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Grace nodded. “And is there a good reason not to close up the back parlor?”

Mrs. O’Mailey narrowed her eyes, like this was a trap. “We were never told to close it up.”

Grace smiled. “Well, then. Consider yourself told. An unused room isn’t worth spending time—especially since I imagine that means there’s never a fire and it’s wretched cold while working in there?”

Mrs. O’Mailey’s silence was enough confirmation for Grace.

“Wonderful,” she said, clapping her hands together briskly. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

By the time they’d looped their way around to the soon-to-be closed back parlor, Mrs. O’Mailey was speaking beyond when asked a direct question.

By the time they’d made it upstairs, the woman had even ventured two separate suggestions.

Grace, perhaps for the first time in her life, felt like she understood her father. Was this why he was so eager to curry political favor? She didn’t care. This was triumph, at long last.

And since fortune, as Grace had heard it, favored the bold, she paused at the end of their tour.

“Mrs. O’Mailey,” she said lightly, trying to sound like she didn’t much care about the answer either way. “Would you care to join me for tea in the duchess’ parlor?”

For a breath, Grace thought the woman would say no. It was common, though certainly not obligatory, for the lord’s new wife to share tea with the housekeeper. The austere older woman regarded Grace, and Grace thought she might have been less nervous when she was being presented to the queen.

Then the woman cracked what might generously be called a smile. “What a generous offer, Your Grace,” she said, dipping her chin politely. “I accept.”

The first day, they barely spoke. It was nearly unbearable, if Grace was telling the truth. She considered choking on a biscuit just for something to do.

But the second day, Mrs. O’Mailey accepted again. And as she left that day, she lingered at the door.

“I don’t mean to impose, Your Grace,” she said, not quite meeting Grace’s eye. “But if we gather for tea again…perhaps we might consider including Mrs. Bradley.”

Grace resisted the urge to leap to her feet in joy.

“That sounds lovely, Mrs. O’Mailey,” she said instead. “Thank you for thinking of it. Would you be so kind as to extend the invitation to her for tomorrow?”

Another day—and two brief glimpses of her husband, one of his left arm, the other of his head from above over the edge of the upstairs landing—and Grace realized that the inclusion of the cook in the afternoon’s proceedings was even better than she’d realized.

Because, judging by the way the two women exchanged a look, they hadn’t just come here to get their due show of respect from the new duchess.

They’d come to share information.

Grace tried to look like a person who had never noticed anything in the whole of her life while the women gathered their thoughts.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. O’Mailey said before stopping.

“Would you like a biscuit, Mrs. Bradley?” Grace asked, passing over the plate. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but they’re phenomenon.”

“It’s my grandmaither’s recipe,” she said proudly. “The trick is to use the freshest butter ye can find.”

“I thank you for trusting me with that knowledge,” Grace said, “though I hope I never need it, as it means we will have been foolish enough to let you slip through out fingers.”

Mrs. Bradley sat up a little straighter in her chair.

Perhaps it was an easy strategy, Grace mused, but a touch of flattery never hurt.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. O’Mailey tried again. This time, she didn’t lose her nerve. “The tenants in the west pasture. Their roof. It leaks.”

Grace paused. “I see.” She took a deliberate sip of tea. “And I take it that their cottages are under the ducal purview?”

The housekeeper was cautious, but her shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, when Grace answered evenly.