Page 13 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he solicitor’s office towered over the square, its leaded glass windows narrow and dark. Inside, the air was cold, dry, filled with pipe smoke and sealing wax. Dust clung to the corners, avoiding the polished oak. Lydia admired the setting. It was a stage, and she meant to own the performance.

She let Caldwell see her as she was: a wrinkled crimson skirt from travel, muddy boots, a lock of hair loose. Maximilian followed, immaculate as always, his face unreadable. The countess had stayed back at the inn. The solicitor stood at their entrance.

“Miss Montague. Your Grace,” the solicitor's voice rasped. He gestured to the leather chairs, their arms worn by generations of anxious hands .

“Mr. Caldwell,” Lydia said, seating herself. His gaze slid over her boots, lingered on the mud, then retreated.

His smile was practiced, hollow. “I trust your journey was tolerable? These roads can be treacherous.”

“Less so with proper escort,” Lydia replied, flicking a look at Maximilian. “But we are not here to discuss rural engineering.”

Caldwell bowed his head, shuffled a stack of parchment, and produced a single sheet. “You have come regarding the Montague estate?”

“And to confirm the terms of my aunt’s will.” Lydia leaned in, noting the way his lips thinned at the mention of Eugenia.

Maximilian adjusted his cuff, silent but pointed.

“The will is conventional,” Caldwell said. “The estate is yours, pending survey and inventory. There are encumbrances—minor debts, parish obligations—but nothing to impede transfer.”

“And the east wing?” Lydia asked. “Your letter was silent on that. Yet the housekeeper has long insisted it was unfit for habitation.”

Caldwell’s smile collapsed. “I am no engineer. I deal in documents, not mortar. ”

“Then speak to the documents,” Lydia pressed. “Or are the locked rooms a trade secret?”

He shuffled papers without purpose. “The east wing was sealed years ago. Repairs were begun, then abandoned. Likely a matter of funds.”

“Funds were not lacking,” Maximilian said quietly. “Lady Eugenia’s letters suggest another cause.”

Annoyance flickered across Caldwell’s face before the mask returned. “The last owner was… unconventional.”

“An understatement,” Lydia said. “I have read the inventory. Curious, is it not? Missing silver, vanished Ledbury armchairs, gaps in the library catalog. Heirlooms do not simply vanish.”

His fingers tapped the desk. “Servants help themselves. Items lost in transit. Sold to cover debts. It happens.”

“But the east wing is locked,” Lydia countered. “How do heirlooms walk out of locked rooms?”

Caldwell paled. “There is no intent to deceive. The estate is ancient; records are older still. We do our best?—”

“I am sure you do,” Lydia cut in, her smile sharp. “But your best is not enough. I will see the house tomorrow. If terms are misrepresented, I will take it to the magistrate.”

The clock in the corner seemed to hold its breath.

Maximilian leaned forward, tone steady. “Mr. Caldwell, if you have more to say, now is the time.”

Caldwell wet his lips. “Rumors. The staff is unsettled. Figures in the east wing, noises at night. Lady Eugenia dismissed them, but the rooms remain sealed. I am not able to speak beyond that.”

“Who is?” Lydia asked.

“No one. The steward is dead. The rest dispersed.”

Maximilian Ashcombe commanded a room. The solicitor’s office, walnut-paneled and steeped in intimidation, was no exception. He let Lydia spar with Caldwell, admiring her precision, until he decided the duel had gone on long enough.

He rose slowly, his height asserting itself in deliberate increments. His hands settled on the desk with finality, silencing even the clock.

“Mr. Caldwell,” he said, his voice resonant with command. “Miss Montague deserves full transparency regarding her inheritance. You will not insult either of us with evasion.”

Caldwell swallowed, eyes flicking between Maximilian, Lydia, and the door. His fingers worried the papers, as if the truth might flutter free if he shuffled fast enough. “Of course, Your Grace. It is only... these files... there have been some difficulties.”

Lydia, startled by Maximilian’s intervention but unwilling to show it, hid her irritation behind a cool smile. She did not need rescuing, but Caldwell was already unraveling beneath the Duke’s gaze.

“Difficulties?” Maximilian asked, his stare unblinking.

Caldwell dabbed at his brow, leaving damp marks on the parchment. “Records were lost in transit. The clerk responsible was dismissed, but gaps remain. I am working to?—”

“Are you,” Lydia cut in, her tone sharp, “because it seems every record tied to the east wing or to missing assets has conveniently vanished. Is this how your office treats its clients?”

Caldwell’s color ebbed. “No intent to deceive, I assure you. These are ancient documents. Copying errors, recent upheavals...”

Maximilian leaned in, filling the space with calm authority. “You will produce what records you have. All of them. Even those you would prefer we not see.”

The solicitor’s hands trembled as he dragged forward three battered ledgers and a red-tied folder. “You may review these. If I locate the missing files, I will notify you immediately. Perhaps we might arrange another meeting?”

“Do,” Maximilian said, the single syllable cold.

Lydia reached across and plucked the folder before Caldwell could reconsider. “We will let you know what we find. Expect a full accounting by week’s end.”

Caldwell tried to rise, thought better of it, and subsided. His eyes darted between them, searching in vain for mercy.

Lydia turned and left, ledgers under her arm. Maximilian lingered long enough to give Caldwell a nod before following.

On the threshold, Lydia muttered, “I can handle a country solicitor perfectly well without ducal interference.”

He offered her a half-smile. “I know. But I enjoy assisting.”

She scowled, though not with true anger. “You do not need to rescue me.”

His answer was quiet. “It was not you I meant to protect. It was the truth.”

She weighed that, then gave one firm nod.

Together they crossed the square, ledgers heavy in her arms, morning sharpened with purpose. Lydia felt anticipation spark. This was only the beginning. Caldwell had seen their teeth, but he had yet to feel their bite.

A sharp wind scoured the square, rattling signs and snapping the flag above the town hall. Lydia paced the curb, her crimson skirt tangled with dust, boots slapping the cobblestones. She made no effort to disguise her agitation.

“He is hiding something,” she said at last, halting before Maximilian, her feet planted, arms crossed. “Did you see how he dodged every question about the east wing? As if the former owners were broken furniture instead of people.”

“I saw,” Maximilian replied. “He is not merely inept. He is afraid. Of what you might uncover, or of you. Perhaps both.”

Lydia smiled without warmth. “I mean to find out.”

“You do not require my protection, but allow me to give it anyway.” Almost an apology, but not quite.

“No,” she agreed, eyes narrowed. “I do not. Though I appreciate your help.”

He inclined his head. “I do not regret stepping in.”

Her expression softened a fraction. “You are better at intimidation than I am, but worse at subterfuge. Next time, let me handle the words until something needs breaking.”

“I yield to your expertise,” he said, managing a faint smile.

They walked on, Lydia setting a brisk pace as if daring him to match it. “I want to see the estate today,” she pressed. “Before Caldwell has time to scrub more history from his ledgers.”

“He will try,” Maximilian warned. “And he may succeed—briefly.”

She spun to walk backward, chin high. “Not with us.”

At the inn’s lane, she stopped beneath the creaking sign, exhaling her temper. “Do you think it is haunted?” Her tone held genuine curiosity.

“Not in the usual sense,” he said after a beat. “But houses, like people, remember what they wish to forget.”

She liked the thought, though she kept it to herself. “Are you ready for whatever waits?”

His shrug carried steel. “If you are.”

“I was born ready. Or born incapable of refusing a dare.”

He offered his arm. She took it—not from need, but because it was easier to walk side by side .

Inside, the inn’s public room was nearly empty, save for a boy sweeping ashes. Lydia ignored him, heading straight to the private parlor with the ledgers. Maximilian shut the door behind them.

For the next hour, they pored over records, silence broken only by Lydia’s snorts of disbelief and hissed curses when numbers refused to align. Inventories cut short, staff rosters scrubbed, ledgers with entire years missing—as if the estate had gone dormant by design.

“It is a mess,” she muttered, stabbing at a column. “Someone erased every inconvenient detail.”

“And Caldwell expects us to accept it,” Maximilian said, voice edged with disdain.

Lydia drummed her fingers. “If you were him, what would you do?”

“Pray you did not take offense,” he answered, closing the ledger.

She grinned, the first true smile of the day. “Too late.”

They planned how to question the caretaker, how to inspect the sealed wing without betraying their mistrust. Lydia rehearsed what she intended to say. Maximilian offered corrections, most of which she waved aside.

They bickered over whether red riding boots were too conspicuous. She insisted, he conceded—until midday found them ready.

At the inn’s threshold, Lydia paused, hands on hips. “Do you regret it yet?”

He shook his head. “Not a single day since London.”

She let the words hang, her heat giving an involuntary flutter, then strode into the street, boots striking a frantic rhythm. Maximilian watched her a moment, then followed.

Together they walked toward the unknown, conspirators wrapped in silk and certainty. Whatever ghosts or schemes haunted the estate, they would meet them head-on, and, if Lydia had her way, leave them sorry they ever tried to stand in her path.