Page 5 of The Raven’s Lady

“Very good of you, miss… that is, my lady,” said Trimley. “To Sir Adrian, establishing himself with credit in the neighborhood is of pressing importance, so perhaps you would agree to his immediate occupancy and a lease, of say, three years at the rate previously mentioned.”

Beside Cassie, Honoria gasped. Sir Adrian appeared unmoved.

“Immediate occupancy?” Cassie asked, seeing ledger books that had been against her for months turn and go her way.

“Within a fortnight, say.” Trimley glanced at the closed face of his employer.

“A fortnight! How could we, Cassie?” Honoria exclaimed. “The dower house could hardly be readied in such a span, and the duchess…” Her aunt was beginning to babble. There was no other word for it. Her poor shawl would soon be in knots. Cassie put a hand on Honoria’s to calm her.

She studied Sir Adrian’s stern countenance. His desire to have Verwood without poking into any of its rooms or considering its limitations, and there was one very large limitation her grandmother would impose, could only mean that he had some personal motive or design in mind.

“Are there no other properties in the district that would suit?”

Sir Adrian turned to her, cool and unyielding. “None. I can arrange assistance for you to move household if you like.”

Facing that unshakable determination, Cassie had a sudden flash of sympathy for Hugh. Sir Adrian Cole was a man who would impose his will on the world. She was saved from the intemperate reply that sprang to her lips by the opening of the drawing room door.

*

Raven rose, and half a beat behind him, Trimley popped to his feet. There was no mistaking the woman who entered the room as anyone other than a duchess. In a riding habit of midnight blue, silver hair framing a face pared down to its elegant bone structure, startling blue eyes above an aquiline nose and a mouth drawn into a tight bow of disapproval, she appeared an icy shard of pure will. From the tips of her York tan-gloved fingers, she dangled a brown paper package. The young footman who’d opened the door, stood to attention behind her.

“What is the meaning of this rubbish?” she asked, fixing a contemptuous gaze on her granddaughter. “Murray’s publishing house?”

Raven heard a soft moan from the dithering aunt before Cassandra Lavenham stepped forward to take the package from her grandmother’s hand. “Oh, Grandmama, it’s just a novel I ordered from London. I beg your pardon for leaving it in the hall, but you see, Sir Adrian and Mr. Trimley are here to discuss the lease arrangements.”

The duchess turned to Raven, and he met her fierce scrutiny. There was little she could see in him but the careful work of an excellent tailor. She could hardly read his past history as Raven, one of the Duke of Wenlocke’s lost boys, or his more recent history as his grandfather Jedediah Cole’s heir. The brand-new sir of his knighthood would hardly impress her either. He met her stare, and let her size him up however she meant to rate him.

“Who are you? Who are your people? Cole, that’s your name is it?” she demanded.

“It is, your grace.”

“Not a name of distinction, is it?”

“We Coles have had our share of the world’s notice, your grace.” Adrian found himself revising his estimate of Cassandra Lavenham’s courage. The woman who had faced down Hugh had apparently learned from dealing with the dowager duchess, who looked capable of staring down giants.

“What is your family’s trade, young man?”

“Iron and glass, your grace. Cannons for Wellington. Fire engines for London.”

“And, no doubt, glass for shop windows! You expect to enjoy the rights and privileges of Verwood?”

“I expect to pay for them, your grace.”

“To be sure. I may have been induced to let my house, but as to compromising its dignity by permitting any trumped-up nonentity to—”

“Grandmama, remember our purpose,” Lady Cassandra interjected, drawing the duchess’s gaze. “You may trust me to make all the terms and conditions regarding your stables clear to Sir Adrian.”

Lady Cassandra held her grandmother’s gaze for a long moment before the older woman turned back to Raven. “That’s your chaise in the drive?”

“It is.”

“A neat turnout. And your man, he knows how to handle his cattle?”

“He does, your grace.”

“Best to have him see my man Snell about your horses then. There’s a sharp wind blowing.”

“Thank you, your grace.”