Royce looked his invitation.

“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it-”

Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”

Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”

Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.

He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.

Unfortunately, Falwell was unquestionably correct. The last thing the dukedom needed was to become seen as a general savior of last resort. Especially not to the towns, who were supposed to manage their responsibilities from the taxes they collected.

“In this matter, I must agree with Falwell. However, I will raise the matter, personally, with the appropriate authorities.” He glanced at Handley. “Find out who I need to see.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He looked again at Minerva, met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”

She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder what was going through her head, but then she answered, “No, Your Grace. That’s all.”

Looking down, she gathered her papers, then stood, inclined her head to him, turned, and walked to the door.

As it closed behind her, he was already considering how to use the footbridge to his best advantage.


There was more than one way to skin a cat-Minerva wondered what approach Royce was considering. With the luncheon gong echoing through the corridors, she headed for the dining room, hoping she’d read him aright.

She hadn’t been surprised by Falwell’s comments; his role was to manage the estate as a business, rather than care for its people. The latter was in part her role, and even more so the duke’s. Royce’s. He’d said he would take up the issue-presenting her request more clearly in people terms might help. As she neared the dining room, Royce walked out of the parlor opposite. He’d heard her footsteps; he’d been waiting for her. He paused, met her gaze; when she reached him, without a word he waved her ahead of him through the dining room door.

The rest of the company were already at table, engrossed in a discussion of Margaret’s and Susannah’s plans for the six days remaining before the fair. She and Royce went to the laden sideboard, helped themselves from the variety of cold meats, hams, and assorted delicacies displayed on the platters and dishes, then Royce steered her to the head of the table, to the chair beside his. Jeffers leapt to hold it for her.

By the time she’d sat and settled her skirts, Royce was seated in his great carver, by the angle of his shoulders, and the absolute focus of his attention on her, effectively cutting off the others-who read the signs and left them in peace.

They started eating, then he met her eyes. “Thank you for your help with the sheep.”

“You knew Hamish was the best source for breeders-you didn’t need me to tell you so.”

“I needed you to tell Falwell so. If I’d suggested Hamish, he’d have tied himself in knots trying to acceptably say that my partiality for Hamish’s stock was because of the connection.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “But you aren’t connected to Hamish.”

“No, but Falwell knows I approve of Hamish.”

“But not even Falwell would suggest that you-the farmers’ champion-would urge me to get stock from anywhere that wasn’t the best.” Royce met her eyes, let his lips curve slightly. “Using you to suggest Hamish, having your reputation supporting the idea, saved time and a considerable amount of convoluted argument.”

She smiled, pleased with the disguised compliment.

He let her preen for a moment, then followed up with, “Which raises a related issue-do you have any suggestions for a replacement for Falwell?”

She swallowed, nodded. “Evan Macgregor, Macgregor’s third son.”

“And why would he suit?”

She reached for her water glass. “He’s young, but not too young, a gregarious soul who was born on the estate and knows-and is liked by-literally everyone on it. He was a scallywag when younger, but always good-hearted, and he’s quick and clever-more than most. Now he’s older, being the third son, and with Sean and Abel more than capable of taking on Macgregor’s holding between them, Evan has too little to do.” She sipped, then met his eyes. “He’s in his late twenties, and is still helping on the farm, but I don’t think he’ll stay much longer unless he finds some better occupation.”

“So at present he’s wasted talent, and you think I should use him as steward.”

“Yes. He’d work hard for you, and while he might make the odd mistake, he’ll learn from them, and, most importantly, he’ll never steer you wrongly over anything to do with the estate or its people.” She set down her glass. “I haven’t been able to say that of Falwell for more than a decade.”

Royce nodded. “However, regardless of Falwell’s shortcomings, I meant what I said about the footbridge being something the dukedom can’t simply step in and fix.”

She met his eyes, studied them, then faintly raised her brows. “So…?”

He let his lips curve in appreciation; she was starting to read him quite well. “So I need you to give me some urgent, preferably dramatic, reason to get on my ducal high horse and cow the aldermen of Harbottle into fixing it.”

She held his gaze; her own grew distant, then she refocused-and smiled. “I can do that.” When he arched a brow, she smoothly replied, “I believe we need to ride that way this afternoon.”

He considered the logistics, then glanced at the others.

When he looked back at her, brows lifting, she nodded. “Leave them to me.”

He sat back and watched with unfeigned appreciation as she leaned forward and, with a comment here, another there, slid smoothly into the discussions they had, until then, ignored. He hadn’t noticed how she dealt with his sisters before; with an artful question followed by a vague suggestion, she deftly steered Susannah and Margaret-the ringleaders-into organizing the company to drive into Harbottle for the afternoon.

“Oh, before I forget, here’s the guest list you wanted, Minerva.” Seated along the table, Susannah waved a sheet; the others passed it to Minerva.

She scanned it, then looked at Margaret, at the table’s foot. “We’ll need to open up more rooms. I’ll speak with Cranny.”

Margaret glanced at him. “Of course, we don’t know how many of those will attend.”

He let his lips curve cynically. “Given the…entertainments you have on offer, I suspect all those invited will jump at the chance to join the party.”

Because they’d be keen to learn firsthand whom he’d chosen as his bride. Comprehension filled Margaret’s face; grimacing lightly, she inclined her head. “I’d forgotten, but no doubt you’re right.”

The reminder that he would soon make that announcement, thus signaling the end of his liaison with her, bolstered Minerva’s determination to act, decisively, today. While his desire for her was still rampant she stood an excellent chance of securing her boon; once it waned, her ability to influence him would fade.

Susannah was still expounding on the delights of Harbottle. “We can wander around the shops, and then take tea at the Ivy Branch.” She looked at Minerva. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “They still serve excellent teas and pastries.”

Margaret had been counting heads and carriages. “Good-we can all fit.” She glanced at Minerva. “Are you coming?”

She waved the list of guests. “I need to attend to this, and a few other things. I’ll ride down later and perhaps join you for tea.”

“Very well.” Margaret looked to the table’s head. “And you, Wolverstone?” Ever since he’d agreed to their house party, Margaret and Aurelia had been making an effort to accord him all due deference.

Royce shook his head. “I, too, have matters to deal with. I’ll see you at dinner.”

With that settled, the company rose from the table. Conscious of Royce’s dark gaze, Minerva hung back, letting the others go ahead; he and she left the dining room at the rear of the group.

They halted in the hall. He met her eyes. “How long will you take?”

She’d been swiftly reviewing her list of chores. “I have to see the timber merchant in Alwinton-it might be best if you meet me in the field beyond the church at…” She narrowed her eyes, estimating. “Just after three.”

“On horseback, beyond the church, at just after three.”

“Yes.” Turning away, she flung him a smile. “And to make it, I’ll have to rush. I’ll see you there.”

Suiting action to her words, she hurried to the stairs and went quickly up-before he asked how she planned to motivate him to browbeat the aldermen into submission. The sharp jab she had in mind would, she thought, work best if he wasn’t prepared.


After speaking with Cranny about rooms for the latest expected guests, and with Retford about the cellar and the depredations likely during the house party, she checked with Hancock over his requirements for the mill, then rode into Alwinton and spoke with the timber merchant. She finished earlier than she’d expected, so dallied in the village until just after three before remounting Rangonel and heading south.

As she’d expected, Royce was waiting in the designated field, both horse and rider showing their customary impatience. He turned Sword toward Harbottle as she ranged alongside. “Are you really planning on joining the others in Harbottle later?”

Looking ahead, lips curving, she shrugged lightly. “There’s an interesting jeweler I could visit.”

He smiled and followed her gaze. “How far is it to this footbridge?”

She grinned. “About half a mile.” With a flick of her reins, she set Rangonel cantering, the big gelding’s gait steady and sure. Royce held Sword alongside despite the stallion’s obvious wish to run.

A wish shared by his rider. “We could gallop.”

She shook her head. “No. We shouldn’t get there too early.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” She caught his disgruntled snort, but he didn’t press her. They crossed the Alwin at the ford, water foaming about the horses’ knees, then cantered on, cutting across the pastures.

A flash of white ahead was the first sign that her timing was correct. Cresting a low rise, she saw two young girls, pinafores flapping, books tied in small bundles on their backs, laughing as they skipped along a track that led down a shallow gully disappearing behind the next rise to their left.

Royce saw them, too. He shot her a suspicious, incipiently frowning glance, then tracked the pair as he and she headed down the slope. The girls passed out of sight behind the next rise; minutes later, the horses reached it, taking the upward slope in their stride, eager to reach the crest.

When they did, Royce looked down and along the gully-and swore. He hauled Sword to a halt, and grimly stared down.

Expressionless, she drew rein beside him, and watched a bevy of children crossing the Coquet, swollen by the additional waters of the Alwin to a turbulent, tempestuous, swiftly flowing river, using the rickety remnants of the footbridge.

“I thought there was no school in the area.” His clipped accents underscored the temper he held leashed.

“There isn’t, so Mrs. Cribthorn does what she can to teach the children their letters. She uses one of the cottages near the church.” It was the minister’s wife who had brought the execrable state of the footbridge to her attention. “The children include some from certain of Wolverstone’s crofter families where the women have to work the fields alongside their men. Their parents can’t afford the time to bring the children to the church via the road, and on foot, there is no other viable route the children could take.”

The young girls they’d seen earlier had joined the group at the nearer end of the bridge; the older children organized the younger ones in a line before, one by one, they inched their way along the single remaining beam, holding the last horizontal timber left from the bridge’s original rails.