A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(63)

“Aye, ma’am.” Heulwen withdrew a brown wool cloak from the wardrobe. “The kitchen is all in a swither to be entertaining His Grace and his lordship tomorrow. Haven’t ever had such fine company here at Sherbourne Hall.”

“They are family, Heulwen. They will call frequently. The kitchen needn’t take any particular pains.”

“We don’t have many guests here at all, ma’am. Vicar comes once a year or so, some of the squires who owe Mr. Sherbourne money will join him for a meal. Nobody special.”

Charlotte slipped into her cloak and drew a bright red scarf from the wardrobe. This time of year the slightest breeze could bring a profound chill, even when the sun shone.

“You must never discuss the family’s finances, Heulwen. Not with Morgan, not with anybody. I’m sure you wouldn’t mention a neighbor’s indebtedness before anybody but me, and Mr. Sherbourne is owed your utmost discretion otherwise.”

Heulwen looked as if Charlotte had threatened to turn her off without a character. “I beg your pardon. I would never talk out of turn.”

Now there was a complete work of fiction. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Bring lunch to the site promptly at noon.”

“If I’m to go with Morgan, and he’s driving you there, then how—?”

“I’m driving myself.”

Rather than allow the maid to interrogate her—for Heulwen would at least make an attempt—Charlotte swept from the room. She stopped by the kitchen to collect some buttered bread, cheese, and a flask of hot tea, then made her way to the carriage house.

“Wouldn’t be any trouble at all to drive you, ma’am,” Morgan said, as Charlotte took the reins. “Mr. Sherbourne might rather I did.”

“Thank you, Morgan, but I need you to help Heulwen bring lunch to the works again. I’m a competent whip and will inform Mr. Sherbourne of that fact should he raise a question.”

She clucked to the horse, who set off at a businesslike walk down the lane. The road was far from dry, but it was no longer a glorified marsh, and thus Charlotte was shortly at the colliery, where for once, nobody was shouting. The men were making rapid progress clearing the lane, picks and shovels raising a racket, and in Mr. Jones’s white tent, Charlotte found only the Duke of Haverford seated by the parlor stove.

“Your Grace, good day.”

He rose and bowed. “Mrs. Sherbourne.”

“You must call me Charlotte, for we’re family. I don’t suppose you have seen my husband?”

Haverford was a good-looking devil, though a bit too full of his consequence for Charlotte’s taste. Elizabeth was smitten with him, though, so the duke had Charlotte’s approval too.

Up to a point.

“Jones and Sherbourne marched off to argue about relocating the workers’ housing, and Radnor went along to referee. I’m reviewing progress reports, such as they are.”

“With only the masons on site and much to be done, I am sure progress has been slow.”

Haverford brought a second chair over to the parlor stove. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat? Why have only masons on site, I ask myself? Why not hire laborers as well?”

“The masons brought their apprentices and hod carriers, from what I saw, and laborers cost money. Are you hoping my husband will fail, Your Grace?”

The question was combative, but Charlotte had had a wonderfully cozy night’s rest, and somebody had to take Haverford in hand if he was intent on sabotaging the mine.

“Elizabeth warned me you are fierce.”

“Elizabeth was being polite, Your Grace. I am unrelenting when it comes to protecting those I care about. Mr. Sherbourne is at these works in all weather, up until all hours with his schedules and budgets. He and I have had no wedding journey because he could not leave the works unattended any longer, and now his dratted business partner must arrive like the bad fairy at the christening and make a challenging situation worse. If you intend anything less than the best of good faith and neighborly goodwill toward these works, say so now.”

Haverford’s expression had gone blank, but what had Charlotte expected? That a duke, doubtless among those named to succeed to the British throne, would scurry off like a chastened schoolboy?

“He’s here at all hours?” Haverford asked, hands behind his back.

“And then up for yet more hours in the library, poring over ledgers and correspondence. If you think Mr. Sherbourne an idle wastrel, you are much mistaken.”

“I never thought him idle. In fact, he’s a bit too industrious. He has his fingers in every pie from the coaching inn to mortgages on half the farms in this valley.”

This bothered Haverford, who doubtless had tenants on the other half.

“Do you want the mine to fail?” Charlotte asked.

“That would be ungentlemanly.”

“So you do want the mine to fail. Why?”

Haverford gestured again to the chair, and Charlotte realized that his gentlemanliness also prevented him from sitting when a lady stood, or paced, or tidied up stacks of paper that admitted of no order whatsoever.

She sat.

“I have placed my trust in Sherbourne,” Haverford said. “I hope he does not disappoint me. Others in this valley expect to find employment at this mine, but what I’ve seen so far is not encouraging. Then there’s this Lord Brantford getting involved when he has his own collieries to tend to in the north. I’ve also…well. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? I have reservations.”