brother is nowhere to be found, you can always call on me.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled wanly back at him.
‘And now, my dear, I must be off. To see about the responsibilities you would have me attend to.’ He sighed. ‘To appear as idle as I do requires a surprising amount of effort. May I have the honour of joining you at supper this evening?’
‘Of course.’ As she watched him go, it occurred to her, if he was to join her for dinner, it meant that there must be a meal. Which required menus, shopping, and co-ordination of the staff. Perhaps the duke had managed to subsist on weak tea and stew, but surely there must be something else in the kitchen.
She was in charge here. At least until the duke came and relieved her. And if she was in charge, there were going to have to be some changes.
She stiffened her spine as she walked down the last of the steps to the servants’ hall and the kitchen where she had been the night before. The remains of breakfast were congealing in plates on the table. That they had not been cleared bespoke a slovenliness she wouldn’t have believed possible.
When she examined the contents of the plates, the situation grew worse still. The crusts of bread were soft and light. Jam. Porridge in bowls. A single rasher of bacon still sat on the edge of one plate.
She remembered her runny eggs and the inedible kipper and fought down an urge to scoop up the remains on the table before her and sneak them back to her room for later. As she stood there, a door at the far end of the room opened and a woman entered. She was short, stout and sour faced, and fixed Miranda with a glare. ‘Who might you be and what are you doing below stairs?’
Miranda drew herself up to her full height and smiled. ‘I am the lady of the house. And who, exactly, are you?’
‘There ain’t a lady of the house. Least not since the dowager, her Grace, died.’
‘There is since yesterday, when his Grace and I were married. Mrs …?’
‘His Grace didn’t say nothing to me about it.’
‘As I understand it, you were out, and the servants had no idea how to contact you. Mrs.?’
‘His Grace didn’t say nothing about getting married,’ she argued.
A kitchen maid crept in to stand quietly in the corner, drawn by the housekeeper’s raised voice.
‘It was a bit of a shock to him as well. Perhaps he neglected to inform you. But surely Wilkins …’
‘That old drunk ain’t allowed to get within ten feet of me or I’ll—’
Clearly the woman was used to having her way with the running of the house. Miranda took a firmer tone and a half-step forward. ‘His Grace didn’t have to say anything to you, Mrs …?’
She paused again and the woman reluctantly supplied, ‘Clopton.’
‘Mrs Clopton. You knew I was here, since you must have sent breakfast up to me earlier.’ She decided against mention ing the quality of the food. It could wait until she’d mollified the housekeeper.
‘I don’t pay no attention to what ladies they keeps upstairs. It’s no never mind to me.’
‘But it should be, Mrs Clopton. You are, after all, the housekeeper, are you not?’
‘I am in charge here,’ the lady informed her.
Miranda waved a hand in the direction of the house, and glanced around the room, noting the growing cluster of servants gathering to witness the dispute. Whatever was to come of this, it would be known all over the house by the end of the morning and she could not afford to lose. ‘If you are responsible for what I have seen in this house, you had best not brag of it. It is no point of pride.’ She pointed down at the staff dining table. ‘I see evidence that someone in the house is sustaining themselves in comfort, but that is not the case above stairs.’
‘An’ I suppose you’ll be expecting the staff to work like dogs without a full stomach.’
Miranda countered, ‘But I see no evidence that the household staff works like dogs. Perhaps in the stables, where the duke has had time to observe.’
‘The household staff does the work they’re paid to do, and they’re paid damn little.’
She raised her eyebrows in shock at the curse. ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Clopton. If you’ll gather the household expense books, we will see what can be done.’
At the mention of books, the housekeeper took a step back. ‘His Grace never thought it was necessary to check the bookwork.’
‘His Grace is not here.’ The words snapped out from between her clenched teeth as she gave the housekeeper a share of the morning’s marital frustrations. ‘But I am. And, whether you choose to recognise it or not, I am the duchess and from now on you will be dealing with me. Mrs Clopton, bring me the books.’
A murmur ran through the staff, and Mrs Clopton pulled herself up to her full height, glaring. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’
Miranda kept her voice flat, but firm. ‘I do. Unless there is some reason you don’t want to show them to me.’ She waited.
‘When the old duchess was alive …’
‘She never checked the books either, I suppose. How many years, Mrs Clopton, have you been skimming from the household accounts? Skimping on the food and the staff and lining your own pockets.’ It was a blind shot.
‘Who do you think you are, callin’ me a thief?’ Mrs Clopton shot back. ‘And you, stealin’ into this house, no better than you should be. Tryin’ to pass yourself off as a duchess.’
Mrs Clopton was shooting blindly as well, and Miranda struggled not to show how close the bolts were to hitting their target.
‘I don’t know what you are, but you ain’t quality.’
‘Because I won’t let you steal from the duke?’
The housekeeper spat back. ‘Helpin’ yourself from them that don’t need it is no great crime. But stealin’ a title …’
‘Sacked!’ The word came out of her in a roar that would have been worthy of the absent duke. ‘I hope you took enough, Mrs Clopton, to last you for a long time. I want you packed and out of this house before noon.’
She ignored the gasps and tears from the staff in the background. ‘Wilkins?’
The butler had joined the audience at some point and stepped forward in answer.
‘See to it that this woman finds her way out of the house. And then assemble the staff in the entrance hall. I wish to speak with them.’
‘Yes, your Grace.’ He looked doubtful, but the words were what mattered, not appearances. And he’d obeyed an order. It would have to do.
Messieurs Binley and Binley had been family friends and solicitors since the first duke, when the two names on the sign had belonged to the ancestors of the man currently in the office. Binley the elder was retired now, but his son Claude, a man slightly older than Marcus himself, kept the name on the sign out of respect and simplicity. After several years at Oxford, there would be a new Binley in the office, and it hardly seemed necessary to repaint.
Claude ushered him in to the oak-panelled office and seated him in a heavy leather wing chair before taking his own seat behind the enormous desk. ‘And to what do I owe this honour, your Grace?’
‘I have a problem, Claude.’
‘We have a problem, then. As I must always remind you, do not feel that you need face these things alone.’
‘This one, I might. The utmost discretion is required.’
‘Discretion is my watchword.’
Marcus smiled. There