A Duke in the Night(2)

August had made the unforgivable mistake of assuming that the current baron owned Haverhall, along with the shipping empire that had given rise to the Haywards’ extensive fortune. But now August was left contemplating why, in a world where women very rarely owned a freehold property that hadn’t been conveyed to trustees, Clara Hayward would let it slip away from her.

To anyone else, the why probably wouldn’t matter. Not when one had gotten what one wanted. There was a whole slew of advice that involved gift horses and mouths that most individuals would heed. But August was not most individuals. He despised questions that did not have answers. He abhorred not knowing what motivated people to act as they did. His sister, Anne, often told him that it was an unhealthy compulsion, his need to pry into the dark corners of other people’s lives for profit. But he hadn’t become as wealthy as he had by simply accepting what was on the surface. There was something more to this that he wasn’t seeing. Information was power, and he could never have enough.

August frowned and reached for his knife, trimming the end of a quill absently. It was ironic, really, that he knew so little about a woman he’d been unable to forget, even after all these years. He knew Miss Clara Hayward had a reputation for graciousness, propriety, and common sense—by all reports she was a damn paragon of politesse. The ton, while unsure what to make of her as a debutante, seemed to have embraced the idea that the woman guiding their young charges was one of their social class—what else could be expected of an otherwise lovely girl with an upbringing and excessive education that had severely limited her prospects?

A headmistress of quality, combined with the limited admission and exorbitant fees of the school itself, had made Haverhall as popular with the most elite of London society as with those young ladies on the fringes of the upper crust who possessed dowries large enough to buy all of Westminster. Even peers with staunch traditionalist views, who closeted their daughters or sisters with governesses, had weakened at the opportunity for their female relations to take painting instruction from Thomas Lawrence or to be coached in the cotillion or quadrille by Thomas Wilson. One did not have to enroll in the entire curriculum to participate in individual classes. An unorthodox system to be sure, but one that had proved shockingly successful. August had to admit he admired Miss Hayward’s business model. It was the sort of thing he looked for in the many acquisitions he made.

It was almost unfortunate that none of that would be enough to save the school. Which also evoked a peculiar feeling of regret if he thought about it for too long. And that was utterly unacceptable because inane emotion had no place in lucrative business, no matter how unforgettable Clara Hayward might be.

A hesitant knock on the door of his study interrupted his musings. “Yes?”

The heavy door swung open, and August was not a little startled to see his sister standing in the frame. He could probably count on one hand the number of times she had ever sought him out like this, and her presence sent a rush of pleasure through him. “Anne.” He set the quill and knife aside and pushed himself to his feet. “Come in.”

She was dressed in a simple, soft blue day dress, which matched her eyes almost perfectly. Her hair, the same shade as his, was pulled back neatly to frame her round face. She advanced into the room, clutching what looked like a small ledger against her chest.

“To what do I owe the good fortune of your company?” August asked with genuine happiness.

“I came to thank you,” she said politely.

“Ah, was your new gown delivered?” He had seen the fabric on display in a draper’s window on Bond Street, and the brilliant cerulean color had stopped him in his tracks. He had known instantly that Anne would look stunning in the shimmering silk. He’d taken it at once to the modiste who crafted all Anne’s clothing, and the woman had turned the silk into an exquisite ball gown worthy of royalty. It was to have been delivered this morning. “Do you like it?”

She hesitated. “Yes, thank you. The gown is lovely.” She adjusted her grip on her sketchbook.

“Is something wrong with it?” He frowned at her hesitation.

“It’s just…Honestly, it’s too much. August, I already have more gowns than I can possibly wear.”

“You can never have enough. You deserve it. You saw the necklace that goes with it?” He had found the exotic, smoke-colored pearls the day after he had found the fabric.

“Yes, the pearls were lovely too. I don’t think a princess could find fault. Thank you, August.”

August smiled. They were indeed fit for a princess. Or his sister. “Wear them as often as you like. Or put them in your trousseau. Though when you’re wed, I’ll make sure your husband buys you more.”

Anne bit her lip and looked away. August stifled a sigh. He shouldn’t have brought that up. The topic of marriage always seemed to be a prickly one with Anne, but it was his duty as her brother and as her guardian to make sure she found a man worthy of her. “You’re almost nineteen. You’ll be married in a couple of years. I know I’ve said it before, and you probably don’t want to hear it again, but you need to consider your future.”

“The future that you’re planning.” It came out dully.

August shook his head. He had seen firsthand exactly what happened when a good woman married a wastrel. He would not allow his sister to make their mother’s mistakes. “The future that I care about,” he corrected her. “The gentlemen I suggested to you are good men, Anne. Kind, loyal, wise, and decent men. Any one of them would make an excellent husband.”