How to Tempt a Duke. Кейси Майклс

what’s the point?”

      “True enough. We’re probably lucky to have any information at all, good or bad. I didn’t know one of the crew survived.”

      “Not a member of the crew, Rafe. One Mr. Hugh Hobart. It was he who wrote to Emmaline about the last moments before the yacht sank. According to Mr. Hobart, George and Harold were belowdecks with their…um, their companions, all of them quite seasick, when the rogue wave struck, overturning the vessel. Your uncle and Mr. Hobart were still on deck, keeping an anxious eye on the coastline as the yacht belatedly raced toward the port.”

      “Good God. They must have been terrified. We encountered a Channel storm on our way here. Our ship was a captured Spanish galleon, a formidable thing, and it was tossed about like a cork. I can’t imagine what an angry Channel could do to a small yacht.”

      “Hence your friend Fitz’s haste to disembark. Yes, I remember. The last thing Mr. Hobart wrote he remembers before he came to himself in the small boat they were towing is feeling the lurch of the yacht, and seeing the boom swing around to catch your uncle full in the chest and head, dealing him what was certainly a mortal blow. I’m sorry, Rafe.”

      “Yes, so am I,” he said as Charlotte turned her mount onto the even narrower roadway he knew led to the lumber mill. Ashurst Hall was situated near enough the Sussex Weald to make forestry a lucrative part of the estate activities, seedlings planted wherever mature trees were harvested. Rafe could remember hearing his uncle lecture to George that to cut once is greedy and shortsighted, that a penny sown back in the earth for every pound that is reaped is the way to true wealth. The late duke was a hard man, but he’d been a fine steward of his lands.

      “Mr. Hobart was invited to attend the memorial, but he was forced to decline, as he’d yet to recover from his own injuries. Emmaline truly wished to meet him, and learn more about her family’s last hours.”

      “I suppose I should speak to the gentleman myself,” Rafe said, watching as men began running from seemingly everywhere to line up alongside the roadway. “He was, I’m assuming, a friend of George’s?”

      “I don’t know, you’d have to ask him. I’d never heard the name until his letter arrived and Emmaline shared it with me. Emmaline was equally unaware of the man, but that meant nothing, as your cousins had a large acquaintance. Ah, and here is Mr. Cummings now,” she said as a horse and rider approached along the lane. “You don’t know him, as your uncle took him on after Mr. Willard left for Hampshire to spend his declining years with his grown daughter, so don’t worry that you don’t recognize him. Still, you will address him as John.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Rafe said facetiously. “Here, now, I’ve just had a thought. Wouldn’t it simply be easier for me to turn him off and hire you to run both Ashurst Hall and the rest of my life?”

      He thought he saw a quick flicker of something unreadable in Charlotte’s soft brown eyes. Anger? No. And not quite hurt, either. Something else. But what? Guilt? No, it couldn’t be.

      “I’m only trying to help, Rafe,” she said quietly.

      “Yes, Charlie, I know. Please forgive me,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch hers as they held the reins. “I’d be lost without you and I know it.”

      Her smile didn’t seem to quite reach her lovely brown eyes. “Oh, you’ll not need me for long. I have every confidence in your ability to be a fine duke. Remember, Rafe, that some are born to greatness, some achieve greatness, and some—”

      “And some have greatness thrust upon them. Yes, Charlie, I remember my Shakespeare, having studied it along with George and Harold while living here on sufferance. But I was not born to greatness, have achieved nothing remotely great, and I have had a title thrust upon me through no effort of my own.”

      Charlotte rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You really have to stop that, Rafe. It’s both tedious and annoying. Did George or Harold deserve to be born as they were? Is anyone born to what they deserve? It’s how you behave that determines how the world sees you, and how you see yourself. Now turn your hat around a bit. The dent is showing, and lends nothing to your consequence.”

      Rafe threw back his head and laughed in real amusement. “You would have made a top-notch master sergeant,” he said, and then dutifully readjusted his hat. “And my boots, master sergeant. Do they pass muster?”

      Her answer to his spontaneous outburst was a lift of her chin and a definite “Hruumph!”

      “Your Grace,” Mr. Cummings said as he drew his mount to a halt some ten feet away and doffed his cap. “We were told to expect a visit this morning. Welcome home, sir.”

      “Thank you, John,” he said, urging his own mount forward and extending his right hand. “May I be honest with you? I’m here to throw myself on your mercy. Is there anything you’d like me to see here today?”

      “Well, uh, Miss Seavers could…” Cummings shot a quick glance toward Charlotte, who, Rafe noticed, quickly shook her head. “That is to say, it would be my pleasure, Your Grace, to show you our much-improved sawmill. We’ve…uh, I’ve instituted some changes since His Grace’s sad death, and accidents have been reduced more than half. I’m happy to inform Your Grace that we haven’t lost a finger or a hand in more than six months.”

      Rafe looked toward Charlotte, whose cheeks had gone faintly pink. What the devil was going on here? “Is that so, John. Very commendable on your part, I’m sure. I should very much like to see these improvements.”

      “I’ll leave you two to get at it, then,” Charlotte said, already turning her mount.

      Rafe grabbed at the reins. He needed to find out what the devil was happening here. “Oh, no, please, Miss Seavers, I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to return to Ashurst Hall unescorted. I fear I must insist that you accompany us.”

      She smiled with her mouth as she skewered him with those intelligent eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

      They followed John Cummings to the sawmill, passing the long single line of workers who variously waved their caps in the air or tugged their forelocks, depending on their age and station in the pecking order, Rafe imagined. “Your Grace, welcome home.” He heard that all along the way; polite greetings, if not enthusiastic.