“That was not a request, please sit down.”
“Yes Sir” she answered and scurried to a seat across the desk.
She gracefully sat. Everything she did was graceful; even that scurry to the chair. Again, why was this woman here?
He studied her. She appeared to be about twenty-one years old. Petite, a few inches over five feet, blond hair that kept trying to escape from her maid’s cap. It was the eyes that struck him, bluer, and deeper than any he had ever seen. They reminded him of a high mountain lake on a beautiful summer’s day.
Her figure was exceptional, the dress a little tighter than the normal uniform, but it did nothing to distract from her perfect feminine curves. God, get your mind on your duty, focus.
“So Gwen, what happened?” He said calmly, folding his hands and resting them on the desk, determined to remain calm.
Whatever happened it wasn’t her fault, in fact, it was more than likely his fault for not being here to solve everything. He mustn’t take it out on her he reminded himself, determined to withhold his parade ground voice.
She jumped a little when he asked his question. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him for a second before deciding to go on.
“Sir, the old Duke was sick for a long time,” she began hesitantly. “And though I was only a downstairs maid, I think he was not always aware of what was happening. We must be forgiving his problems at the end, Sir.”
My God, is she defending the bastard? The old man would be turning over in his grave if he knew that a lowly downstairs maid was sticking up for him. It said something that the only person who’d ever defended the old man was a maid who barely knew him.
“Please go on,” Thomas said.
“No one was paid the last quarter before he died, , and then, after he died, and no one came to replace him, no one was paid again. Mr. Evans started telling people they should find employment elsewhere. I know he wrote to someone, but I don’t know if he heard anything in return. Sir.” She looked at him, waiting for the explosion.
“How long have you been here, on staff I mean?”
“About eight month’s, Sir.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been working for eight months without being paid?” he demanded.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she [ST2]answered. “And Cook and Freddy, I mean Goodwin, also.”
“My God! Well, please be assured that everything will be made right.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I was sure it would be.”
What a mess. He wasn’t supposed to be the Duke. In fact, a few months ago it looked like he wasn’t even supposed to be alive. Now here he was, no longer a Major in the King’s service, but a Duke of the Realm. Responsible for things he didn’t even know he was accountable for.
He hadn’t been trained for this. That was supposed to be his Uncle John’s fate, and after him, Cousin Winslow’s served as the spare. But to have the Duke’s son John killed by a drunk during a card game on the lower east side. Then to have his older cousin die of the fever all within a month of the old Duke passing, just remarkable.
Being a Duke meant managing vast estates, overseeing the crops, dealing with tenants, attending balls and such. Managing this house, or marrying someone to manage the household. It meant sitting in Parliament and advising the King on important issues of the day.
Dukes were important people doing important things. They were men like the Iron Duke himself. Wellington was what people thought of when picturing a Duke. Not a mere Major, someone without political connections, not someone who’d been trained as a soldier, a damn good one, but still a soldier. What did he know about estates, and agriculture, and pretty maids?
He looked at her again, trying hard to avoid those eyes. Unfortunately, his glance drifted to that shapely figure, and he had to force it back to her face. He settled on her lips, plush and enticing.
“So, you have been keeping house for that entire time?”
“Yes, Your Grace, when Mrs. Fischer, Mrs. Evans now I assume, left, she told me that I was the new housekeeper and to keep everything ready for when the new Duke arrived.”
“Well, it appears you’ve done a very good job. Please continue, at least until I can figure out how to fix everything. And please prepare my rooms. My bags should be arriving later this afternoon. Have Fre … I mean Goodwin put them into my room. I’ll unpack them myself. And tell Cook that I’ll have my meals here in the study for the foreseeable future.”
She hesitated, but gathered herself and said, “The accounts at both the butchers and mill are very past due, Your Grace. They say they won’t send anything more to the main house until the past bills are caught up. They will only talk to the Duke or his secretary. I don’t think they trust Mrs. Morgan. She’s tried, but they won’t extend anymore.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, surprised that the house didn’t do its own butchering. It must have been another of his Grandfather’s crazy ideas. A penny short and a pound foolish if you asked him.
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. And, Gwen … what is your last name? If you’re to be my housekeeper, I can’t keep calling you Gwen. Is it Miss? ...” God, let it be Miss and not Mrs. he thought.
“Miss Harding, Your Grace, Gwen Harding,” she said, hesitating a little at the last name.
“Well, Miss Harding, thank you for doing such a wonderful job keeping everything together. I’m sure I’ll have many more questions for you later. Until then, that should be all for now.”
She stood and curtsied, “Very well, Your Grace,” she then turned and left, quietly shutting the door.
He watched her go and marveled. The house had, what? Twelve formal bedrooms? He remembered counting them when he visited one summer. Plus, library, dining rooms, parlors, and such, probably twenty-five rooms total.
The house should have a staff of fifteen to twenty people just for the house itself and the kitchen. Then you needed to add the stables, gardeners, and any personal retainers such as valets and ladies maids. It could take more than thirty people to run this place the way it should be run. Truly remarkable, three people thinking they could hold it together.
Thank God for loyal retainers he thought, shaking his head in amazement.
He looked around the room, hoping to spot his Grandfather’s account books. This room had always been off limits to him as a boy. He remembered being bored and poking his head in to explore a new room when he was very young. The old bastard had been sitting at this very desk with several account ledgers before him.
An old man even then, he’d spotted the little boy sticking his head round the corner and immediately started yelling that little boys were not to be seen nor heard. Period, end of story. The young Thomas had run away. He hadn’t been in this room since.
He found the old leather-bound books and started digging through them. It was going to be a long night. In fact, probably a long few nights just to figure out what was what. And in all honesty, it was going to be even harder keeping Miss Harding from intruding into his thoughts.
The Reluctant Duke (Love’s Pride 1)
* * *
[ST1]bolts of bullets?
[ST2]
A Duke's Decision (The Duke''s Club Book 4) Page 17
