but I refuse to cater to the tenants’ every complaint.”
“Is that not for his lordship to determine?”
“Lord Somerton is not here. In his absence, he trusts me to do what’s best for the estate.”
“Broken bridges are best for the estate?” Incredulity sharpened her tone.
“Of course not—”
Sebastian pushed open the door, having heard enough of the steward’s feeble explanation. The moment he entered the study, his nostrils flared, assaulted by the thick, cloying smell of linseed oil and turpentine. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the dozens of amateurish oil paintings leaning against every viable surface. And some not so viable surfaces, like his mother’s two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Cassone chest.
Then he found her, standing five feet away from his steward, wearing all black as custom dictated, her blond hair knotted at the back of her head. But today, her appearance seemed more somber, more severe than when she had visited him in London. Instead of repelling him, however, her look drew forth several questions, intriguing his analytical side and capturing his attention much longer than was proper.
“Excuse me, sir.” Indignation lined the steward’s brow. “What do you do here? We are in the middle of an important meeting.”
Sebastian tensed at the younger man’s tone until he realized Blake had no idea that he was speaking to his employer. Two years ago, he had hired the steward, sight unseen, on the recommendation of an acquaintance. Even though they had never met, Sebastian had corresponded frequently with the gentleman and never had cause to be concerned about his management of Bellamere.
Sparing Mrs. Ashcroft another long look, Sebastian caught the glint of righteousness sparkling in her eyes. When she noticed his attention, the sparkle brightened a moment and then dimmed until it extinguished altogether.
An odd pang of disappointment gripped his chest.
“Sir? I must insist on an answer.”
Mr. Blake’s shrill command interrupted his contemplations of the widow. “A better question is,” Sebastian’s attention slowly settled on his steward, “what are you doing here? The last I recall, this was my study, not your studio.”
The steward’s face lost all color. “Lord Somerton?”
Sebastian gave him a mocking bow. “At your service.” His gaze cut back to the widow. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“My lord,” she said with a curtsy. “Welcome back.”
The neutral tone of her voice gave Sebastian pause. What had he expected upon seeing her for the first time? A bright smile? A glimmer of warmth? Another slow perusal of his body, as she had done in London?
The answer did not come to mind. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t impassivity.
“My apologies for the mess, my lord.” The steward jumped off his high stool. “Had I known you were coming, I would have removed my collection.”
“Perhaps you might do so now while I speak to Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Of course.” The steward began scurrying about the room, gathering as many canvases and frames as he could carry. “Right away. I’ll call for a footman to fetch the rest.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Sebastian moved to the door and held it open. “The staff are busy preparing my rooms.” He had no intention of making this easy for the man.
Mr. Blake attempted an awkward bow. “As you wish, my lord.”
“Mrs. Ashcroft, please join me.”
She pulled her reticule close and glanced away as if bolstering her courage. The action was reminiscent of how she used to respond to his presence years ago. Where had the confident and determined woman from London gone? Then he recalled the conversation he had overheard between her and Mr. Blake, where she had defended the safety of Showbury’s children.
Sebastian set aside the widow’s bewildering behavior for now. To the steward, he said, “Open the windows once you’ve cleared out your possessions. Then I should like to speak with you in the library.”
Mr. Blake knocked over a jar of brushes. “Yes, sir.”
Sebastian closed the door against the steward’s fumbling attempts to clean up his mess. Of all the places the man could have set up his studio, why had he picked Sebastian’s study? It would take weeks to rid the room of such strong odors.
He set the problem from his mind and guided the widow down the corridor. “Do you have a moment? I thought perhaps we could step outside to clear our heads.”
“Certainly,” she said.
He glanced down at her profile, trying to divine her thoughts, but it was no use. Somewhere along the way she had crafted an elegant mask, one with perfect neutral symmetry. It was a tactic he knew all too well.
They strode through the