Page 549 of From Rakes to Riches

“Acheat, you say?”

Rake wasn’t sure which he despised more, spies or cheats, and everyone in his orbit knew it.

His secretary, Mr. Nesbitt, looked him square in the eye over his coin-shaped spectacles. “Aye.”

This was no small accusation that Nesbitt was making, and they both understood it.

“And I suppose you’ve the proof to back this up?”

Mr. Nesbitt looked slightly offended at the suggestion he wouldn’t. But an estate manager bilking a duke out of a hundred pounds a year was no small thing. A man’s future was at stake, so there had to be certainty before the man was confronted with his crime.

Rake had never liked this part of being a duke. Though the estate was on the other side of England, he knew that particular estate manager had a wife and three small children. Many futures hung in the balance, not only that of one man, who might or might not be guilty.

A distant throat cleared. A footman stood across the study, awaiting Rake’s attention. He could leave the lad standing therefor the next three or so hours, his message poised on the tip of his tongue, yet to be delivered, until the whim struck Rake to allow him to speak. Such was the prerogative of a duke, not only within his own household, but in any household in the land. But Rake wasn’t that sort of duke. “Yes?” he asked.

“A visitor has arrived, Your Grace.”

“Lord Ormonde?” It was no rare occurrence for Julian to drop by unannounced. The servants knew they need never announce him. “Show him in.”

Rake returned his attention to the invoices spread across the table, each adding up to tell the story of a crooked estate manager, who was looking more guilty by the minute.

Again, the footman’s throat cleared. Again, Rake glanced up. The servant hadn’t budged an inch. “Yes?” asked Rake, impatience fraying the edges of the question.

“Aladyvisitor, Your Grace.”

“The dowager?” asked Rake. This interaction grew more tiresome with every word that remained unspoken. “Show her in, then.”

Though her visits were rare, Mother was known to extricate herself from London on the odd occasion and take herself to the wilds of Suffolk to visit her son and daughter.

The footman shook his head.

“Does this lady have a name?”

“The Duchess of Acaster, Your Grace.”

The Duchess of Acaster...

Rake’s brow furrowed.

At Somerton?

Had he missed a letter?

He turned to Nesbitt. “This will keep until later.”

He had no appetite for it, anyway. The destruction of a man’s life was no happy thing, even if the man was a cheat.

Rake stood. “Where have you left the duchess?”

“In the stables, Your Grace.”

“You left a duchess waiting in the stables?”

“She insisted.”

Rake almost laughed as he strode through the house and outside toward the stables. This duchess certainly wasn’t a woman of subtlety. If she was, indeed, trying to instigate a courtship with him, she was going about it the correct way.

Bold.

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