Page 8 of The Duke’s Christmas Bride (Drop Dead Dukes #3)

C HAPTER 7

“H ammond Court has been in my mother’s family for nearly a century, Miss St. Claire. My maternal great-great-grandfather built it, and it was my mother’s childhood home. I spent the early part of my boyhood here, and I have a strong, er . . . emotional attachment to it.”

Miss St. Claire said nothing. She simply waited, those clear green eyes fixed on his face, eyebrows aloft.

She might twitch those judgmental eyebrows at him all she liked, but he’d told her the truth. He did have a powerful emotional attachment to Hammond Court. There was no need for her to know that emotion was hatred. “I wish to have it back. All of it. I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for your share of it.”

For a long, fraught moment she gazed at him, but then she shook her head. “I’m afraid my share of Hammond Court is not for sale, Your Grace.”

“Nonsense, Miss St. Claire. Everything is for sale.”

“Not this house.”

“Of course, this house. It’s merely a matter of agreeing on the price.”

“How unsurprising you are, Your Grace. Ambrose warned me you’d try and make this all about money, and here we are.”

Money? How absurd. He didn’t give a damn about the money. No, this was about something far more important than money.

It was about revenge .

“There are some things that can’t be bought,” she added.

Bollocks. Everything could be bought, including revenge. He’d bought it himself, dozens of times over. All those boys at Eton who used to sneer at him? Their bloated fathers, who’d ridiculed his father, and spat upon the Grantham name? He owned them now, both the fathers and the sons. If he ordered them to crawl across England on their knees, they’d do it. “So provincial, Miss St. Claire. I’m not sure whether to find your na?veté charming, or pitiful.”

Once again, she didn’t reply, and after a moment of silence, he went on. “Did Ambrose also tell you he stole this house out from under my father when he wasn’t in his right mind?”

“No. He told me he saved it.”

“ Saved it?” He jerked back, stung. That was . . . well, damned if there wasn’t an uncomfortable grain of truth to that interpretation. The better part of his father’s mind had completely given way to the ravages of the bottle at the time of the wager. There was no telling what might have become of Hammond Court if Ambrose hadn’t taken it.

But there’d been nothing noble about it. Ambrose had simply seen a golden opportunity to snatch up a valuable piece of property for himself, and he’d seized it. “You can’t mean to say you believed such nonsense?”

“Why shouldn’t I have believed it? He saved me and my mother, after all.” She gave him a look that was almost pitying. “That’s what Ambrose did , Your Grace. He saved the people and things he loved.”

“So, Ambrose was the great hero, saving my father from himself? You’re aware Ambrose was a gamester, are you not, Miss St. Claire? A professional wagerer.”

She inclined her head. “Of course, I’m aware. He didn’t keep secrets from me, Your Grace.”

“I see. Then you must also be aware that several years ago, the Earl of Renard accused Ambrose of cheating him out of a substantial sum of money?” There. Perhaps that would shatter her damnable calm.

But Miss St. Claire didn’t so much as twitch. “Those accusations were the rantings of a gentleman unhappy over losing his fortune. Nothing ever came of it.”

He leaned forward, bitterness flooding his mouth like venom, choking him. “I hate to disillusion you, Miss St. Claire, but Ambrose was no knight in shining armor. He was no hero. He was a thief . ”

“He was nothing of the sort, but I suppose it’s easier for you to imagine it thus.” She cocked her head, her gaze never leaving his face. “Let’s be frank with each other, shall we, Your Grace?”

At last, they were getting somewhere. “By all means, Miss St. Claire.”

“Your father agreed to wager for Hammond Court. It seems quite a foolish thing to me, to wager on something so substantial as a house and several hundred acres of property, but they wagered, and your father lost. Is that your understanding as well, Your Grace, or have I missed something?”

Ambrose had taught her well, hadn’t he? It was a perfectly accurate summary of the circumstances, but as with most things, the facts alone didn’t paint the full picture. “My father was incapacitated at the time, half out of his mind with grief over my mother’s death.”

“Out of his mind with drink, too, I believe, and Hammond Court wasn’t the first property he’d lost.”

He stiffened. It was true, devil take her. “If you mean he wasn’t in a fit state to wager a bloody thing, then yes.”

“Yet he wagered nonetheless.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “And just like so many gentlemen before him who engage in an ill-considered wager, he lost.”

“Ambrose was my father’s friend , Miss St. Claire. My father trusted him, only to find himself maneuvered out of his deceased wife’s childhood home—a home she loved, and that he loved for her sake.”

Her gaze wandered past him, to the window. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. “What of you, Your Grace? Did you love it, as well?”

“I did once.” A long time ago, when he’d still known how to love something.

“And now?”

“Come, Miss St. Claire. For all your innocence, even you must realize love can turn to hate in the space of a single heartbeat. They’re but different sides of the same coin.”

“No, Your Grace, they’re not. A flip of a coin is a matter of chance. Neither love nor hate happens by chance—they’re things one chooses . They’re nothing at all like the flip of a coin.”

“Is that so? Very well, Miss St. Claire. What are they, then, if not a coin? Astonish me.”

She thought for a moment, then, “A pendulum, I suppose, or something like it, where each side exists in balance with the other.”

He laughed, but it was as if the sound had been wrenched from his chest, torn out from under his breastbone. “How fanciful, but I prefer my analogy. Tell me, though. If they are a pendulum, what lies in the middle, and keeps the balance between them?”

Her eyes held his. “Forgiveness.”

“Is that your way of saying I should forgive Ambrose? It would be the proper thing to do, I suppose, with him dead and buried now, but I beg you will excuse me. Ambrose ruined my father—ruined my family. Nothing was ever the same after he stole Hammond Court from us.” He’d never been the same. “I’ll never forgive him for what he did.”

If she had even a trace of proper feeling, such a declaration should have brought her to tears, but her face remained expressionless, the only sign of agitation a few rapid blinks of those pretty green eyes. “Let me understand you, Your Grace. Because your father was in his cups at the time of the wager, you feel as if you’re entitled to my share of Hammond Court?”

“Entitled? Hardly. I’d pay you handsomely for your—”

“It’s not that surprising, really,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Feeling entitled to things that don’t belong to them is, I believe, a common malady among the aristocracy.”

He stared at her, speechless. That was . . . she was . . . by God, it had been years—no, decades —since anyone had spoken so insolently to him. He was the Duke of bloody Grantham, for God’s sake, one of the wealthiest peers in England, known for his ruthlessness, and this little speck of a blond-haired chit that resembled nothing so much as a woodland sprite dared to insult him?

God above, who was this girl?

He already knew the answer to that question, didn’t he? She may not be of Ambrose’s flesh, but she was his , every inch of her. She was just like him, cold down to her marrow.

But even Ambrose’s daughter was no match for him. He’d crushed dozens of wealthy, influential noblemen under his boot heel, and he’d made quick work of her, too. “You may call it whatever you like, Miss St. Claire, but I will have this house back, one way or another.”

“Is that a threat, Your Grace?”

It was, yes. A subtle one, but a threat nevertheless, and if she had any sense at all, it would have been enough to send her scurrying up the stairs to pack her bags, but she remained where she was, a picture of unruffled, ladylike calm. “It wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly of me to threaten a young lady, would it, Miss St. Claire?”

“That’s not a denial, Your Grace. Still, I appreciate your frankness. Permit me to be equally frank. You may do as you will, but I warn you.” Her green eyes had gone dark, a storm brewing in their depths. “I haven’t the least intention of turning Hammond Court over to you simply because you demand it.”

No, no doubt she wouldn’t, but the girl had no idea the sort of resources he had at his disposal, nor did she understand how relentless he could be. “Since half of Hammond Court is now mine, perhaps I’ll move in.” He settled back against the settee, crossing one booted foot over the other knee. “Unless, of course, you have an objection, Miss St. Claire?”

She would object, of course, and rather strenuously. Proper young ladies didn’t put themselves in the clutches of unmarried gentlemen, particularly not those with his reputation for ruthlessness.

But she only gave him a bland smile. “None whatsoever, Your Grace. I’ll see to it Ambrose’s bedchamber is made ready for you. It’s a nice one, you see, the finest in the house, and all the windows are intact.”

“No concern for your reputation, then?” He studied the tip of his boot, frowning at the damp stains. “I daresay the village of Fairford will have a good deal to say about the two of us living alone together in this house.”

She shrugged. “It’s kind of you to be concerned for me, Your Grace, but I’ve never troubled myself much over village gossip. Let them talk, if they must.”

Good Lord. She had an answer for everything, didn’t she? “Come, Miss St. Claire, enough of this nonsense. Since you appreciate frankness, allow me to point out the obvious.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She gave him an encouraging nod. “Please do.”

“This house is tumbling down around your ears.” He waved a hand around the drawing room, indicating the bare windows and shabby furniture, the fire stuttering in the grate. “You haven’t got the funds to repair it.”

She stiffened, her hands clenching in her lap. “You don’t know a thing about my—”

“Your financial situation? Of course, I do, Miss St. Claire. Do you suppose I would come all the way to Fairford before I had possession of all the facts? I was well aware Ambrose had died without a penny to his name, even before Sir Richard confirmed it.”

“How dare you pry into our—”

“I think you’d be shocked at what I’d dare, Miss St. Claire. You may argue all you like, but we both know you can neither afford to repair the house, nor continue to live in it as it is.”

“I don’t see why not. I’m living in it now, am I not?”

“Three of the bedchamber windows on the third floor are cracked, Miss St. Claire. The front door is, er . . . compromised, the roof looks as if it’s a stiff wind from caving in, and I can feel the damp seeping into my bones after an hour in your drawing room. It’s only a matter of time before you’ll be forced to leave, and then what do you intend to do? Where will you go, without any money?”

A frigid smile rose to her lips. “You’ll forgive me, Your Grace, if I don’t choose to confide in you.”

“Very well, but be aware I’m prepared to offer you enough money to enable you to live quite comfortably wherever you wish. I daresay you’d find plenty of diversions to amuse you in London. Or the Continent, perhaps?”

She’d likely never set foot outside of Fairford before, but Miss St. Claire didn’t look in the least tempted by his offer. “Tell me, Your Grace. If you do take possession of Hammond Court, what do you intend to do with it? You already have Grantham Lodge. What do you need with another estate in the same neighborhood?”

“Forgive me if I don’t choose to confide in you, Miss St. Claire.”

She studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod, as if he’d somehow confirmed precisely what she’d expected, without his having said a word. “You intend to tear it down, despite your purportedly deep sentimental attachment to it.”

He did, indeed, if it didn’t collapse first. He wanted to be free of it—for it to be gone, so he never had to think of it again. But he didn’t say so. Instead, he gave her his haughtiest look. “What I intend to do with it is no concern of yours, Miss St. Claire.”

“It might not be if this were merely a house to me, but it isn’t.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s my home.”

Those three words, so softly spoken, struck him in the center of his chest, but he pushed the swell of emotion away. Hammond Court had been his mother’s home once, and his own home, too, but in the end, that had meant precisely nothing. “There are other houses, Miss St. Claire. Ones with proper fireplaces, and without cracked windows.”

She shook her head, but she didn’t bother arguing, and instead rose to her feet. “I thank you for your visit, Your Grace. I trust I won’t be the recipient of any further surprise calls from you.”

“Is it a call, Miss St. Claire, if I’m half owner of the house?”

She didn’t answer, and there was nothing more for him to do then but follow her into the entryway and take his leave. But if she thought she’d be rid of him so easily, she was very much mistaken.

He’d only just begun.

He offered Miss St. Claire a curt bow and made his way toward the entrance hall and out the door. It was snowing still, harder than it had been earlier, the flurries so thick he could only just make out Townsend huddled under the eaves, waiting for him. “I don’t think Miss St. Claire much cares for me, Townsend.”

“No. Not much, Your Grace.”

They picked their way over the ice, Max’s boots slipping with every step. “She seems to find you tolerable enough, however.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Townsend agreed dutifully, skidding along behind him.

“Do you fancy marrying her, Townsend? It would be one way for me to get my hands on Hammond Court.” Max paused, straddling a particularly deep, icy puddle. That wasn’t a bad idea, now he thought of it. It was diabolical, yes, but then the best ideas generally were.

If Miss St. Claire married, the house would become her husband’s property. No man of any sense would refuse to sell to him, particularly not at the sum he’d offer.

The skidding behind him stopped, and Townsend cleared his throat nervously. “Er, I don’t think Mrs. Townsend would like that, Your Grace.”

“There’s a Mrs. Townsend?”

“Yes, Your Grace, for nearly ten years now.”

“Well, how exceedingly inconvenient of you, Townsend.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, as does Mrs. Townsend.”

Max grunted. Townsend’s begging didn’t solve the problem at hand, did it? Miss St. Claire still owned half his house.

No matter. He’d find a way to take it from her.

He always had his way, in the end.

* * *

As soon as the duke was gone, Rose flew up the stairs and into Abby’s bedchamber, where Abby was waiting for her.

Abby leaped up from the bed. “What happened? What did Sir Richard say?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s a trifle concerning, Abby.” That was one way of putting it. Another way was that it was an utter catastrophe.

“I thought as much, what with that slack-jawed look of yours. Go on, then.” Abby waved a hand. “Let’s have the worst of it.”

“Ambrose has left Hammond Court to the Duke of Grantham.”

Abby’s jaw dropped open. “You mean to say Ambrose has left you homeless ? No, I don’t believe a word of it. There must be some mistake. We must fetch Sir Richard back this instant, and—”

“No, no. Ambrose hasn’t abandoned me, Abby. He wouldn’t do such a thing. No, it seems that Ambrose has left Hammond Court to me, and to the Duke of Grantham.”

Abby’s eyes went so wide they nearly dropped out of her head. “I—what? I don’t understand.”

“He’s, ah . . . well, in essence, he’s left Hammond Court to both of us. Together ,” Rose added, in case the ghastliness of it wasn’t entirely clear.

She’d expected wailing, rending of clothing, and perhaps another brandishing of the hairbrush upon delivery of this news, but the explosion never came. Abby regarded her in silence for a moment, then she marched across the room and began snatching armfuls of clothing from the clothes press. “Go to your bedchamber and gather your things, Rose, while I run and fetch Billy, and tell him to ready the wagon for us.”

“The wagon? Whatever for?”

“Why, we’re going to stay with Mrs. Sullivan in Cirencester, of course.”

“Cirencester! You know I can’t leave Hammond Court, Abby.”

Abby crossed her arms over her chest, her chin jutting out. “I don’t know any such thing.”

Dash it. She knew the stubborn thrust of that chin. “The instant I set a toe outside the door, he’ll find a way to make certain I never return.”

Perhaps the Duke of Grantham wasn’t the ruthless scoundrel everyone claimed he was. Perhaps even he could be made to see reason, but the expression on his face when he’d told her he’d do whatever it took to have Hammond Court . . . there hadn’t been even a sliver of warmth in those frigid gray eyes.

She shuddered, chills darting down her spine. She didn’t trust the man any more than she would a rabid dog. “But there’s no reason for you to stay here, Abby. Indeed, I think it would be for the best if you went to Mrs. Sullivan’s.”

Her heart gave a panicked throb at the thought of losing Abby, who’d been by her side for all but the first four of her twenty-one years, but there was no help for it. This battle with the Duke of Grantham was bound to become a great deal uglier before it was over, and she didn’t want Abby caught up in it. Abby would be better off in Cirencester with Maggie Sullivan, well out of the Duke of Grantham’s reach, just in case he took it into his head to use the people she loved as pawns in his quest to have his way.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.” Abby dumped the armful of clothes onto the bed, then turned a shrewd eye on Rose. “You ought to think about letting the duke have his way, Rose. He’s likely to have it in the end anyway, no matter what you do.”

“ What? You expect me to just give up, and let him have the house? I can’t do that! He’ll tear it down if he gets his hands on it.” Hammond Court, with its cracked windows, rutted drive, shattered front door, and hundreds of spiders, was her home .

She wasn’t going anywhere.

“I love Hammond Court as much as you do, but you can’t afford this place, Rose. It was all well and good when Ambrose was alive, but this house . . .” She shook her head. “It’s a weight around your neck, now. You’ll wear yourself to a thread, trying to keep up with it.”

“How can you say that, Abby? Why, it would break Ambrose’s heart if I abandoned Hammond Court!” It would break her heart, as well.

“Ambrose is gone, Rose, and you’re a young lady, with your whole life ahead of you. I don’t pretend to know what Ambrose was thinking when he died, but I can’t believe he’d want to see you tied to this house forever.”

“Then why would he leave me half of it?” She couldn’t answer that question herself—not yet—but one thing was certain. Ambrose had his reasons. He always did.

It was up to her to figure out what those reasons were.

“Listen to me, pet.” Abby took her hand in a gentle grasp. “The duke will pay to be rid of you. Imagine what you could do with that money, Rose! Would it be so terrible, having your freedom?”

“I don’t . . . I can’t talk about this now, Abby. Just please, do as I say, and gather your things.”

“No! I won’t just up and leave you here alone, at the mercy of that wicked duke! I’m staying right here with you.”

“Abby, please.” Rose clung to Abby’s hand. “I don’t want you caught up in this mess. Please just go, and I promise I’ll join you as soon as I can. Why, I daresay it won’t take more than a few days to come to some agreement with the Duke of Grantham.”

A few days, or a few decades.

But Abby shook her head. “He doesn’t look like the sort who makes agreements, Rose. He looks like the sort who takes what he wants, no matter if he’s got a right to it or not. He’s cold as ice, that one, through and through.”

“Well, he hasn’t much choice but to negotiate with me, has he? Come, Abby, it won’t be for long. Just until I . . .” She trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. A hysterical laugh was crowding into her throat, but she choked it back because if she gave into it, she might never stop.

For all her bluster, she didn’t fancy tangling with the Duke of Grantham. But neither could she just stand by and let him take Hammond Court from them. “He can’t do a thing to me.”

“He’s a duke , Rose. They do as they please, and no one dares breathe a word against them.”

“Well, what do you imagine he’s going to do? Murder me in my bed?”

Abby paled. “Rose!”

Oh, dear. Perhaps that might have better gone unsaid. “That is, what I meant to say is that I’ll be perfectly fine, but I need to know you’re safe with Mrs. Sullivan first. Please, Abby.”

Long, quiet moments ticked by until at last Abby let out a heavy sigh. “All right, but if you don’t appear at Mrs. Sullivan’s in two days, I’m coming back for you.”

“Thank you.” Rose pressed a quick kiss to Abby’s cheek. “Now quickly, gather your things while I go and find Billy.”

It should have taken a much longer time to disappear a person, but in the end, it was all arranged rather quickly. Billy had the wagon readied and waiting on the drive within a half hour.

A half hour after that, Abby climbed in next to him, her valise in her hand, bundled from head to toe in one of Ambrose’s old cloaks to keep her warm. “You be careful. You hear me, Rose?” She grasped Rose’s hand. “If anything goes wrong, you promise you’ll come to me at once?”

Something would go wrong—it was merely a question of to what degree—but Rose dredged up a comforting lie. “Of course, but nothing will go wrong, Abby. I’ll be just fine.”

Abby knew better than to believe the lie, of course, but both of them were now committed to this charade that all might still be well, so she only gave Rose’s hand another squeeze. “You’ll think about what I said about the house?”

There was nothing to think about. Even if she’d wanted to leave, she couldn’t abandon Ambrose’s tenants. They were thriving, and it was by no means certain they’d continue to do so with the Duke of Grantham as their landlord. Goodness knew he’d made no secret of the fact that he despised Fairford. As soon as he’d torn Hammond Court down, he’d scurry off back to London, and let another two decades elapse before he returned.

If then.

But in the interest of getting Abby on her way, she nodded. “Yes, I will.”

Abby didn’t look convinced, but she released Rose’s hand and turned to face forward. “Right, then. Let’s go, Billy.”

Then they were gone, the ancient wagon bumping and swaying its way down the icy drive. Rose waited until they’d passed through the trees and out of sight, then turned back toward the house.

She paused to stare up at the fa?ade, at the cracked windows and sagging roof. She’d only been four years old when she and her mother came here, and her recollections of that time had grown hazy over the years, but the first day they’d arrived would be forever burned into her memory. She’d gazed up at the fa?ade just as she was doing now, and had thought the house was like a fairy castle, with its diamond-paned windows and the stone weathered to a pale gold.

One glance and her chest had burst with hope.

Anything had felt possible, then, and as it turned out, it was .

But that was before, when Ambrose had held court here, and laughter had spilled out of every window. More than anything, Ambrose had delighted in people. He’d collected them, especially the cast-offs and dregs the rest of the world had given up on.

Like her, and her mother.

He’d gathered them all together and made them his family. Oh, they’d been a mismatched, ragged-edge family to be sure, made up of the odds and ends of families no one else had wanted, but a family, nonetheless.

But those days were gone, buried in the cold ground along with Ambrose. Without him, the house was a ghost, a pale imitation of what it once had been. Yet she’d hold on to it still, for all that—hold on to it until her fingernails were bloody, and her heart gave out.

No one, not even the almighty Duke of Grantham, would take it from her.