Chapter Three #3
That landed worse than the accusation. The reason he had not asked was simpler and uglier than the excuse of insufficient time.
He had seen the threat and he had moved, and the woman the threat was aimed at had been, in that moment, a problem to solve.
He had not thought to consult her. The omission had been instinctive, and the instinct was not one he was proud of.
He did not know how to say that without making it worse.
“After breakfast,” he said. “We will discuss every term. You will have conditions, and I will hear them.”
“I will have conditions, Your Grace, and you will meet them, or there will be no betrothal for Lord Voss or anyone else to speculate about.”
“I have no doubt.”
“You should have some doubt. Doubt would be appropriate.”
“I doubt a great many things, Lady Beatrice. Your capacity for conditions is not among them.”
They looked at each other, and the space between them held more competing furies than the room had been designed to contain.
“After breakfast,” she said.
“After breakfast.”
“And it had better be a substantial breakfast, Your Grace, because I have not eaten properly and I do not negotiate well on an empty stomach.”
“I will inform Mrs Alder.”
“Do. And tell her I require toast. And eggs. And whatever else this mausoleum passes off as hospitality.”
“Mausoleum.”
“It is a very beautiful house, Your Grace, but the temperature suggests the occupants may not all be living.”
“The occupants manage adequately.”
“The occupants manage, Your Grace. Whether they do so adequately is a question I shall reserve judgement on until I have been fed.”
She turned and walked out of the drawing room with her borrowed skirt whispering against the floor and her spine as straight as anything he had ever seen.
Ravenshaw stood alone in the cold room and listened to the rain.
He had spent seven years perfecting the art of not caring.
He had refined it into a discipline, a practice, a way of moving through the world that permitted no attachment and tolerated no vulnerability, and a woman he had met a few hours ago had walked through his front door and dismantled the entire architecture in the time it took to collapse into his arms.
He thought about Voss’s face when the betrothal had landed. The brief flash of calculation behind the smile. He thought about Beatrice’s face when she turned to him afterwards; the fury and the fear tangled so tightly that separating them would have required a steadier hand than his.
Mrs Alder appeared in the corridor. “Your Grace, shall I prepare the library for Lady Beatrice’s breakfast, or would you prefer the morning room?”
“The library. It has a better fire.”
“Very well. And the child? Shall I send someone to relieve the maid?”
“No. The maid stays with the baby. She has earned the right.”
“If Your Grace will permit the observation, the maid has opinions.”
“I had noticed.”
“Strong opinions, Your Grace. About a great many things, delivered with a frequency that suggests she does not consider silence a virtue.”
“I had noticed that as well, Mrs Alder.”
“Very well, Your Grace. I merely wished to ensure you were prepared.”
“I am prepared for a great deal. Whether I am prepared for this particular household configuration remains to be seen.”
“If it is any comfort, Your Grace, the young lady appears to be precisely as stubborn as you are, which suggests either an extremely effective partnership or a spectacular disaster.”
“Thank you, Mrs Alder. That is not, in fact, a comfort.”
“No, Your Grace. I did not suppose it would be.”
She withdrew, and Ravenshaw stood in the empty drawing room and looked at the chair where Voss had sat.
Then Keene appeared in the doorway.
“Shall I inform Mrs Alder about any changes, Your Grace?”
“Mrs Alder has already been informed. She anticipated the requirement, as she anticipates most things.”
“Very well. I shall also see that the formal dining service is prepared for future use. Based on the volume of the conversation I overheard through the door, a larger table may provide a tactically advisable distance between Your Grace and the future Duchess.”
“You were listening.”
“I was within earshot, Your Grace. As instructed.”
“And your assessment?”
Keene paused. “Of Lord Voss, Your Grace, or of the lady?”
“Both.”
“Lord Voss smiled a great deal, Your Grace. In my experience, men who smile that frequently in uncomfortable situations are either saints or confidence tricksters, and I have yet to encounter a saint who arrived in a hired carriage so early in the morning.”
“And Lady Beatrice?”
“She has teeth, Your Grace.”
“I have also observed that.”
“And she appears to be under the impression that she is going to negotiate terms with you over breakfast.”
“She is.”
“Then I would suggest, Your Grace, that you eat before she arrives. It is difficult to negotiate effectively when one is distracted by toast, and the lady does not strike me as someone who will allow distraction to work in your favour.”
Ravenshaw looked at his butler and saw, beneath the formal composure, something that might have been amusement.
“Thank you, Keene.”
“Always a pleasure, Your Grace.”
“That is debatable.”
“Most good counsel is, Your Grace.”