When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,34
continued.
“My office is around to the side,” Pepper replied with the air of a boy who knows exactly how a trip to the woodshed will end.
The conversation confirmed what Duncan had suspected: Trostle was a thief, and not a very bright one. Pepper knew what had become of the fence posts he’d sold to Trostle at a fair price, because the yeomen who’d bought them from Trostle had bragged in the village pub of their bargain. Those same neighbors didn’t dare alert Duncan to the scheme, or they’d be buying their lumber at Pepper’s higher prices.
“And what you hear in the pub,” Stephen said, climbing onto his horse twenty minutes later, “is bound to be more reliable than anything you hear in the churchyard.”
“Or from the pulpit,” Duncan muttered. “Trostle is also selling our honey, cheese, flowers, and kitchen produce.” Mrs. Newbury had passed that much along in innuendos and asides. “The London distributors give him two receipts. One for my books, one for his own. She’s seen them transacting business on market days.”
Stephen sheathed his cane in its scabbard, and if anybody thought it peculiar that Stephen used the lady’s mounting block, they knew better than to say so.
“How can you even consider allowing Trostle to remain in your employ?” Stephen asked. “He’s relying on Mrs. Newbury to keep his secrets, implicating her by silence, and doubtless threatening her position with a few casual remarks. I hate Trostle and I’ve not even met him.”
The singing from the sawpit resumed, this time a tale about walking hand in hand out past the lea rig, where, according to the lyrics, activities other than ploughing or herding were on the couple’s agenda.
“Trostle is likeable,” Duncan said. “The best villains usually are.”
“And you don’t want to sack him? I’ll sack him. Turn Miss Maddie loose on him and he’ll be gone before noon.”
Her again. She nestled in Duncan’s thoughts like a friendly kitten, always finding the warmest, softest places to bide.
“Stephen, if you think to pry from me the secrets of her past, the exercise is pointless. I don’t know her secrets and I don’t wish to know them. She is under my protection, as any member of my household is, but that doesn’t entitle me to invade her privacy.”
Or her bedroom, though she’d invaded Duncan’s dreams. In the deep quiet of the night, he felt her kiss on his cheek, softer than the winter sunshine, warmer and more welcome. Why had she done that? Why had she given him—a man she barely knew—such an unmistakable sign of approval and affection?
“Yours is the minority view among Wentworths,” Stephen said. “To a Wentworth, privacy is like the pretty paper hiding a gift, there to be torn aside. Though if in five years of sharing coaches, inns, meals, and scenic views with you, I haven’t found the key to tearing aside your infernal silence, then I can’t expect to make much progress with Miss Maddie, can I?”
“Don’t try, Stephen. A confidence should be offered, never compelled.”
And that was what her kiss had been—a confidence. Duncan’s mind should have been eased to have put the right term to the gesture, but like Stephen confronted with a prettily wrapped gift, Duncan’s curiosity was only enflamed.
“Sometimes, a confidence is offered without the confider knowing it,” Stephen replied. “We’re in for more snow.”
“And with Yuletide mere weeks away. What a shocking departure from the norm.”
“We’re in for more snow by this time tomorrow. Might I build a lift at Brightwell? The back stairs will have smaller landings if we implement the design I have in mind, but large landings don’t serve much purpose. I can install some dumb waiters, too, the kind that bring items up from the kitchen by using a lift in a cupboard. You could do with some laundry chutes as well.”
No, Duncan did not need laundry chutes, but anything that resulted in less use of stairways was of interest to Stephen.
“I suppose your modernizations will make the place easier to sell,” Duncan groused. “Do your worst, but keep accurate records. Quinn will likely have Mrs. Hatfield go over my books before he admits I haven’t made this place profitable.”
“I’d sooner meet Wellington over pistols than have Mrs. Hatfield nosing about my ledgers. I know the bank needs a competent auditor, but that woman takes a missing penny as proof of felony motives.”
Duncan liked Mrs. Hatfield, though he wondered where she’d come by her accounting skills. “I would rather miss a few pence than deny you