Which she would.
That was the one certainty he could count upon.
Therefore, If he meant to accomplish anything at all, he would need to proceed carefully.
Upon reaching Beckman House, he paused at the foot of the steps to adjust his gloves.
Black crepe framed the lower windows, a lozenge-shaped, black-and-white painted armorial shield was displayed on the door, and mourning ribbons were tied on the knocker.
The duchess—Dash’s young wife in name only—had succumbed to a long illness over the winter. He’d noticed and approved of this observation of grief while passing by last week.
Beatrice’s doing.
The door opened before Gideon could complete his second knock.
“Good morning, my lord.”
The newly hired butler stood squared within the doorway, posture immaculate, gloves pristine, expression arranged into careful neutrality.
He wore a black armband on his sleeve.
“Mr. Drake.”
“My lord,” the butler repeated, lifting his chin. “The duke is not available to receive visitors this morning. He is… unavailable.”
Gideon regarded him mildly.
“Unavailable,” he echoed.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Engaged elsewhere?”
Drake hesitated only slightly. “One might say so.”
Gideon studied the man’s expression. “Pursuing horticultural interests again?”
There it was—the faintest fracture in Drake’s composure. “Yes, my lord.” A pause. “He left at first light.”
Gideon nodded slowly. “Naturally.”
Drake’s lips pressed thin, as though wrestling the appropriate level of disapproval for his less than conventional employer.
“I don’t suppose his valet is happy,” Gideon added carefully.
“No,” Drake agreed gravely. “He is not.”
They regarded one another in shared resignation.
The butler then cleared his throat, slipping back into rigid propriety. “Shall I inform the duke that you called?”
“Not necessary, good man,” Gideon replied. “I should like to see Lady Beatrice.”
A subtle shift—almost relief. “In that case, my lord, you are most fortunate. Her ladyship has been engaged since sunrise.”
“Oh?”
Drake chose his next words with visible caution.
