A Duke in the Night(4)

Her defiant look stayed firmly in place. “A drawing of what the main floor of the Trenton would look like if I had any say.”

August stared at her, flummoxed. “What’s wrong with it the way it is?”

“What isn’t wrong with it? The dining room is completely undersized and stuck at the back of the building like an afterthought. The kitchens might as well be on the other side of the world—your serving staff spend hours in a day walking unnecessary miles back and forth. And the lobby is about as welcoming as the Tower of London. It’s cold and stark. A hotel should be warm and welcoming.” She paused. “Should I go on?”

“No. And a hotel should be clean and serviceable,” August told her. “Unnecessary frills cost money.” He stopped and shook his head. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t about to debate the merits of running a hotel with his sister. He held up the two drawings. “You’re so talented, Anne. Why don’t you consider applying your talents to portraits? Landscapes? Anything that you might share with other young ladies of the ton? You might be surprised at the friendships that are realized through a common interest.” August knew Anne had had lessons in watercolors and was more than competent, yet these pages were devoid of anything save stark lines of ink and graphite, almost mathematical in their precision.

“I’ve considered it.”

“And?”

“They hold little interest to me.” She reached out and snatched her book back. “Landscapes or the young ladies of the ton who go along with them.”

August suppressed a groan. “Anne, I—”

“Your Grace?” A brisk knock on his door accompanied the question, and a man with a mop of slightly windblown hair stuck his head into the study. “Oh, my apologies, Your Grace, Lady Anne. I didn’t realize you were both in here. I’ll come back—”

“No need, Mr. Down,” Anne replied. “I was just on my way out.” She glanced back at August, folding her precious book under her arm. “Thank you again for…everything.”

“You’re welcome,” August replied, once again at a loss. He put the drawing of the tavern sign on his desk with a sigh.

“Goodbye, August,” she said with finality, hesitating just before the door. “And good day to you, Mr. Down,” she murmured, and then she was gone.

Duncan Down eyed her retreating form before turning back to August with a respectful, if sympathetic, look. “Shall I come back at a better time, Your Grace?”

“No,” he said tersely as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a very stiff drink. “Brandy, Mr. Down?” He glanced behind him as he poured.

“Appreciate it.” His man of business paused at the desk and glanced in dismay at the untidy pile of shavings from the shaft of the newly sharpened quill. “I can purchase you a new set of quills, you know,” he remarked. “There is no need to use each until it is a barely recognizable stub. I just finished with your monthly ledgers, and I can assure you that there is more than enough capital to purchase an entire flock of birds, as well as the continent on which they might be found. Just yesterday I saw a lovely set made from swan—”

“Nothing wrong with that quill. Still works just fine. And no point wasting money on swan feathers when ordinary goose writes just as well.”

“Yet you buy South Pacific pearls when you could have purchased—”

“Those were a gift for Lady Anne.” August cut him off with a black look. “And nothing is too good for my sister.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Though I will trouble you in the future to keep Lady Anne away from my monthly ledgers.”

“Your Grace?”

“She mentioned she took a peek at the books when you had them out yesterday. She was worried about the price of fish being sold to the Trenton, of all things.” August scowled. “My sister should not have to worry about the price of anything ever again, Mr. Down. Do you understand?”

Duncan was silent for a second too long before he said, “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Is she right?” August asked, almost as an afterthought. “About the increase?”

“She is. I was going to bring it to your attention today.”

“Then I trust you will deal with our greedy fishmonger. Get rid of him.”

“Would you like me to inquire as to whether he would reconsider his prices? He has, after all, been providing us with a good product for almost three years—”

“Then he’s had three years to learn that I do not suffer fools. Find someone else.”

Duncan inclined his head. “Consider it done, Your Grace.”

“Good.” August returned his attention to the glass in front of him before turning and handing it to Duncan.

“The contract to purchase the warehouses on the north side of the London docks will be ready for your signature this afternoon,” Duncan said as he took a small sip of his brandy. “The East India Company has already expressed an interest in leasing the warehouse space, as well as their frustration that they were unable to purchase it first. I would reckon the value in those warehouses has just increased tenfold, should you consider selling in the future. As always, a sound and very profitable investment, Your Grace.”

August waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t wish to talk about fish vendors or warehouses at the moment, Mr. Down.” He stalked over to the door and shoved it closed with his foot before returning to his desk and retrieving the deed to Haverhall. He trusted Duncan with his life but his servants about as far as he could throw them. The ease with which he had obtained information over the years from servants everywhere, either by shrewd conversation or simple coin, had taught him that lesson.