Page 37 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
“Yes, miss.” The girl curtsied again and waited until August was well away down the corridor before turning her attention back to the fixture.
The strangeness did not end there. Reginald, the butler, stood at the top of the stairs, directing a maid on what to do with an armful of folded linen, but he shooed the poorwoman away toward the narrow servants’ corridor leading to the back as soon as he caught sight of August. He brightened immediately, as if he had been waiting for her. She had only ever seen him upstairs in the housekeeper’s domain when he was ushering a guest to Papa’s study. He didn’t tend the maids. It wasn’t his job.
“Good morning, Miss Crenshaw.” The man had never stood so straight. It was as if a broomstick had been slipped down the back of his coat. “Your father has requested you join him in his study at your earliest convenience.”
How long had the poor man been posted there waiting to relay the message to her? The one day she had slept late, and everything was off. “Thank you, and good morning, Reginald.”
He bowed as she passed. He had never once bowed to her. To be sure, the man was cordial and respectful, but this was much more than that. If she hadn’t been certain before, August now knew that there was talk belowstairs about the waltz. The servants must all assume that she was to be the next Duchess of Rothschild. The talk must be all over London by now. She did not dare read a gossip column to see what might have been written about the previous night.
Politely rapping her knuckles on the study door, she opened it at Papa’s entreaty. It was time to put an end to the needless speculation. She would tell him that the waltz had not swayed her in her intentions to keep the Crenshaws firmly away from Rothschild. Papa would likely grumble, but, in the end, he would let Rothschild down. It would be unseemly in the extreme for Rothschild to then move on to Violet, so hopefully he would find some other heiress entirely—one of the unwed Jerome sisters, perhaps—and leave the Crenshaws alone.
She did not hear the other male voices until she opened the door. Two men sat across the desk from Papa, and her heart gave a start when she thought one of them might be Rothschild. But no. While the man was blond, upon closer inspection his hair was fairer than the duke’s and his shoulders were not as broad. He rose, along with the older man at his side, when she entered the room. She recognizedthem both as soon as they turned to face her as Lady Helena’s father and elder brother.
“Good morning, darling.” Papa was dressed for business in a smart coat and tie. Rising from behind his desk, he walked around and took her hands as he kissed her cheek. “Did you sleep well? You look stunning.”
She did not look stunning. She knew for a fact that there were faint blue smudges under eyes because it had taken her a long time to fall asleep. “Yes, thank you.”
His attention had already returned to the two men in the room as he put a hand at the small of her back and presented her proudly. “I believe you have already met the Earl of Farthington and his son Viscount Rivendale. Gentlemen, my daughter.”
She had met both men in passing at various functions but had never held a conversation with either of them. They both greeted her politely but seemed far too preoccupied to entertain pleasantries for long. The fact that Lord Farthington held a prominent seat in the House of Lords made the meeting even more auspicious.
“Come join us, darling,” said Papa as he walked back to his leather chair.
The earl, an older man with brown hair liberally mixed with gray, appeared flummoxed with his creased brow, and the younger one gawked at her openly before gathering himself to stare at the edge of her father’s desk. Fixing a placid smile on her face, she walked to her Chippendale desk near the window, a compact piece of furniture with a hinged door. Taking up parchment, pen, and inkwell, she carried the tray to her place at the end of her father’s desk. A carved rosewood side chair was already there for her, as it was where she normally sat during meetings so that she could easily keep notes of the discussion.
“I apologize if I am late, Papa,” she said as she settled herself and the men resumed their seats. “I did not have this meeting on my schedule.”
“Their visit is a pleasant surprise for me as well.”
Lord Rivendale cleared his throat and gave her a bemused glance before addressing her father. “Yes, as wewere saying, the issue is of some discretion. Perhaps it would be best if we continue in private.” His gaze slid to August in case there was any question of his meaning.
“My lord, although Miss Crenshaw is my daughter, she is also a trusted employee of Crenshaw Iron Works. I trust her discretion and her advice implicitly. You did say that this was a business issue?”
Lord Rivendale paused before nodding a bit reluctantly. “Yes, very much so.” The words were slow to come, as if he were weighing the benefit of proceeding against the obvious drawback of her presence. Fixing a smile on him that could only slightly be construed as spiteful, she waited.
He shifted, his shoulders twitching as if the perfectly tailored coat encasing them had been fitted with the pins left in it. Despite having met him in passing, she only now observed that he was one of those self-important people who somehow lacked self-assurance. Being important was his birthright, so he had never earned his place and had never bothered to acquire the knowledge of self that earninganythingwould give him. It was why he tended to look around things rather than directly at them. Much as he was looking around her now.
Not all noblemen were that way. Rothschild wasn’t. A pleasant heat stole over her face as she remembered how he had looked right at her and seen her. Lord Farthington also did not seem similarly afflicted. He sat with his shoulders back, comfortable with himself, his gaze on Papa.
Papa smiled. “Then I would very much like that she attend.”
“If you prefer, I will not write down notes.” She slid the tray several inches away from her on the desk.
Lord Rivendale glanced to his father, whose expression had not once changed from the befuddled grimace he wore when she appeared at the door. Lord Farthington gave precisely one nod, his lips in a firm line of disapproval.
“Very well,” said the son. “But there can be no written record of this meeting.”
Again, he spoke directly to her father and only deigned to shoot her a glance out of the corner of his eyes. Shewondered if that was how he spoke to his sisters. Or perhaps he did not speak to them at all, preferring to give orders through the servants. August held up her fingers in a show of her intention not to touch her pen.
“Of course not. Whatever is said here will be certain to stay within the confines of this room,” Papa assured him in his smooth negotiation tone. The voice that was never flustered no matter how disagreeable the adversary.
“The matter is of some urgency,” Lord Farthington began. “What do you know of the Indian subcontinent?”
Papa smiled. “Not nearly as much as I am about to learn, I assure you.”
The earl nodded as if he had assumed as much. “Britain holds roughly one million square miles in India. Population estimates claim that is approximately two hundred million people. In contrast, England has a population of a mere twenty-two million souls but spread over fifty thousand square miles.” He raised a hand. “Give or take.”
August leaned forward slightly, afraid to believe that this conversation could be going where her intuition believed it would lead. He could not be here to discuss railways in India. Those contracts had been notoriously difficult to obtain, given only to a select few firms based in Britain. But why else would he be approaching them? She found herself holding her breath as she waited.
