Chapter Three
Katherine’s hands tightened on the edges of the estate ledger. “Let him come. I will not be cowed.”
No one answered her declaration, which was just as well.
She had not intended to speak the words aloud and would have been mortified to discover anyone had heard her talking to herself like some madwoman.
The morning sunlight streamed through the windows of her study, illuminating the neat stacks of papers she had arranged and rearranged throughout the sleepless night.
She released the ledger and straightened her spine, willing her racing heart to calm itself. There was no reason for this anxiety. She had faced far worse than an ambitious new earl during her years as Edmund’s wife.
Still, her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her cup of tea, now gone cold from neglect. She grimaced at the taste but drank it anyway, needing something to occupy her hands.
Katherine gathered the most essential documents and placed them in a leather portfolio.
The carriage ride to Wexford House passed in a blur of London streets and her own churning thoughts.
By the time she arrived at her brother’s imposing residence, her composure had settled into something resembling calm determination.
“Lady Katherine,” Norman, James’s butler, greeted her with a respectful bow as she stepped into the familiar marble foyer. “His Grace and the Duchess await you in the morning room. Shall I take your wrap?”
“Thank you, Norman.” Katherine handed over her pelisse, grateful for the butler’s steady presence. Unlike her own modest household staff, Norman had served the Wexford family for decades and possessed an unflappable dignity that somehow steadied her nerves. “Has Lord Greythorne arrived yet?”
“Not yet, my lady. His Grace requested that refreshments be prepared for when he does.”
“Of course, he did,” Katherine murmured, then caught herself. “That is—thank you, Norman.”
The butler’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though Katherine thought she detected the faintest hint of understanding in his eyes. The entire staff at Wexford House had witnessed her difficult marriage to Edmund, though they had maintained the discretion expected of their positions.
Katherine made her way through the grand corridors of Wexford House, its opulent furnishings and soaring ceilings a stark contrast to her own modest townhouse.
While she appreciated her brother’s generosity, she much preferred her own space—smaller perhaps, but entirely her own, free from Edmund’s oppressive memory.
She found James and Rosabel waiting in the morning room, their expressions a study in contrast. James, the Duke of Wexford, wore his customary serious mien, while Rosabel offered a warm, encouraging smile as Katherine entered.
“Good morning,” Katherine said, hoping she appeared more composed than she felt.
James crossed the room to kiss her cheek. “You look pale. Did you sleep at all?”
“James,” Rosabel chided gently. “What a greeting.”
“It’s quite all right,” Katherine assured her sister-in-law.
“And no, not particularly well. But I am adequately prepared for the meeting.” She patted the portfolio in her hands.
“You needn’t worry,” James said, his voice firm with conviction. “Your settlement is iron-clad. I made certain of it.”
“I know.” Katherine squeezed her brother’s arm gratefully. “But there are still the western fields to consider. The ambiguity in the documentation—”
“An oversight in the original deed that predates your marriage,” James interrupted. “Not something Edmund could have manipulated, nor something the new earl can exploit if he tries.”
“Unless he contests the interpretation we’ve been working under,” Katherine pointed out. “The western fields are essential to Willow Park’s financial independence.”
“And they are yours by right,” James insisted. “The boundary markers clearly designate them as part of your dower property.”
“Legally speaking,” Rosabel interjected gently, “there is room for interpretation. Which is why this meeting is necessary in the first place.”
James frowned at his wife, but Katherine nodded in agreement. “Bel is right. I’ve studied the documents thoroughly. A determined man could make a case that the fields belong to the entailed property.”
“Which is why I’m here,” James said firmly. “To ensure that any such attempt is immediately quashed.”
Katherine suppressed a sigh. Not this again. Not another man gently pushing her from the room while the real decisions were made elsewhere. She’d spent a marriage pretending not to mind it. But she did mind. Deeply.
While she appreciated her brother’s protective instincts, she had no desire to hide behind his ducal authority. “I am perfectly capable of handling Lord Greythorne myself.”
She stared at her brother, unblinking. She had walked that land herself, overseen the harvest, listened to the tenants’ grievances. Those fields weren’t just part of the estate. They were hers. The only piece of her life she had shaped by her own hand. She would not relinquish them.
“Of course, you are,” Rosabel said soothingly. “But having James present sends a clear message that you have powerful support.”
“Precisely,” James agreed. “This new earl needs to understand from the outset that any attempt to bully or intimidate you will be met with resistance from the highest levels of society.”
Katherine moved to the window, gazing out at the quiet London street. “What do we actually know about him? Beyond the gossip, I mean.”
James and Rosabel exchanged glances.
“Not a great deal,” James admitted. “He’s been abroad for most of his adult life. America primarily, though there were reports of him in Paris and other European capitals as well.”
“Doing what, exactly?” Katherine asked.
“Business ventures, apparently,” Rosabel supplied. “Quite successful ones, if rumours are to be believed. He made his own fortune rather than relying on family connections.”
Katherine raised an eyebrow. “A self-made man who suddenly inherits a title. How very convenient for him.”
“The inheritance was hardly planned,” James pointed out. “Edmund’s death was unexpected, and Drake Halston was a distant cousin at best. No one anticipated him becoming the heir.”
“Drake Halston, the sixth Earl of Greythorne,” Katherine repeated the name thoughtfully.
It was the first time she’d spoken it aloud. “And what of his character? Beyond Lady Beauford’s assessment of his physical attributes.”
Rosabel’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “Reports vary. Some call him shrewd and ruthless in business. Others say he’s charming but guarded. He keeps his own counsel and has few close associates in London.”
“A man of mystery, then,” Katherine said dryly. “How tiresome.”
James smiled faintly. “Not everyone can be as transparent as I am.”
“A blessing for which we’re all grateful,” Rosabel teased her husband. “One completely straightforward Wexford is quite enough.”
Their light banter eased some of the tension in Katherine’s shoulders. Whatever this meeting might bring, she was not facing it alone.
The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, sending a fresh jolt of apprehension through her. Fifteen minutes until the appointed time.
“I should review my notes once more,” she said, opening her portfolio on a small writing desk.
“Katherine,” James’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’ve prepared as thoroughly as humanly possible. You know these estates better than anyone—certainly better than a man who’s been in England less than a month.”
“Knowledge isn’t always enough,” she replied quietly, remembering how often Edmund had dismissed her insights and suggestions, despite her proven understanding of estate management. “Men with power seldom appreciate being instructed by women.”
“Then he’ll learn the hard way,” James said simply. “As I did when I underestimated Rosabel’s grasp of political matters.”
Rosabel smiled at the memory. “When he proposed, I only accepted when he finally admitted I’d been right about the trade negotiations.”
“The greatest surrender of my life,” James said with surprising tenderness, “and the most rewarding.”
Katherine watched their easy affection with a mixture of warmth and wistfulness.
Their marriage was everything hers had not been—a partnership built on mutual respect and genuine fondness.
She had long since abandoned any hope of finding such a connection for herself, but she treasured seeing it in her brother’s life.
A sharp knock at the front door echoed through the house, pulling her from her thoughts. Her pulse quickened as she heard Norman’s measured footsteps crossing the entrance hall.
“He’s early,” she murmured, smoothing her skirts unnecessarily.
“A tactic to throw you off balance,” James suggested, his expression hardening.
“Or perhaps he’s simply punctual,” Rosabel countered diplomatically.
They fell silent, listening to the murmur of voices in the hallway. Katherine straightened her shoulders and moved to stand near the fireplace, a position that would allow her to observe the newcomer’s entrance without appearing too eager or too defensive.
The door opened, and Norman’s dignified voice announced, “Lord Greythorne, Your Graces, my lady.”
Katherine had prepared herself for many possibilities—an older man, perhaps, with Edmund’s pinched features; or a younger, dissipated version worn by excesses; or even a cold, calculating figure whose eyes would immediately assess the monetary value of everything they fell upon.
She was not prepared for the man who strode confidently into her drawing room.
Drake Halston, Earl of Greythorne, was tall and broad-shouldered, with none of Edmund’s slight, almost delicate build.
His dark hair was cut fashionably but not foppishly, and his face—Katherine reluctantly admitted—was strikingly handsome, with a strong jaw and piercing grey eyes that somehow managed to convey both intelligence and wariness.