Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Royce did. “I’ll speak to O’Loughlin next time I’m up that way. He might have some breeders we could buy.”
Unsurprisingly, Falwell swallowed his words.
Royce glanced at the sheet on which he’d been making notes. “I need to speak with Miss Chesterton, Falwell, but if you would remain, once we’ve finished, you and I should look over the castle flocks.”
Murmuring acquiescence, Falwell rose, and at Royce’s direction retreated to a straight-backed chair against the wall.
Minerva inwardly cursed. She didn’t want Falwell to hear her request.
“So what have we to deal with today?”
Royce’s question refocused her attention. She looked down at her list, and swiftly went through Retford’s warning that in the wake of the funeral they would need to replenish the cellar, and Cranny’s request for new linens for the north wing bedrooms. “And while we’re looking at fabrics, there are two rooms in the south wing that could use new curtains.” Because of the castle’s isolation, all such items were normally procured from London.
Royce looked at Handley as his secretary glanced up from his notes. “Hamilton can make himself useful—he knows what wines I prefer, and for the rest he could consult with my London housekeeper—” He glanced at Minerva.
“Mrs. Hardcastle,” she supplied.
He looked at Handley. “Send a note to Hamilton about the wines and fabrics, and suggest he ask Mrs. Hardcastle to assist him with the latter. Regardless, he should purchase the materials subject to Miss Chesterton’s and Mrs. Cranshaw’s approval.”
Handley nodded, swiftly scribbling.
“The curtains need to be damask, with apple-green the predominant color,” Minerva said.
Handley nodded again.
Royce arched a brow at her. “Is there anything else?”
“Not about the household.” She hesitated; she would have infinitely preferred not to have Falwell present, but she had to strike while this iron was hot. She drew breath. “However, there’s a matter I’ve been meaning to bring to your attention.”
Royce looked his invitation.
“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it—”
Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and
if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”
Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”
Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.
He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.
Unfortunately, Falwell was unquestionably correct. The last thing the dukedom needed was to become seen as a general savior of last resort. Especially not to the towns, who were supposed to manage their responsibilities from the taxes they collected.
“In this matter, I must agree with Falwell. However, I will raise the matter, personally, with the appropriate authorities.” He glanced at Handley. “Find out who I need to see.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He looked again at Minerva, met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”
She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder what was going through her head, but then she answered, “No, Your Grace. That’s all.”
Looking down, she gathered her papers, then stood, inclined her head to him, turned, and walked to the door.
As it closed behind her, he was already considering how to use the footbridge to his best advantage.
There was more than one way to skin a cat—Minerva wondered what approach Royce was considering. With the luncheon gong echoing through the corridors, she headed for the dining room, hoping she’d read him aright.