She hadn’t been surprised by Falwell’s comments; his role was to manage the estate as a business, rather than care for its people. The latter was in part her role, and even more so the duke’s. Royce’s. He’d said he would take up the issue—presenting her request more clearly in people terms might help. As she neared the dining room, Royce walked out of the parlor opposite. He’d heard her footsteps; he’d been waiting for her. He paused, met her gaze; when she reached him, without a word he waved her ahead of him through the dining room door.
The rest of the company were already at table, engrossed in a discussion of Margaret’s and Susannah’s plans for the six days remaining before the fair. She and Royce went to the laden sideboard, helped themselves from the variety of cold meats, hams, and assorted delicacies displayed on the platters and dishes, then Royce steered her to the head of the table, to the chair beside his. Jeffers leapt to hold it for her.
By the time she’d sat and settled her skirts, Royce was seated in his great carver, by the angle of his shoulders, and the absolute focus of his attention on her, effectively cutting off the others—who read the signs and left them in peace.
They started eating, then he met her eyes. “Thank you for your help with the sheep.”
“You knew Hamish was the best source for breeders—you didn’t need me to tell you so.”
“I needed you to tell Falwell so. If I’d suggested Hamish, he’d have tied himself in knots trying to acceptably say that my partiality for Hamish’s stock was because of the connection.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “But you aren’t connected to Hamish.”
“No, but Falwell knows I approve of Hamish.”
“But not even Falwell would suggest that you—the farmers’ champion—would urge me to get stock from anywhere that wasn’t the best.” Royce met her eyes, let his lips curve slightly. “Using you to suggest Hamish, having your reputation supporting the idea, saved time and a considerable amount of convoluted argument.”
She smiled, pleased with the disguised compliment.
He let her preen for a moment, then followed up with, “Which raises a related issue—do you have any suggestions for a replacement for Falwell?”
She swallowed, nodded. “Evan Macgregor, Macgregor’s third son.”
“And why would he suit?”
She reached for her water glass. “He’s young, but not too young, a gregarious soul who was born on the estate and knows—and is liked by—literally everyone on it. He was a scallywag when younger, but always good-hearted, and he’s quick and clever—more than most. Now he’s older, being the third son, and with Sean and Abel more than capable of taking on Macgregor’s holding between them, Evan has too little to do.” She sipped, then met his eyes. “He’s in his late twenties, and is still helping on the farm, but I don’t think he’ll stay much longer unless he finds some better occupation.”
“So at present he’s wasted talent, and you think I should use him as steward.”
“Yes. He’d work hard for you, and while he might make the odd mistake, he’ll learn from them, and, most importantly, he’ll never steer you wrongly over anything to do with the estate or its people.” She set down her glass. “I haven’t been able to say that of Falwell for more than a decade.”
Royce nodded. “However, regardless of Falwell’s shortcomings, I meant what I said about the footbridge being something the dukedom can’t simply step in and fix.”
She met his eyes, studied them, then faintly raised her brows. “So…?”
He let his lips curve in appreciation; she was starting to read him quite well. “So I need you to give me some urgent, preferably dramatic, reason to get on my ducal high horse and cow the aldermen of Harbottle into fixing it.”
She held his gaze; her own grew distant, then she refocused—and smiled. “I can do that.” When he arched a brow, she smoothly replied, “I believe we need to ride that way this afternoon.”
He considered the logistics, then glanced at the others.
When he looked back at her, brows lifting, she nodded. “Leave them to me.”
He sat back and watched with unfeigned appreciation as she leaned forward and, with a comment here, another there, slid smoothly into the discussions they had, until then, ignored. He hadn’t noticed how she dealt with his sisters before; with an artful question followed by a vague suggestion, she deftly steered Susannah and Margaret—the ringleaders—into organizing the company to drive into Harbottle for the afternoon.
“Oh, before I forget, here’s the guest list you wanted, Minerva.” Seated along the table, Susannah waved a sheet; the others passed it to Minerva.
She scanned it, then looked at Margaret, at the table’s foot. “We’ll need to open up more rooms. I’ll speak with Cranny.”
Margaret glanced at him. “Of course, we don’t know how many of those will attend.”
He let his lips curve cynically. “Given the…entertainments you have on offer, I suspect all those invited will jump at the chance to join the party.”
Because they’d be keen to learn firsthand whom he’d chosen as his bride. Comprehension filled Margaret’s face; grimacing lightly, she inclined her head. “I’d forgotten, but no doubt you’re right.”
The reminder that he would soon make that announcement, thus signaling the end of his liaison with her, bolstered Minerva’s determination to act, decisively, today. While his desire for her was still rampant she stood an excellent chance of securing her boon; once it waned, her ability to influence him would fade.
Susannah was still expounding on the delights of Harbottle. “We can wander around the shops, and then take tea at the Ivy Branch.” She looked at Minerva. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “They still serve excellent teas and pastries.”