Page 76 of His Duchess of Scandal
Not even a half-hour into the journey, Charles was regretting his decision to let them join him.
“Papa, how many cottages do we have?” Phoebe asked—her tenth question in the last minute, for certain. “Do all the tenants have chickens, Papa? Canwehave chickens? Have you ever fixed a roof yourself? What about the leaks? I am sureIcan fix them. I made the bath leak once! It was very fun, but Mrs. Nightgale did not think so.”
Charles glanced at her. “No, I am sure she did not.”
Phoebe grinned happily. “I will chase the chickens.”
“You will do no such thing,” he scolded. “You will be good and respectful. Making noise in our home is bad enough, but you must respect our tenants’ homes. While we own the cottages, theylivein them. Do you understand, Phoebe?”
“I understand,” she said, more serious than he had seen her in a long time. She nodded dutifully. “I will not chase their chickens.”
“Or touch anything you are not permitted to.”
“Exactly. I will be the perfect lady.”
Charles glanced over at Hermia, who gave a slow nod. “I am certain you will be perfect.”
It was the highest praise he had given his daughter in a long time.
“I also was wondering,” Hermia piped up. “How many cottages do we have in South England?”
“Plenty,” Charles answered, letting his gaze stray to the window and the passing scenery.
They went from the city and the grand townhouses that blotted out the sun to the empty fields and the countryside. Cottages were scattered about, and more livestock roamed.
“How do the tenants report things to you? Do they go through a lesser lord and then the lord reports to you, or do they write to you personally?”
“All my tenants know they can reach out to me personally,” Charles told her. “A lesser lord’s correspondence or their own, I will always do what I can for them.”
Hermia nodded slowly, looking thoughtful.
Charles had been so used to her finding ways to rile him up that hearing her taking an interest in his lands and the well-being of his tenants, the avenues he had offered them to reach him, gave him pause.
It made himthink, and he had thrown himself into his work toavoidthinking.
“I would like to have chickens,” Phoebe blurted. “I would name them Charles and Hermia, and I would make sure they ate breakfast together.”
Hermia laughed quietly, while Charles pretended not to have heard her.
The cottages Charles needed to inspect were among a cluster he owned entirely, alongside several of Levi’s—a planned land venture. He led Hermia and Phoebe to the first one, where the tenant was waiting outside.
“Mr. Bollet,” he greeted. “Thank you for waiting until I could come out. Have the problems gotten any worse?”
“Mercifully, no, Your Grace.” Mr. Bollet was a forty-year-old businessman who enjoyed spending more time in the countryside while retaining relatively easy access to London. “My wife is inside, but she would love to meet your daughter and wife, I am certain. If Her Grace and Lady Phoebe would allow it, of course. I am aware your time?—”
“Our time is yours today, Mr. Bollet,” Hermia interjected, surprising Charles.
Under different circumstances, he would have stepped right up, shut her down, and told her he could handle his own business well enough. But there was something about the way she kept handling everything above expectations that pleasantly surprised him.
For a moment, he could only look at her—at how her chocolate-brown hair caught the sun and gleamed, at her patient smile, and eager eyes.
Mr. Bollet gestured to the front door, and the four of them made their way over.
“Do you have any chickens?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, we have many!” Mr. Bollet laughed. “Do you like them?”
“They are not my favorite animals, but I would like to see them if you have them.”
