A Duke in the Night(47)

The butler cleared his throat. “Shall I tell the gentleman you are receiving, Miss Hayward?”

“Of course. Show him to the library.” She wasn’t expected to meet with her students in Dover for another two hours. Entertaining Mathias Stilton was the last thing she felt like doing, but whatever he had to say surely wouldn’t take long.

The butler disappeared and Clara set her book aside, pushing herself to her feet.

“You have yet to mention the Silver Swan,” Harland remarked casually.

Clara stared out the long library window, her fingers clenching in the folds of her skirts. She forced them to relax. “I think we made ourselves abundantly clear to His Grace that we had no interest in selling Strathmore Shipping. I can’t see it being a problem any further.” Because for the rest of Holloway’s stay, Clara had every intention of avoiding him completely.

“Mmm. I agree. I was, however, referring to the fact that the man owns the bloody inn and tavern. The very place where his sister—your student—is even now toiling away under the watchful eye of Monsieur Charleaux.”

Right. That.

“Lady Anne is aware that it is her brother who owns it?”

“I believe so.”

“Then perhaps she should have mentioned it to you at the very beginning?”

Clara frowned. “Perhaps.”

“It might be best to tell Charleaux who his student really is,” Harland prodded. “Sooner rather than later.”

“Yes.” As per custom, Anne had been introduced only as Miss Anne in the tavern. Not Miss Faulkner, not Lady Anne, and most certainly not Lady Anne Faulkner, sister to the Duke of Holloway.

Clara sighed, knowing that she just might be forced to find another placement for Anne. Given the duke’s stifling aspirations for his sister, Clara couldn’t imagine that he would condone Anne’s industrious efforts in any sort of tavern. And Charleaux, as progressive as he might be, would undoubtedly fear for his job should the duke discover that the man had left the haggling for the week’s beef and ale in his sister’s hands. Though finding another mentor willing to take on a female student would be difficult at best.

Which was probably why Anne had never mentioned it in the first place.

Her irritation, which had been simmering, boiled over, and she bit back the urge to curse like a damn sailor. Not that it would do any good, but it might make her feel better. The duke needed to leave. Before he caused any more headaches and heartaches with his callous manipulation of everyone around him.

“You’ll need to come with me, I expect,” Clara muttered in the direction of Harland. “And bring your medical bag. Charleaux will have an apoplexy when I tell him who she is. He knows just as well as I that no matter how much money Anne saved the duke and his tavern yesterday by taking the collier to task over the price of coal delivery, Holloway will likely be horrified, not happy—”

“Miss Hayward.” She spun away from the window to find Mathias Stilton striding into the room, a broad smile on his face.

Clara pasted a smile on hers. “Mr. Stilton. Welcome to Avondale.”

“I’m so glad I caught you at home. You are a difficult woman to track down with all your little hobbies,” Stilton said, coming to a stop just in front of her. “But I must say that you look absolutely dazzling. The sea air becomes you.”

Perhaps it was her current mood, but Stilton’s slightly patronizing tone made her want to throw something. Or reach for the whiskey bottle. Or maybe both, just not in that order. “Thank you,” she said, trying to regain a hold on her decorum. It was not Mathias Stilton’s fault that she had been wildly out of sorts since last night.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stilton,” Harland said, making no effort to move out from behind the library table and his pile of maps.

“Lord Strathmore.” Stilton pivoted in surprise. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mmm,” Harland replied, his eyes sliding to the doorway. “Ah. And good afternoon, Your Grace.”

Clara felt herself freeze, her eyes snapping to the library door. The duke was leaning against the frame, his dark hair windblown, his dark coat dusty, and his expression positively black.

August’s gaze was fixed firmly on Clara. “Lord Strathmore. Miss Hayward.” His lip curled unpleasantly. “Mr. Stilton.”

Clara averted her eyes, despising the way her stomach flipped. She glanced at Stilton to find that his smile had vanished, displeasure now etched across his face. If Stilton had had hackles beneath the confection he called a coat, they would have been raised, and his teeth would have been bared. Even a half-wit would have felt the tension that had inundated the room.

Resentment rose, competing fiercely with her irritation. Bloody hell, but she’d had it with men. Without considering what she was doing, she headed toward the hearth and the small table that rested beside it. She snatched a glass from the polished surface and poured herself a healthy measure of whiskey from the decanter.

“And here I was going to offer tea,” her brother murmured loudly enough for her to hear.

Clara shot Harland a withering look. He sounded as if he was enjoying this.

She put the bottle back without throwing it at anyone, which was something. “Mr. Stilton, I confess it is a bit of a surprise seeing you so far afield of London.” She tried to keep her voice pleasant and conversational while ignoring August, who was still looming menacingly in the doorway like a great, brooding crow.