When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,57
trade in game went on despite grievous penalties for poaching and despite sore want of sustenance in many rural communities.
“Brightwell will not involve itself in illegal game sales,” Duncan said, dusting his hands. “His Grace of Walden would be very displeased to learn of such practices, as would I.”
Trostle leaned a shoulder against the edge of a bay window, his posture suggesting he felt no compunction to behave formally with his employer. “People need to eat, Mr. Wentworth. This estate needs income.”
“I need my honor more, Trostle. You are doubtless aware that the present titleholder comes from a distant and lowly branch of the Wentworth family. His Grace brooks no chicanery, no winking at the law, for he is held to a very high standard by his peers. My cousin must not only appear to be worthy of the responsibility he’s been entrusted with, he must live up to the demands of his station in truth. I strive to do likewise in my own humble way.”
Trostle glanced down the row of portraits. When his gaze lit on Duncan, amusement shown from blue eyes.
“You are my employer, more or less, sir. We manage Brightwell as you see fit.”
No, we do not. A brisk rap on the door prevented Duncan from offering that correction. “Come in.”
Mrs. Newbury entered with a gleaming silver tray in her hands. The tea service had to weigh two stone, but Duncan remained seated, as an arrogant prig would.
Neither did Trostle make any effort to help a fellow employee.
Duncan gestured to the blotter. “You may pour out.”
She wrapped the handle of the teapot in her apron and poured a single cup, then stepped back.
“You are excused.”
She curtsied, sparing Trostle not a glance.
Trostle watched her retreating form, and not respectfully. “You talk about living up to the demands of one’s station. Brightwell’s housekeeper would do well to recall her own station.”
Duncan took a sip of tea hotter and stronger than he preferred. This was stage business, a display of superiority over an employee to whom he’d not offer so much as a tea cake.
“Explain yourself.”
“I heard Mrs. Newbury was faking illness last week, and just between us, sir, she’s no better than she should be. You can put a lace cap on any female—that doesn’t make her proper.”
Duncan set down his teacup gently, lest the relief he felt become obvious. Now I can hate you. Now you’ve eased my burden and made the way clear.
“You imply that Mrs. Newbury lacks morals?”
Trostle grabbed a little French chair padded in red velvet and set it before the desk. He seated himself and leaned forward, as if imparting confidences.
“If your origins are humble, you might not know how a great house is run, sir. A housekeeper is allowed certain privileges, but she must not overstep. Mrs. Newbury oversteps. She goes through candles like a hostler consumes beer. I haven’t wanted to say anything, because she’ll not find another post as good as this one, but stealing is stealing.”
Trostle’s expression was that of a man from whom a confession had been dragged, but his gaze on Duncan was assessing: Had the performance been successful?
Well, yes, in a sense. “What you tell me is most disappointing, Trostle, though not exactly a revelation. The habit of graft is hard to break. I suspect many in the vicinity have come to view Brightwell less than respectfully as a result.”
Trostle sat back, his features schooled to reluctant agreement. “I’m glad you see my point, sir. I’ve wondered about some of our tenants, too, and have been waiting for an opportunity to share my concerns with you.”
Oh, waiting for an opportunity, indeed. Duncan finished his tea, knowing that sacking Trostle was not only the right thing to do, it was necessary for the good of Brightwell and all who relied on the estate for a livelihood.
“Trostle, you must not believe all the gossip that comes to you,” Duncan said. “For example, I can tell you that Mrs. Newbury was gravely ill and that the local physician refused to heed my summons. She was not faking sick. Not in the least.”
Trostle rose. “Whose word are you taking for that, sir? That lot you have belowstairs has had years to guard each other’s backs. They’ll close ranks against you, whisper behind their hands about you. I’ve seen it before. No respect when respect is needed.”
Leave. The single word begged to be spoken, to be shouted. “Respect must be earned, Trostle.”
“I do my best, Mr. Wentworth, but you’ve a half dozen