Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer. Christine Merrill

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      ‘But it should be, Mrs Clopton. You are, after all, the housekeeper, are you not?’

      ‘I am in charge here,’ the lady informed her.

      Miranda waved a hand in the direction of the house, and glanced around the room, noting the growing cluster of servants gathering to witness the dispute. Whatever was to come of this, it would be known all over the house by the end of the morning and she could not afford to lose. ‘If you are responsible for what I have seen in this house, you had best not brag of it. It is no point of pride.’ She pointed down at the staff dining table. ‘I see evidence that someone in the house is sustaining themselves in comfort, but that is not the case above stairs.’

      ‘An’ I suppose you’ll be expecting the staff to work like dogs without a full stomach.’

      Miranda countered, ‘But I see no evidence that the household staff works like dogs. Perhaps in the stables, where the duke has had time to observe.’

      ‘The household staff does the work they’re paid to do, and they’re paid damn little.’

      She raised her eyebrows in shock at the curse. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Clopton. If you’ll gather the household expense books, we will see what can be done.’

      At the mention of books, the housekeeper took a step back. ‘His Grace never thought it was necessary to check the bookwork.’

      ‘His Grace is not here.’ The words snapped out from between her clenched teeth as she gave the housekeeper a share of the morning’s marital frustrations. ‘But I am. And, whether you choose to recognise it or not, I am the duchess and from now on you will be dealing with me. Mrs Clopton, bring me the books.’

      A murmur ran through the staff, and Mrs Clopton pulled herself up to her full height, glaring. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

      Miranda kept her voice flat, but firm. ‘I do. Unless there is some reason you don’t want to show them to me.’ She waited.

      ‘When the old duchess was alive …’

      ‘She never checked the books either, I suppose. How many years, Mrs Clopton, have you been skimming from the household accounts? Skimping on the food and the staff and lining your own pockets.’ It was a blind shot.

      ‘Who do you think you are, callin’ me a thief?’ Mrs Clopton shot back. ‘And you, stealin’ into this house, no better than you should be. Tryin’ to pass yourself off as a duchess.’

      Mrs Clopton was shooting blindly as well, and Miranda struggled not to show how close the bolts were to hitting their target.

      ‘I don’t know what you are, but you ain’t quality.’

      ‘Because I won’t let you steal from the duke?’

      The housekeeper spat back. ‘Helpin’ yourself from them that don’t need it is no great crime. But stealin’ a title …’

      ‘Sacked!’ The word came out of her in a roar that would have been worthy of the absent duke. ‘I hope you took enough, Mrs Clopton, to last you for a long time. I want you packed and out of this house before noon.’

      She ignored the gasps and tears from the staff in the background. ‘Wilkins?’

      The butler had joined the audience at some point and stepped forward in answer.

      ‘See to it that this woman finds her way out of the house. And then assemble the staff in the entrance hall. I wish to speak with them.’

      ‘Yes, your Grace.’ He looked doubtful, but the words were what mattered, not appearances. And he’d obeyed an order. It would have to do.

      Messieurs Binley and Binley had been family friends and solicitors since the first duke, when the two names on the sign had belonged to the ancestors of the man currently in the office. Binley the elder was retired now, but his son Claude, a man slightly older than Marcus himself, kept the name on the sign out of respect and simplicity. After several years at Oxford, there would be a new Binley in the office, and it hardly seemed necessary to repaint.

      Claude ushered him in to the oak-panelled office and seated him in a heavy leather wing chair before taking his own seat behind the enormous desk. ‘And to what do I owe this honour, your Grace?’

      ‘I have a problem, Claude.’

      ‘We have a problem, then. As I must always remind you, do not feel that you need face these things alone.’

      ‘This one, I might. The utmost discretion is required.’

      ‘Discretion is my watchword.’

      Marcus smiled. There were times at Oxford when discretion was the last thing he’d sought when in Claude’s company.

      ‘There is a lady involved.’

      ‘And St John?’ Claude Binley reached for the chequebook on the corner of the desk.

      ‘I don’t believe so.’

      Claude relaxed into his chair.

      ‘This time, I am the one most intimately involved.’

      Claude’s body snapped back into alertness. ‘You, Marcus? This is most surprising. I have been relieved to find you most circumspect in these matters.’

      ‘Unlike the previous Dukes of Haughleigh?’ Marcus grinned.

      ‘Your family has found its way into some damned awkward situations in the last few generations.’

      ‘And your family has got us out of them.’

      ‘But you? I’d thought after—’ Claude stopped in mid-sentence, before stepping beyond the acceptable boundaries of both friendship and employ. ‘Well, you haven’t been much of a problem for the last ten years.’

      ‘And I had hoped to go another ten before finding myself in this position. This particular situation washed up on the doorstep almost a week ago. It seems I have got myself leg-shackled.’

      ‘Married?’

      ‘But not legally.’

      Claude choked on his tea.

      ‘To a complete stranger.’ Marcus stepped around the desk and pounded his lawyer smartly on the back, refilling his teacup.

      ‘No tea,’ he gasped. ‘There is whisky in the decanter behind the bookshelf.’

      ‘So early in the day?’

      ‘When the situation calls for it. Pour one for yourself and explain.’

      Marcus went to the decanter and poured a healthy inch into the bottom of each empty teacup. Behind him Claude muttered, ‘I knew you were too good to be true. My father warned me about the Haughleighs. And I thought, perhaps, that we might skip a generation. Or that the mess would limit itself to your scapegrace brother.’

      Marcus smiled СКАЧАТЬ