“Uncommon sense is an understatement,” he said. “She sees through every pretense I’ve ever constructed. It’s terrifying and liberating in equal measure.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
They drank in companionable silence, two men who had known each other since boyhood contemplating the strange paths their lives had taken. Outside, London continued its eternal bustle, indifferent to the transformations occurring within its residents.
The estate improvements began in earnest during his seventh week in London.
Rhys had always known, in an abstract way, that his properties required attention. The reports from his various land agents had been piling up for years, documenting repairs deferred and improvements postponed and tenant complaints that went unaddressed. He had signed the necessary documents and authorised the minimal expenditures without ever truly engaging with what his responsibilities meant.
He met with architects about the cottages on his Cornwall estate, authorising repairs that would make them weatherproof before winter set in. He consulted with agricultural experts about improvements to drainage and irrigation that would increase crop yields. He reviewed lease terms and adjusted rents to levels that were fair rather than merely profitable.
“Your Grace has become remarkably attentive to estate matters,” Mr. Grieves observed during one of their meetings, his tone carrying a note of surprised approval.
“The tenants will be pleased.”
“The tenants have been patient. They deserve an estate owner who takes his responsibilities seriously.”
“If I may say so, Your Grace, this is quite a change from your previous approach.”
“My previous approach was inadequate. I am attempting to do better.”
Grieves nodded, making notes in his ledger like a man who had finally seen proof of transformation.
“The repairs at Hartfell are proceeding well. The new roof on the east wing should be complete before the first frost.”
Rhys thought about Hartfell, about the house where his daughters lived with the woman he loved. He had not returned since coming to London, though the temptation pulled at him constantly. But Mel had said that trust was earned through consistency, and consistency meant staying here and doingthe work rather than rushing back to claim credit for good intentions.
“Ensure that Miss Grace is consulted on any changes that affect the schoolroom or the children’s quarters,” he said. “She has a better understanding of their needs than anyone else.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Anna has mastered the subjunctive. Viola spoke at normal volume for an entire afternoon. Thistle convinced Mrs. Kemp that her bedroom could accommodate a terrarium.
The roof repairs are proceeding. The workmen are competent but loud. Anna has filed a formal complaint.
The weather has turned cold. The children spent yesterday building a structure they insisted was a scientific research station. It appears to be a fort.
***
Two months after his return to London, the moment he had been dreading finally arrived.
He was in his study, reviewing a report on drainage improvements, when Jenkins appeared in the doorway with an expression that suggested impending difficulty.
“Your Grace, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Lady Forsythe.”
Rhys felt his jaw tighten. Lady Forsythe had been one of his regular companions during his years of rakish indifference, a widow whose interest in scandal was exceeded only by her interest in the Duke of Trevane. She had been remarkably persistent in her attentions, undeterred by his lack of genuine interest or his obvious preference for uncomplicated entanglements.
“Tell her I am not at home.”
“I attempted that, Your Grace. She insisted that she would wait until you became available.”
Of course she did. Lady Forsythe had never accepted refusal gracefully.
“Show her in,” Rhys said, rising from his desk with resignation.
