Page 7 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 6

T he wild sprite Max had encountered yesterday morning had disappeared.

The young lady who answered the door today was wearing a somber, dark green day dress. Her fair hair had been pulled back into a severe bun, but a handful of wayward locks had escaped their prison and were waving about her head in an untamed profusion of golden fluff, rather like a halo.

At least, he might have thought so, if she hadn’t nearly shot him less than twenty-four hours ago. There was, thankfully, no sign of the pistol today, but Miss St. Claire was no angel. He’d do well to remember that when she was smiling at him as she was right now, with those long, dark eyelashes, and rosebud pink lips.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace, Mr. Townsend.”

“How do you do, Miss St. Claire?” Townsend smiled and offered her a bow.

“I’m a trifle the worse for wear today, Mr. Townsend, but I daresay I’ll survive. It’s good of you to come so quickly, Your Grace.” She stood back from the doorway, gesturing them inside. “Do come in, won’t you?”

“So gracious, Miss St. Claire.” Max made his way over the threshold, Townsend on his heels. “I’d hardly know you as the same lady who nearly put a pistol ball in my foot yesterday morning.”

“You entered my home without an invitation yesterday morning, Your Grace, and as you can see, my door is rather the worse for wear for it.” She didn’t look at him, but busied herself with the rope, looping it back through the hole and tying the other end around the banister. “I’d just as soon keep it from suffering the same fate again today. One needs one’s door during the winters in Fairford. It’s rather cold out, you see.”

Townsend cast him a horrified look. “ You broke down Miss St. Claire’s door?”

Heat rushed into Max’s cheeks. Damn it, he’d been hoping that wouldn’t come up. “I didn’t intend to cause any . . . I thought the house was abandoned.”

Townsend stared at him for an instant, mouth agape, then quickly schooled his features into bland expressionlessness. “Of course, Your Grace. I’m certain anyone else would have smashed the door to bits, had they been in your place.”

For all Townsend’s deference, the man had rather a knack for making him look a proper arse, didn’t he? “I beg your pardon for my unexpected appearance here yesterday morning, Miss St. Claire. I assure you I don’t make a habit of breaking down strangers’ doors. I truly didn’t think the house was occupied.”

Miss St. Claire had not, it seemed, expected an apology from him. Her eyebrows rose, and she blinked up at him with those clear, green eyes. The chit had the most damnably innocent face he’d ever seen. No doubt more than one gentleman had been taken in by that face, that winsome smile.

Not him , of course, but other, less cautious gentlemen.

“Your apology is accepted, Your Grace. Perhaps the less said about yesterday’s unfortunate incident, the better.” She led them from the entryway down the hallway, still strangely familiar to him, even after all these years. If one discounted the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpets, that is.

“The drawing room is rather chilly in the mornings, I’m afraid.” She turned from the hallway into a drafty drawing room with worn draperies at the windows. “I believe you’re acquainted with Sir Richard, Mr. Townsend.”

A diminutive gentleman with a kind face and neatly brushed brown hair rose from a seat near the fireplace. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Townsend.”

Townsend nodded. “Good day, Sir Richard.”

“Your Grace, this is Sir Richard Mildmay. Sir Richard, this is the Duke of Grantham.” Miss St. Claire settled into a chair beside a table where a tea tray had been set out. “Sir Richard is the executor of my father’s—that is, Mr. St. Claire’s will, Your Grace.”

Max had been about to seat himself on a rather dusty-looking settee, but he froze halfway down, his arse hovering over the cushions. “Executor?”

Sir Richard nodded. “Yes, indeed. How do you do, Your Grace?”

How did he do ? Well, that depended on what Sir Richard had to say, didn’t it? “I wasn’t aware Mr. St. Claire had left a will. I was given to understand his death was rather sudden. A fall down the stairs, I believe?”

“The fall precipitated his untimely end, yes.” Sir Richard took a sip of his tea, then set the cup aside with a sigh. “Dreadfully unfortunate, as anyone who had the pleasure of Mr. St. Claire’s acquaintance must agree.”

Not everyone, but Max kept that thought to himself.

“It was a lung complaint that took him off in the end,” Sir Richard went on. “It’s not uncommon, Your Grace, for patients who suffer paralysis to struggle with subsequent infections of the lungs, or so the doctor informed us.”

Paralysis? Dear God. He was no friend of Ambrose St. Claire’s—he’d wanted him dead for decades if the truth were known—yet he wouldn’t wish such an awful death on anyone. Not even, as it turned out, his worst enemy. “He lost the use of his limbs?”

Oddly, Max found himself addressing this question to Miss St. Claire, but she was intent on rearranging the tea tray, and it was Sir Richard who answered him. “I’m afraid so, yes.”

“I see.” Did he really, though? Could anyone who hadn’t experienced it truly understand what it was like to lose someone in the blink of an eye? His mother had suffered a long illness before her death, and his father’s death had hardly been a surprise. He’d died long before his body had expired.

For an instant, it was as if something heavy had fallen on his chest, but he took a deep breath and shook it off. It was a tragic tale, certainly, but there were some who might insist Ambrose had reaped what he’d sown, in the end.

“There’s no money to speak of, Your Grace,” Sir Richard went on. “Mr. St. Claire’s will addresses the matter of the house and property only.”

Max didn’t give a damn about the money. Whatever coins Ambrose had managed to scrape together were sure to be no more than the merest pittance to him. Miss St. Claire was welcome to all of it. Hammond Court was the only thing that mattered to him.

“As for the estate, as you can see, Your Grace, it’s sadly diminished.” Sir Richard waved a hand around the drawing room, indicating the meager fire and the tattered furnishings. “Mr. St. Claire’s business sustained some unfortunate losses over the past few years. What little money there was disappeared rather quickly, and most of the servants along with it.”

That was hardly surprising. Ambrose had been a gamester by profession, and he’d never made the sort of fortune necessary to maintain a house like Hammond Court. Even if he hadn’t been injured in a fall, the house likely would have gone to ruin. It had been the height of foolishness for him to wager against Max’s father for it in the first place.

But Max didn’t say so. He may not care much for Rose St. Claire, but he could at least pay her the courtesy of not abusing her dead, er . . . father-ish figure to her face.

“I daresay you don’t realize this, Your Grace, but Mr. St. Claire greatly lamented the rift between your families. His intentions in procuring Hammond Court were pure, but—”

“Pure!” The exclamation burst from Max’s lips before he had a chance to bite it back. “Do you call cheating a dearest friend out of his home pure , Sir Richard?”

Sir Richard stilled, his gaze resting on Max’s face. “Ambrose St. Claire was no cheat, Your Grace. I’d be happy to provide you with the facts of that transaction someday when you’re ready to hear them, but perhaps now isn’t the best time to go into the details of the misunderstanding between him and your father.”

Not now, and not ever. Miss St. Claire and Sir Richard may ascribe some selfless motive to Ambrose’s actions, but he knew better. He’d known who Ambrose St. Claire was for years, since those cold, starless nights he’d spent in the dark outside Hammond Court, watching the celebrations he’d once been a part of carry on without him.

Year after year, every bloody Christmas.

There was no word to describe how he’d felt on those nights, no word that could capture such profound loneliness.

And, as the years dragged by, one after the next, such profound hatred.

“Suffice it to say, Your Grace,” Sir Richard went on, “that Mr. St. Claire had his share of regrets, and wished to make amends.”

Ah, now that did sound promising. Max slid to the edge of the settee, shooting a glance at Miss St. Claire. She was no longer fussing with the tea tray. No, she was looking right at him, her face carefully blank.

But her eyes . . .

The sun had chosen that moment to struggle through the heavy clouds, and a stream of weak light found its way past the worn draperies. It fell upon her, illuminating the fine, white skin of her brow, the riot of golden curls that framed her face, and her eyes, that deep, fathomless green gone dark with some turbulent emotion he couldn’t read.

Anger, perhaps, or was it grief? Before he could decipher it, the light receded, ducking back behind the clouds, and the shadows once again hid her expression.

“. . . obviously cared deeply for Miss St. Claire. Blood ties notwithstanding, no one could ever have been more of a daughter to Mr. St. Claire than she was, and of course, he knew very well how much she loves this house.” Sir Richard smiled sadly. “He was the one who taught her to love it.”

For God’s sake, at this rate they’d be here all afternoon. “Forgive me, Sir Richard, but if we might get on with it? Did Ambrose leave the house to me, or to Miss St. Claire?”

“Well, that’s the issue at hand, Your Grace.” Sir Richard didn’t elaborate right away, instead choosing that moment to help himself to more tea, fussing about with the spoon and sugar bowl until Max was ready to explode with impatience. “It’s a rather unusual division of assets. I confess I’ve never seen anything quite like—”

“For God’s sake, man, will you just say it?” Except . . . had Sir Richard said division of assets? Division . That seemed rather an odd word in this context, unless—

No. Dear God, no. He hadn’t, had he? He wouldn’t , would he? Without realizing it, Max had shot to his feet. “You can’t possibly mean he—”

“Has left the house to you both? That’s precisely what I mean, Your Grace.”

Sir Richard settled back against his chair, his teacup balanced on his knee, as if he hadn’t just shattered Max’s world into a million tiny pieces with one sentence.

He dropped back down onto the settee, stunned, unable to utter a single word.

Nor was he the only one. The drawing room was silent. Sir Richard had returned his attention to his tea, Townsend was glancing between Max and Miss St. Claire, wringing his hands, and Miss St. Claire . . .

Was she smiling ?

By God, she was, the corners of those pink, rosebud lips curled ever so slightly upward. Before he knew what he was about, he was on his feet again and across the room, standing over her chair. “Do you find this amusing , Miss St. Claire?”

She glanced up at him, surprised. “I hardly know how I find it, Your Grace.”

“You mean to make me believe you didn’t already know about this?” She was such a pretty little liar, wasn’t she? “Ambrose died more than a week ago, Miss St. Claire. Do you expect me to believe you hadn’t read his will before today?”

“I daresay you’ll find this difficult to believe, Your Grace, but it wasn’t a task I was anticipating with any pleasure, and in any case, I don’t enjoy the sort of leisure afforded to an aristocrat such as yourself. I’ve been busy, you see, what with the recent cold snap and the snowfall, and now the broken front door. It takes rather a lot of one’s time, surviving.”

Sir Richard spoke up then. “I can assure you, Your Grace, that Miss St. Claire is only just now hearing the terms of the will, the same as you are. After she saw the note Mr. St. Claire sent you, she thought it only fair you both hear it at the same time.”

“Oh, yes, she’s every inch the fair-minded and devoted daughter, isn’t she? So good, so virtuous she’s contrived to steal half my house from me!”

“Your Grace!” Sir Richard gaped at him, aghast. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head and sit down if you please. I won’t have you looming over Miss St. Claire in that threatening manner.”

“ Me , threaten her ? I’ll have you know she nearly blew my foot to bits yesterday morn—”

Before he could get another word out, Miss St. Claire made a choked sound, and then, without warning, she covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, dear.” Townsend jumped to his feet and hurried across the room. “There, there, Miss St. Claire,” he murmured, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m sure His Grace didn’t mean—”

“Yes, I bloody did. I meant every word of it.” He had meant it, too, but . . .

Well, perhaps he hadn’t needed to shout it quite so forcefully, because now Miss St. Claire was making soft, whimpering noises, and her shoulders were shaking. Soon enough, she’d commence wailing, and that wouldn’t do.

A young lady’s tears were diabolical things, and enough to unman even a heartless duke like himself. “I, ah, I spoke too hastily. I beg your pardon, Miss St. Claire. I shouldn’t have—”

That was as far as he got, because she dropped her hands then, and threw her head back, the oddest sound emanating from her lips. It wasn’t wailing—that is, it was loud, and her face was as red as a peony, her pretty features distorted and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, but it was higher in pitch, a light, joyful sound, almost like—

“Dear God, are you laughing ?” Had the chit gone mad? “What the devil are you laughing about?”

“It’s just, it’s . . . it’s so Ambrose , isn’t it?” She slapped a hand over her mouth, gasping, but there was no stifling the merriment. “Why, if he could have found a way to do it, he would have divided Hammond Court right down the middle!”

Sir Richard let out a chuckle. “Ambrose never much troubled himself with convention, did he? He didn’t do things the way most people do, that much is certain, and he did love a prank, did Ambrose.”

“A prank ? Is that what you call this?” For God’s sake, couldn’t they see this was a disaster? What the devil was he meant to do with half a house?

“Come now, Your Grace.” Miss St. Claire peered up at him, her green eyes twinkling. “You must admit it’s a novel solution. Ambrose was nothing if not creative.”

He stared at her, flummoxed. She was part owner of a ramshackle house that was one stiff wind away from collapsing entirely—a house she couldn’t afford to repair, much less maintain, and she’d be obliged to share it with a duke who didn’t find her nearly as charming as everyone else did.

Given her circumstances, Miss St. Claire didn’t have much reason to be twinkling.

Then again, now he considered it, what had she really lost? She might remain at Hammond Court as long as she liked now. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, and now he bore partial responsibility for the burden and expenses of the place.

A neat trick, that.

Unless, of course, he decided to tear his half of the house down and leave her with the carcass. God knew it would serve Ambrose right, for putting him in this ridiculous situation.

“I’m certain you and His Grace have quite a lot to discuss. I’ll take my leave now, Miss St. Claire.” Sir Richard reached for her hand. “Permit me to express once again, my dear young friend, my deepest sympathies for your loss. I’ll miss Ambrose dreadfully. He was a wonderful friend to me, and truly one of a kind.”

Max smothered a snort. One of a kind, yes. A liar and thief in a class of his own.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss St. Claire, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.” Sir Richard gulped down the last of his tea and rose to his feet, but he paused on his way to the door to turn a stern eye on Max. “One last thing, Your Grace. The will stipulates that neither owner may threaten or coerce the other into forfeiting their share in the house.”

Was tearing down half the house considered coercion?

“If either of you attempts to take the house by any nefarious means,” Sir Richard added, “you will forfeit your share, and the entirety of the house will revert to the other.”

“And how, Sir Richard, does one define nefarious in this context? Who decides whether an action is nefarious?” Mightn’t there be a little room to bend the rules, after all?

Sir Richard plopped his hat onto his head. “I do, Your Grace.”

No, no room. Not even the thinnest margin, the merest sliver of room.

Damn Ambrose. The scoundrel was likely looking up at him from his place in hell and laughing his head off.

“Good day, Miss St. Claire, Mr. Townsend.” Sir Richard gave Max a grim smile. “Your Grace.”

Then he was gone, and Max, Townsend, and Miss St. Claire were left gaping silently at each other, frozen in place like a trio of waxed figures, until finally, Max cleared his throat. “I wish to have a word with Miss St. Claire in private, Townsend. Wait for me in the drive.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Townsend jumped to his feet with the alacrity of a man who’d slipped a noose and vanished through the drawing room door.

But once Max and Miss St. Claire were alone, he found himself at a loss for words. He knew how to order people about—his servants, the scores of gentlemen who owed him money, or were otherwise indebted to him to some degree or other, his mistresses—but when was the last time he’d asked someone for something?

Years. No, decades.

He’d do well to tread carefully. That pistol could make a reappearance at any time. “Perhaps it would be best if we simply got down to the business at hand, Miss St. Claire.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She folded her hands in her lap, her face giving nothing away. “I’m listening.”