Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Hazel had only meant to fetch her sewing basket.
That was all. It was a simple, harmless task, but the moment she rounded the corner toward the upstairs landing of the Belvington townhouse, she heard the whispering. Urgent whispering. Worse yet, it was mischief-soaked whispering.
“Patience, hold it still!”
“I am holding it still!”
“No, you are holding me still, not it!”
Hazel froze.
Oh no.
She knew that tone. She knew those voices. And she knew with perfect certainty that trouble was unfolding at the top of the stairs.
She took a deep breath. “Please,” she whispered to no one in particular, “let it be something small this time.”
Of course, the universe did not comply.
Because when Hazel reached the landing, she found Chastity balanced precariously on a wooden stool, on top of an upholstered footstool, on top of a stack of books.
Patience stood at the bottom of this lethal tower, with her arms outstretched as if she expected she might somehow catch her older sister if she toppled.
Hazel’s voice was so sharp it cut through the air like a thrown dagger. “What are you doing!?”
Both girls screamed. The tower wobbled. Patience flailed.
Chastity clung to the chandelier chain with one hand and shrieked. “Hazel! Don’t shout! You nearly killed me!”
“I nearly killed you?” Hazel sputtered. “Why are you climbing the furniture like circus performers?!”
Chastity, still dangling dangerously, pointed with her free hand. “Patience dropped Mama’s bracelet into the chandelier bowl, and we were trying to get it out!”
Patience gasped. “That is not true! You were the one who said it looked dusty and insisted on cleaning it!”
“I didn’t know it was that high!”
Hazel groaned, pressing a hand over her eyes. “Both of you, get down, carefully.”
Chastity made a helpless noise. “I would, but if I let go of the chain, I will fall to my death, and you will feel terrible forever.”
“You are two feet from the floor.”
“Still fatal,” Chastity insisted.
Hazel rolled her eyes and moved forward, adjusting the stools with efficient, practiced movements.
“Patience, take her hand. Chastity, step down, but slowly, not theatrically. One foot at a time.”
The extraction was clumsy, chaotic, and accompanied by dramatic wails, but within a minute, both sisters were safely on solid ground.
Hazel adjusted her skirts, took a steadying breath, and asked, in her calmest voice. “Why, precisely, did neither of you come to find me?”
Patience looked sheepish. “Because… we thought you were… resting?”
Chastity nodded quickly. “Yes, and you looked very tired, and we thought we could spare you the ordeal.”
Hazel stared at them. “Spare me the ordeal by nearly killing yourselves?”
“Exactly,” Chastity said proudly.
“We were being considerate,” Patience added.
Hazel pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are both utterly hopeless.”
And yet, as she looked at them with their flushed cheeks, their bright eyes and their earnest attempts to be helpful despite inevitably causing chaos, her irritation softened.
She sighed. “Bring me the bracelet.”
Chastity held it out, dusty but intact. “We saved it.”
“You nearly destroyed yourselves in the process.”
“Yes, but we didn’t,” Patience chirped.
Hazel shook her head, unable to stop the faint, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Come. I’ll clean it properly.”
The sisters followed her down the hall, giggling now that the danger had passed.
Hazel walked ahead, muttering under her breath, “And I am supposed to marry a duke with the two of you still in existence…”
“What was that?” Patience inquired curiously.
“Nothing,” Hazel said quickly. “Just praying for my sanity.”
Chastity linked her arm through Hazel’s. “We’ll help you with it.”
Hazel gave her a flat look. “That is precisely what worries me.”
And yet, despite everything, her heart warmed. They were impossible. They were exhausting. They were hers.
Hazel guided her sisters down the corridor toward her own room, where she kept polishing cloths and a sensible little box of repair tools no respectable lady was supposed to admit owning.
Chastity bumped her shoulder. “Oh, Hazel, you love rescuing us.”
“I love keeping you alive,” Hazel corrected.
That was when they turned a corner and nearly collided with their mother.
Lady Belvington stood poised and elegant as ever, though her eyes narrowed immediately in suspicion. “What,” she asked, “are the three of you doing?”
Chastity’s mouth opened. Patience inhaled. Hazel shot both of them a warning look sharp enough to stop a cavalry charge.
She stepped forward, lifting the bracelet with a calm she did not feel. “Just repairing this, Mama. It had a loose clasp.”
Her mother relaxed instantly, smiling. “Ah, always practical, Hazel. Very good.”
Hazel exhaled discreetly. Crisis avoided.
But her mother was not finished. “Actually, Hazel, I was looking for you.”
Hazel blinked. “Me?”
“Yes,” her mother said brightly. “You mustn’t go anywhere this afternoon.”
Hazel frowned. “Why not?”
Her mother’s smile widened into something dangerously close to glee. “Because I have invited your future husband for tea.”
Hazel’s voice cracked as she whispered. “You… did what?”
Lady Belvington patted her arm as though announcing the arrival of a long-awaited guest. “The Duke of Callbury will be here at three. Do wear something flattering.”
Hazel stared at her, feeling her stomach drop straight to the floor.
She had only several hours until she had to sit across from the Duke of Callbury, who was all ice and logic, and make polite conversation over tea, as though they were not being shoved into marriage by the entire structure of the ton.
Hazel’s knees nearly buckled.
Her mother smiled, entirely oblivious. “Isn’t it exciting?”
Hazel swallowed heavily. Exciting was not the word she would have chosen. Not even close.
Greyson found himself in his study at Callbury Mansion, surrounded by dark wood, precise order, and the faint scent of ink. Morning light slanted across the desk, illuminating the neat stacks of correspondence he had already sorted by priority.
A soft knock sounded.
“Enter,” he said.
Mr. Haverton, his estate steward, stepped inside with a ledger tucked beneath his arm. “Your Grace, I’ve brought the quarterly reports and three matters that require your immediate decision.”
Greyson gestured for him to proceed.
Haverton cleared his throat. “There is a tenant dispute over boundary fencing at the west edge of the Callbury farms. Both sides claim the other built into their land.”
Greyson did not sigh. He rarely wasted breath on displays of irritation. “Bring me the maps.”
Haverton placed the rolled drawings on the desk. Greyson unrolled them, allowing his eyes to sweep across the inked lines, the measured angles and the estate borders he knew nearly by memory.
“The line is here,” Greyson said, tapping the page. “The fencing belongs to Mr. Culverton. It lies on his land, not the Cooper family’s.”
Haverton nodded. “Very good, Your Grace. And the second matter, Mrs. Bramble has requested a reduction in her rent for winter. She claims her eldest son is ill and cannot assist with the shop.”
Greyson’s brow furrowed. “Medical confirmation?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Dr. Alton’s attestation is attached.”
Greyson nodded once. “Grant the reduction for the season. And send medicinal supplies. Directly from the house.”
Haverton blinked, then bowed. “Very generous, Your Grace. Mrs. Bramble will be relieved.”
“It is not generosity,” Greyson corrected flatly. “It is practicality. A sick household works less. A household that recovers returns to proper function. We support efficiency, not sentiment.”
Haverton smiled faintly. He had heard this speech before. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Greyson ignored the tone.
“And the third matter?” he asked.
Before Haverton could answer, the door opened again.
Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper, entered with a brisk curtsy. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. But there is a small matter downstairs.”
Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Describe it.”
“Well…” Mrs. Walsh hesitated. “It is Cook.”
Greyson closed his eyes briefly. That was never a promising beginning. “What about Cook?”
“She is… upset.”
“About?”
“Flour, Your Grace.”
Greyson stared. “Flour.”
Mrs. Walsh nodded vigorously. “She says the sacks delivered this morning are inferior to her standards.”
Haverton coughed into his fist.
Greyson leveled a look at him. “This is not amusing.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace,” Haverton said, straightening at once. “Not amusing at all.”
Greyson rose from his chair, tall and imposing in the quiet room. “Mrs. Walsh, inform Cook I will inspect the supply myself this evening, after I’ve returned home. If the flour is indeed of unacceptable quality, the supplier will be replaced.”
Mrs. Walsh’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, Your Grace. That will please her greatly.”
Greyson nodded. “And tell her to refrain from shouting at delivery boys. They do not mill the flour.”
Mrs. Walsh struggled not to smile. “Indeed, Your Grace.”
As she left, Haverton opened the ledger again. “Your decisions are always swift, Your Grace. And fair. The tenants appreciate it.”
“And the third matter?” Greyson asked, ignoring the praise.
Haverton hesitated, then cleared his throat. “The village schoolmaster has requested funds for repairs to the school roof. He says it leaks during heavy rain, and he fears the children may have to begin lessons in the church hall instead.”
Greyson frowned. “Why was this not in last quarter’s report?”
“Because the previous storm damage was thought superficial, Your Grace. But the beams are beginning to rot.”
Greyson rose and went to the window, locking his hands behind his back. “How much does he request?”
“Thirty pounds, Your Grace.”
“Give him fifty.”
Haverton blinked. “Fifty?”
Greyson turned slightly. “If we repair only the roof, the walls will fail next. Have the entire structure inspected. Reinforce the beams. Replace the windows. A half measure now will cost more later.”
Haverton bowed deeply. “The schoolmaster will be overwhelmed with gratitude, Your Grace.”
Greyson dismissed that with a flick of his hand. “That is irrelevant. A poorly maintained school yields poorly educated tenants. Poorly educated tenants make poor workers. We invest now to prevent inefficiency later.”
Haverton smiled. This was why the people of Callbury respected their duke: he might not be warm, but he was reliable. And he never made decisions that were unfair.
Haverton wrote down a few things, then bowed. “I won’t take up more of your time, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Greyson nodded, then, after the doors closed after Haverton, his gaze returned to the open letter resting by his side. It had arrived earlier that morning, delivered by a footman with far too much eagerness.
He unfolded it again, though he had committed every line to memory.
Your Grace,
We should be delighted to receive you for tea this afternoon…
It would give our families a chance to grow better acquainted…
There is so much to discuss regarding the wedding…
Greyson exhaled through his nose.
Tea.
An affair he could hardly imagine enduring without severe internal fortitude.
The very idea of sitting in a drawing room with dainty cups, polite chatter, and forced smiles felt almost ludicrous.
He had never understood why society insisted on such unnecessary rituals when matters could be settled far more efficiently through a written contract.
And yet, he had accepted… because it was expected, and because marriages, even of the convenience sort, required at least a semblance of propriety. And because Hazel, for all her flushed indignation and disastrous talent for stumbling into scandal, deserved clarity.
He folded the letter with precision and placed it atop the outgoing correspondence. He then retrieved his gloves from the corner of the desk and slid them on with deliberate, unhurried motions, though he could feel time pressing at his back.
He did not want to be late, but not because he cared about tea or because he cared about propriety. It was simply to demonstrate the truth of his intentions. The situation demanded seriousness, and he would show it through actions, not sentiment.
He stepped toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at his study: the ordered desk, the quiet efficiency, the sanctuary of logic he preferred above all else. It would have been a relief to remain there. But he had a tea appointment to keep.
“Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Let us get this over with.”