They finally reached the end of the long line. After the last scullery maid had blushed and bobbed, Retford, who had followed behind them radiating approval as much as a butler of his station ever did, stepped forward and bowed them into the smaller dining salon.
Royce would have gone to his customary chair halfway down the table, but Retford swept to the large carver at its head and held it…he smoothly continued up the table and sat in his father’s place.
Now his—a fact he was going to have to get used to.
Jeffers sat Minerva on his left; from her and Jeffers’s behavior, that was her customary position.
He remembered his need to create distance between them, remembered his question about the staff, but she’d left her papers upstairs.
Luckily, as soon as the platters had been set before them and the majority of footmen withdrew, she asked, “One thing we—Retford, Milbourne, Cranny, and I—need to know is what staff you have, and which household you wish them attached to.”
A safe, sensible question. “I have a valet—Trevor. He was with me before.”
Staring ahead, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s younger than you, slightly tubby—at least he was.”
A reasonable if brief description of Trevor.
She glanced at Retford, standing back on Royce’s right; the butler nodded, indicating that he, too, remembered Trevor. “That’s fortuitous, as I doubt Walter, your father’s valet, would suit. However, that leaves us with the question of what to do with Walter—he won’t want to leave Wolverstone, or the family’s service.”
“Leave that to me.” Royce had long ago learned to value experience. “I have an idea for a position that might suit him.”
“Oh?” She looked her question, but when he didn’t reply, but instead served himself from a platter of cold meats, she frowned, then asked, “Is Henry still your groom?”
He nodded. “I’ve already spoken with Milbourne—Henry should arrive tomorrow. He’ll remain my personal groom. The only other to join the household here will be Handley.” He met Minerva’s gaze. “My secretary.”
He’d wondered how she would take that news. Somewhat to his surprise, she beamed. “Excellent. That will absolve me of dealing with your correspondence.”
“Indeed.” A good first step in edging her out of his daily orbit. “Who dealt with my father’s correspondence?”
“I did. But there are so many communications crossing a duke’s desk, and so much I have to attend to as chatelaine, if we’d entertained more, there would have been problems. As it was, things often didn’t get dealt with as expeditiously as I would have liked.”
He was relieved she truly was prepared to let his correspondence pass out of her hands. “I’ll tell Handley to check with you if he has any questions.”
She nodded, absorbed with peeling a fig. He watched her take the first bite, saw her lips glisten—quickly looked down at the apple he was coring.
When next he glanced up, she was staring across the table, frowning in an abstracted way. As if sensing his gaze, she asked, still without looking at him, “Is there anyone else we should expect to accommodate?”
It took a moment for him to catch her meaning; it was the word “accommodate” that finally impinged, confirmed by the faint blush tinting her cheeks. “No.” Just to ensure she—and Retford, too—were quite clear on the point, he stated, “I don’t have a mistress. At present.”
He’d tacked on the “at present” to make sure they believed him. Rapidly canvassing the possible eventualities, he added, “And unless I inform you otherwise, you should act on the assumption that that situation remains unchanged.”
Mistresses, for him, constituted a certain danger, something he’d learned before he’d reached twenty. Because he’d been heir to one of the wealthiest dukedoms, his mistresses—due to his tastes, inevitably drawn from the ton—had shown a marked tendency to develop unrealistic ideas.
His declaration had tweaked Minerva’s curiosity, but she merely nodded, still not meeting his eyes. She finished her fig, and laid down her fruit knife.
He pushed back from the table. “I need a list of the stewards and agents for each of the various properties.”
She rose as Jeffers drew out her chair. “I have a list prepared—I left it on my desk. I’ll bring it to the study.”
“Where is your lair?”
She glanced at him as they headed for the stairs. “The duchess’s morning room.”
He didn’t say anything, but walked by her side up the stairs and into the keep, to the room that, centuries ago, had been a solar. Its oriel window looked out over the rose garden to the south and west of the keep.
Following her into the room, he halted just over the threshold. While she went to a bureau against one wall, he scanned the room, searching for some sense of his mother. He saw the tapestry cushions she’d loved to make idly cast on the sofas, but other than that the room held few lingering hints of her. It was light, airy, distinctly feminine, with two vases of fresh flowers scenting the air.
Minerva turned and walked toward him, perusing a number of lists. She was so alive, so anchored in the here and now, he doubted any ghosts could linger near.