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The next day

M erritt moved past the solicitor toward the windows of Cliffstone Cottage. “These will need replaced. They’ll need to be larger, to be sure, in order to showcase that magnificent view. And folding wooden shutters, I should think, in case of storms. But yes. I think this will be perfect.”

“There are workmen in Shoring who could do that for you, Lady Merrit.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s see the bedchambers.”

Merritt and her maid, Havers, followed the man through the house. The main bedchamber looked well enough, although it needed sprucing up.

Chipping paint and dented furniture were not what was worrying Havers, though. She eyed the four-poster bed with trepidation. “The old lady died right there,” she whispered. “Do you think she is haunting the place?”

“She was a fine lady and a giving soul, by all reports,” Merritt answered. “No need to worry. Surely, she earned her place with the angels.”

Merritt’s own doubts began to rise, however, as they viewed some of the smaller chambers. She noted loose floorboards, damp, and in the last one…

“Not so perfect after all, Mr. Jackson. That is real water damage in there,” she said, indignant.

“I did say some of the smaller chambers need work.”

“And I said that the extra beds were the reason I was so very interested.” She deliberately didn’t mention how perfectly the theatre built into the cliffs below suited her.

“The price must come down, if I am going to have to pay for these sorts of repairs, and even further to reflect the inconvenience. I told you of the list of young women I have waiting for my establishment to be up and running.”

“As I said, there are workmen to be found in the village.” The solicitor looked wry. “It’s one of the benefits of Mr. Chesil’s efforts to improve Shoring.”

“I must be particular about the sort of workmen I will allow around a household of impressionable young women.” Merritt raised a brow. “Your tone makes me wonder. Is it the workmen you object to? Or do you intimate that not everyone is enthusiastic about Mr. Chesil’s plans for the village?”

Jackson shrugged. “Not much they can do about it, if they aren’t. Now, as to your point about the price…” He beckoned, and they returned to the dining room, where he opened a file on the table.

They settled into a bout of intense but congenial haggling. Merritt, of course, finally came out victorious.

Shaking his head, Jackson handed over the keys. “I’ll adjust the final contract and bring it around for your signature, my lady.” Bowing, he grinned. “But first, I must salute you as a skilled opponent.”

She laughed. “You should have thrown in the flattery earlier, sir. Good day to you.”

As the solicitor departed, Merritt turned to the maid. “Fetch your notebook, Havers. It’s time we saw the best part.” They went out past the patio at the back of the house and along the flagstone path that led toward the cliff’s edge.

“It’s ever so high,” Havers whispered. But she looked out past the protruding stage below, beyond the rocky cliff face, to the stretch of blue sea and sky. “Ooh, but it is lovely, isn’t it?”

“Utterly lovely,” Merritt agreed. But as she started down the steps, her gaze fixed on the seats carved into the cliff itself, and the stage so ingeniously installed below, with the sea as a glorious backdrop. This. This was why she needed Cliffstone Cottage.

“I thought I heard something, my lady,” Havers called, looking back toward the house.

“Nonsense. It’s just the wind. Or a seabird. Come! I want to inspect the equipment, the backstage area, and the dressing rooms.”

They lit lanterns left at the bottom of the stairs, where the working parts of the theatre began, and set off to explore, taking notes of the stage equipment present and what might be needed, marveling at trunks of costumes and the imaginative ways that normal theatre apparatus had been modified for the unique environment.

Havers continued to twitch at every gust of wind, but Merritt was impressed.

“How clever,” she said, examining a large curtain frame that had been mounted on wheels and split in two. “Look beside you, Havers,” she said, pointing. “They’ve crafted a similar frame fitted with pulleys and sandbags for lifting scene sets.”

“Yes, ma’ am,” the maid said. Without a set piece attached, the sandbag hung at eye level, and she reached out to set it swinging. Suddenly, she cocked her head. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Merritt asked, counting shells for stage lights and making a note.

“Footsteps, my lady!” Havers sounded panicked. “Someone’s here! You don’t think it’s the ghost?”

“Why would a ghost make footsteps? I don’t hear anything. Relax, Havers.”

“Who’s there?” a voice boomed, dark and loud, echoing off the surrounding rock. “What are you doing here?”

A large figure appeared suddenly out of the shadows. Broad and powerful, it stepped into the space between them. It was enough to startle even Merritt. To Havers, already jittery, it was terrifying.

With an earsplitting shriek, the maid grabbed the sandbag hanging next to her and heaved it at the intruder.

“Oof!” It swung wide on its rope and hit him high on the chest, making him step back. The heel of his boot struck the wheeled base of the mobile curtain frame. Stumbling, he reached for the post of the frame, but it rolled away from his grip—and down he went, striking his head on the stone floor.

He didn’t move.

Gingerly, Merritt stepped closer. “Oh!” she gasped. “Blast it, Havers!”

The maid, standing wide-eyed with her hands over her mouth, dropped them. “Your ladyship!” she said, shocked at her mistress’s language.

“It’s the Duke of Belmont!”

“No! He’s dead, isn’t he?” Havers cried, shaking. “I’ve killed a duke of the realm!” She was descending toward hysterics. “I’ll hang, won’t I, my lady? I’ll hang for sure.”

At her feet, Belmont groaned. “He’s alive!” Merritt fell to her knees beside him. He groaned again and rolled his head. Relief flooded her. It was quickly pushed aside by appreciation.

What a specimen. How long he was, with lovely, broad shoulders and lean hips. Her fingers itched to explore the hard planes in between, but she ran a finger along the sharp blade of his jaw instead, then cupped his cheek in her palm. “Your Grace?”

He frowned, then his eyes blinked open. Lovely blue eyes speckled with starbursts of gold. He cast about then focused on her face—and the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile.

It struck her heart, that simple, honest smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and said that he was happy to see her. “Lady Merritt.”

He reached for her hand. At his touch, warmth surged somewhat…lower. “Your Grace, can you sit up?”

He frowned. “Sit up?” Lifting himself onto an elbow, he looked around. “Oh, yes. Cliffstone.” Wincing, he reached a hand to the back of his head.

Merritt strained to see. “Oh, goodness. That’s quite a lump. Are you sure you are all right?”

“Yes. Quite.” She helped him to sit up, and he frowned again. “I came to inspect the place. But what are you doing here?”

He sounded terse. Annoyed, almost. He had cause, not least of which was the swelling lump on his head. Still, it put her back up. “I own the place.”

“What place?” Blinking again, he stared. “Not Cliffstone?”

“Yes. This place.”

“No,” he said shortly, climbing to his feet.

“Yes,” she countered, following suit.

“Surely not. So quickly?”

She held up the ring of keys and made them jangle.

“I’ll speak to the solicitor.”

“The deal has been struck.” Now she was growing annoyed.

He sensed it, surely. Pausing, he looked her over. “I’ll pay you double.”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

“You don’t understand. I need this place.”

“As do I.” Frustration grew, along with a sense of dismay. But she shared none of it. She kept it all carefully locked inside, as she’d learned to do.

He was going to bluster. Push. Bully. And she was going to stand firm, as she had also learned to do.

But he didn’t flush with color, or thrust out his chest, or take any threatening steps toward her. Instead, he drew a breath, ran both hands through his hair, and nodded. “Tell me.”

She blinked. “I… What?”

“Tell me why you need it. If you will.”

“Will you tell me why you need it?” She heard the hint of belligerence in her tone and winced.

“Yes. If you will promise your discretion.”

“I’ll make the same request of you.”

“You have my word.”

Merritt tilted her head. “You think you can convince me to give it up? That your need is greater?”

“I think I have a chance.” He glanced over to Havers. “But I would prefer we speak privately. Shall we go up to the house?”

“No. We’ll stay put. Havers can head back up.”

“But my lady—” the maid protested.

“I’ll be safe enough with the duke.”

Grumbling, Havers departed, and Merritt led the way out of the shadowed backstage built into the cliffs and up to the first row of stone seats. “I warn you, you shan’t convince me, as I need Cliffstone, specifically this part, for my sister.” She waved her hand toward the stage.

“Your sister?”

“Lady Julia Hollidge. My younger sister.” She looked away from where the sun chased lighter threads in his dark hair to where it sparkled on the water. “She’s had a rough time of it for the last few years, but this”—she waved her hand again—“this will be the making of her.”

His brow was furrowed. “Hollidge? You are the earl’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“And he married you to Beving?”

She knew why he sounded incredulous. “Beving may have had a lesser title, but he possessed a greater fortune than ours—and a racing sire that my father greatly coveted.”

“So he sold you for a horse?”

“And a great deal of money.”

“But your sister is not married?”

“No. Not yet.”

“And for some reason, she needs a theatre in Devon?”

“She needs time. Support. The chance to know that others face troubles, too. And most importantly, she needs a project to focus on. She is mad for the theatre. Nothing will engage her passions or lift her spirits like this place.”