When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,41

chair, preserving Duncan from the folly of sitting beside her.

He took the corner of the sofa nearest the fire, also nearest to her. “I paid a call on the vicar on my way back from Mr. Jingle’s tenant farm.”

“Is he related to the Jinks on your staff?”

“The boy’s uncle. My steward is dishonest.” Well, wasn’t that the most inept conversational transition ever to be dumped into a lady’s lap?

“You have alluded to this previously. I gather many stewards are less than honorable, though most know to be discreet about it.”

“I stopped by the vicarage to introduce myself to the shepherd of our local flock and to inquire of him whether a physician who refuses to attend the ill when summoned is deserving of a quiet spiritual rebuke.” Another graceless conversational gambit, but then, Stephen’s remarks had been unsettling. Had his lordship left the door open on purpose, or had he meant to threaten Miss Maddie in private?

“What did the vicar say?”

“He said, ‘More tea, Mr. Wentworth?’ and ‘How are you getting on at Brightwell, Mr. Wentworth?’ Mrs. Newbury’s very life was imperiled, for all Dr. Felton knew, coin was available to compensate him, and he would not come because my housekeeper has skin as dark as some Italians.”

Duncan was furious—still, though Mrs. Newbury had recovered—but he was also bewildered.

Miss Maddie set aside the journal. “Are you certain the physician based his decision on that factor?”

Rather than meet her gaze, he stared at his hands, a pair of good, strong hands that could have delivered a very succinct sermon to the idiot doctor.

“I want to beat the blighter to flinders, Matilda. I want to cast him into the bowels of a ship and force him to listen to the moans of the dying for weeks, while his own strength ebbs.…” He curled his fingers into fists, then opened his hands, trying to let go of violent impulses. “We outlaw slavery here in England and pretend its evils don’t touch our shores.”

Miss Maddie regarded the bouquet, probably the last they’d have for months. She had gained some color, and her features were no longer as sharp. Duncan liked simply looking at her, though more than once, Stephen had caught him staring.

“I can draft you a letter,” she said, “informing the doctor that because his healing vocation is untrustworthy, you will in future depend on the local herbwoman in case of sickness. She is reputed to be reliable and genuinely dedicated to the well-being of others. For serious illness, you will send to London for a consultation with His Grace’s personal physician.”

Duncan propped his chin on his hand, turning that plan over in his mind, looking for flaws, and finding none. “That is brilliant. That is worthy of Stephen in a rare mood, also quite sensible. Do we even have a local herbwoman?”

“Cook would know, but in my experience the healers in England are a safer bet than the physicians or surgeons.”

“Splendid.”

A happy silence took root, because Miss Maddie had solved one problem. Shame in rural communities was often more effective than a cudgel. Duncan had forgotten that.

“You mentioned your steward,” she said, curling her feet under her and tucking her hems over her toes. She wore one shawl again, a heavy plain wool blanket of a garment, but only the one.

“Mr. Trostle is skimming transactions, mis-stating sums collected, and intimidating all who’d call him to account by either involving them in his schemes or implying that he’ll make them sorry for crossing him.”

“How long has he been in his present post?”

How long since Duncan had noticed a woman? Truly noticed that the curve of her cheek and the curve of her eyebrow—the same graceful arc—both begged to be traced by his fingers? He liked Miss Maddie’s stillness, her focus on her task, her lack of airs.

He also liked her figure, though she kept that swathed in shawls for most of the day.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Mr. Trostle,” she said. “Has he been on the estate long?”

“Four years or so. His Grace hired him through a factor. The duke well knows that matters are in disarray here, and he expects me to sort it all out. Stephen says I should sack Trostle, make a public example of him, though I’d like for an understudy to have a few weeks to gather information first.”

“Sound. Advance your pawns before you draw enemy fire.”

A chess analogy. How that suited her. “Do you play? Chess, that is.”

A struggle ensued, if her expression was any indication. While