she was ordering her thoughts. Then she said, “He had a seizure. He was perfectly well earlier—we met over breakfast—then he went into the library as he always did on Sunday mornings to read the news sheets. We don’t know when he was struck down, but when he didn’t ring for his elevenses, as he invariably did, the cook sent Jeffers to check. Jeffers found him lying on the floor behind his desk. He’d tried to reach the bellpull, but had collapsed.”

She paused, then went on, “Retford summoned me. I stayed with your father while they sent for the doctor and made a stretcher to carry him to his room. But he didn’t last that long.”

Royce glanced up. Her gaze was far away, unfocused. “You were with him when he died?”

She nodded.

He looked down, turned the pen in his fingers. “Did he say anything?”

“He was unconscious until quite close to the end. Then he stirred, and asked for you.”

“Me?” He looked up. “Not my sisters?”

“No—he’d forgotten. He thought you were here, at Wolverstone. I had to tell him you weren’t.” She refocused on him. “He passed away quite peacefully—if he had been in pain, it was before we found him.”

He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “Thank you.” After a moment, he asked, “Have you told the others?”

She knew to whom he was referring—his father’s illegitimate children.

“The girls are on one or other of the estates, so I sent letters out yesterday. Other than O’Loughlin, to whom I sent word, the males are out of reach—I’ll pen letters once we know the bequests, and you can sign them.” She looked at him. “Or Handley could do it, if you wish.”

“No. I’d appreciate it if you would handle that. You know them—Handley doesn’t. But leave O’Loughlin to me. I don’t want to start mysteriously losing sheep.”

She rose. “He wouldn’t, would he?”

“He would, if nothing else to gain my attention. I’ll deal with him.”