Chapter Three
"The fire was deliberate."
Margaret stood in the doorway of the breakfast room in the morning and heard the Duke of Blackmere speak for the first time since his return the previous night.
He sat at the head of the table, a plate of untouched food before him, his steward, Mr Pembroke, standing at rigid attention beside his chair. The duke's coat still bore faint traces of soot at the cuffs. His face was drawn with exhaustion, but his voice was steady, cold and controlled.
Pembroke shifted his weight. "Your Grace, we cannot be certain, but…"
"I am certain." The duke's fingers drummed once against the table. "The fire began in three separate locations simultaneously. That does not occur naturally."
Margaret stepped back, meaning to retreat before she was noticed.
"Miss Hartwell."
She froze.
The Duke did not turn. "You may enter. This does not concern you, but my aunt will demand a full account regardless. You might as well hear it directly."
Margaret moved into the room and took a seat at the far end of the table, as distant from the Duke as the space would allow. A footman appeared with tea, and she accepted it with a small nod.
"Continue, Pembroke."
The steward cleared his throat. "The damage is contained to the main barn, Your Grace. The structure itself is salvageable, though it will require substantial repair. Three horses were injured, thankfully, none fatally. The hay stores are a total loss."
"And the origin?"
"As Your Grace suspected—three points of ignition. North wall, south wall, and near the hay loft." Pembroke's voice tightened. "The constable believes it was set intentionally."
"By whom?"
"That remains unclear, Your Grace. None of the tenants has reported seeing strangers on the property. The labourers who work the home farm were all accounted for at the time the fire began."
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
Margaret sipped her tea and tried to appear invisible.
"Increase the watch on the estate," the duke said finally. "Two men at night. Four during harvest. Ensure they are armed."
"Armed, Your Grace?"
"Someone attempted to destroy my property and endanger my livestock.
I will not wait for them to succeed." The Duke's voice was utterly flat.
"Speak with the tenants. Quietly. Determine if anyone has grievances they have not brought to my attention.
And send word to the magistrate. I want this investigated properly. "
"Yes, Your Grace."
"That will be all, Pembroke."
The steward bowed and withdrew. The duke remained seated, staring at his untouched breakfast with the same cold focus he might give to a ledger.
Margaret set down her teacup carefully while the silence stretched.
"You did not sleep," the duke said.
Margaret's breath caught. "Your Grace?"
"You were at your window when I returned last night. Shortly after midnight." He still did not look at her. "I assume my aunt's condition worsened. Or were you simply unable to sleep in a strange house?"
Margaret chose her words with care. "I heard horses in the courtyard, Your Grace. I wished to ensure all was well."
"How thoughtful."
His tone suggested anything but approval.
He pushed his plate away and stood. "My aunt will wish to know the details of the fire. You may inform her that the damage is contained and there were no fatalities. She need not concern herself further."
"Yes, Your Grace."
He moved toward the door, but he stopped and turned.
For the first time since entering the room, he looked directly at her.
"Miss Hartwell. A question, if I may?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
"Why are you here?"
Margaret blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are two-and-thirty. Well-spoken and clearly educated. You could seek a position as a governess in a respectable household. The pay would be better. The work less taxing." His eyes were cold, assessing. "Yet you choose to accompany dying women in remote estates. Why?"
Margaret met his gaze steadily. "Governesses raise children, Your Grace. I have no talent for managing the young."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the truth."
"But not the whole truth."
Margaret's hands tightened in her lap. "Governess positions are offered to women of youth and charm, Your Grace. I possess neither. Companion work is what remains."
Something flickered in his expression. Not sympathy but something harder.
"I see."
He left without another word.
Margaret sat alone in the breakfast room and tried not to feel the sting of her own honesty.
***
The dowager was seated in her private sitting room when Margaret arrived, her breakfast tray untouched beside her chair.
"You look pale, Miss Hartwell. Did my nephew frighten you at breakfast?"
Margaret set down the book she had brought. "He informed me of the fire, Your Grace. I was not frightened. Merely concerned."
"Concerned for the estate? Or for him?"
"Both seemed appropriate under the circumstances."
The dowager's mouth curved. "How diplomatic. Sit. Tell me everything."
Margaret recounted the conversation as accurately as she could; the three points of ignition, the increased watch, the magistrate's involvement. The dowager listened with sharp attention, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair.
"Deliberate," she murmured when Margaret finished. "How interesting."
"Your Grace?"
"My nephew has managed this estate with meticulous care for five years.
He has improved tenant conditions, modernised equipment, and increased yields.
He is well-liked among the labourers." The Dowager's eyes narrowed.
"For someone to attack him so directly suggests either a personal grievance or something more calculated. "
"Surely the constable will determine the cause."
"The constable is a fool who spends more time drinking than investigating." The dowager leaned back in her chair. "No. Nathaniel will handle this himself. As he handles everything. Alone."
Margaret said nothing.
The dowager studied her for a long moment. "You stood your ground with him yesterday in the library. And again this morning, I suspect."
"I merely answered his questions, Your Grace."
"Honestly. Without flattery or evasion." The dowager's smile was thin. "He is not accustomed to that. Not anymore."
Then there was a knock at the door.
"Enter."
Hendricks appeared, his face carefully neutral. "Your Grace, His Grace requests your presence in his study. At your earliest convenience."
The dowager's eyebrows rose. "Does he indeed? How extraordinary."
"He indicated the matter was urgent, Your Grace."
"Everything is urgent to my nephew." The Dowager gestured to Margaret. "Fetch my shawl, Miss Hartwell. Let us see what crisis requires my immediate attention."
***
The Duke's study was a monument to order.
Margaret stood just inside the doorway and took in the space with a single sweeping glance. Every book was perfectly aligned, and every paper was stacked at precise right angles. The desk gleamed with polish. Not a speck of dust. Not a single item out of place.
The duke stood behind the desk, his hands resting on its surface, his face carved from stone.
"Aunt. Thank you for coming."
"You summoned me, Nathaniel. I could hardly refuse." The Dowager settled into a chair with Margaret's assistance. "What is this urgent matter?"
The Duke's gaze flicked briefly to Margaret. "This conversation concerns estate business. Perhaps Miss Hartwell would be more comfortable waiting in the corridor."
"Miss Hartwell stays," the Dowager said flatly. "She is my companion. She goes where I go."
The Duke's jaw tightened. But he did not argue.
He pulled a document from his desk drawer and set it before his aunt. "I need your signature."
The dowager picked up the paper and scanned it with narrowed eyes. "This document confers full authority to act in my stead."
"Yes."
"Granting you full control over my personal finances."
"Yes."
The dowager set down the document. "Why?"
"Because you are dying." The duke's voice was utterly flat. "Because your affairs must be settled properly. Because I will not allow your estate to fall into chaos after your death."
"How thoughtful. And how convenient for you."
The duke's hands flattened against the desk. "This is not about convenience. This is about ensuring your wishes are carried out. Your will is outdated. Your investments are scattered across multiple accounts. Your personal debts…"
"They are my own concern."
"They were your own concern. Now they are mine."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Margaret stood very still beside the dowager's chair, wishing she were anywhere else.
The dowager leaned forward. "You wish to control my money, Nathaniel. Very well. But I have a condition."
"I am not negotiating."
"Then you will not have my signature." The dowager's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "I will sign your document. But only if you agree to dine with Miss Hartwell and me. Every evening. For the duration of my remaining time in this world."
The duke went very still.
"That is absurd."
"That is my condition."
"You are using legal documents to force me into social compliance."
"I am using the only leverage I possess to ensure my nephew remembers he is human." The dowager's fingers drummed once. "Every evening, Nathaniel. Civilised conversation. No retreating to your study. No eating from a tray like a hermit."
"I will not…"
"Then you will not have control of my finances. I will instruct my solicitor to distribute my estate according to his discretion. Which, I assure you, will be far less organised than your meticulous plans."
The duke's hands clenched. "You are dying. You should not be subjected to this sort of manipulation."
"I am dying. Which is precisely why I can manipulate you without consequence." The dowager smiled. "Sign or decline, Nathaniel. But choose quickly. I tire these days easily."
The duke looked at Margaret. "Miss Hartwell. You are a witness to this coercion."