“Saturday?ThisSaturday?” All her journalistic hackles rose in unison, suggesting something was indeed amiss. “As in tomorrow?” Something wasn’t right.
He nodded, then exhaled a slow breath as if steeling himself. “Which brings me neatly to the favor I need to ask…” He was staring at his pie again, rather than at her. Definitely uncomfortable while pretending not to be. “Only I was hoping you could put a little something in that tawdry gossip column you don’t write?”
For once, she didn’t deny it. “What sort of something?”
“The deceased Duke of Harpenden’s poignant final words of love for his fiancée.”
“Last words?” She folded her arms and stared at him across the table. “But Hugh told me he died alone. By the time the butler found him, he was already cold.”
“An annoying little detail that I would prefer you omit from the article as it would rather spoil the sentiment of what the duke choked out with his tragic last breath.”
Diana didn’t try to mask her suspicion. He was asking her to lie—in print—and that jarred with all her principles. “And what, pray tell, did he say during those ‘poignant’ last moments that a devout Hunter of the Truth would consider printing in her tawdry rag?”
He smiled, looking sheepish, boyish, and utterly, sinfully, annoyingly handsome all at the same time.
“Whatever words you think Miss Dahlia would take the greatest comfort in reading on the morning of what should have been her wedding.”
And in an instant all her principles were shot to smithereens.
Because that lovely, thoughtful gesture amid everything else Giles had had to deal with over the last two days did more than pluck at Diana’s toughened heartstrings—it also broke through the impenetrable wall she had built around that jaded organ.
Chapter Seven
“It is all rather straightforward.” Mr. Cribbage, the duke’s crusty old solicitor peered at the will through his precariously balanced spectacles. “As his heir, as well as his only offspring, you inherit everything, whether it be entailed or not. There are no other beneficiaries, so it is all a simple transfer of deeds, titles, and funds that shouldn’t take too long.”
Giles hadn’t expected that and couldn’t stop his face from showing it. “Are you sure?”
“Did you anticipate something different, Your Grace?”
Only the sky to fall down and everything to go to hell in a handcart. “Are there any caveats or stipulations? Any letters or documents attached that might… affect things in any way?”
“None at all.”
“No pensions or privatepersonalagreements I need to honor?”
“His Grace had a talent for avoiding such responsibilities, Your Grace.” The solicitor’s face was bland but with that single, disapproving sentence, he went up several notches in Giles’s estimation. He slid the ornate wax-sealed parchment across his desk. “As you can see, the helm of the good ship Harpenden is now yours entirely—to chart whichever course you see fit.”
Because he couldn’t believe it, Giles took several minutes to read the duke’s last will and testament, which was indeed as straightforward as Mr. Cribbage had promised. All his sire’s worldly goods were now his, lock, stock, and barrel. He was even mentioned specifically by name—and his was the only name on the document apart from the duke’s. He stared at the precise signature for the longest time until he noticed the date beneath it.
“This will is four years old.”
“Life is a transient thing, Your Grace, and none of us know when we shall be called to meet our maker; therefore, it is important to have one’s affairs in order.” Mr. Cribbage’s smile was a tad patronizing, as lawyers’ smiles were prone to be. “As your father’s legal counsel, I insisted he was properly prepared from the moment he inherited the dukedom. As I am now your legal counsel, presuming you would like me to continue to represent the house of Harpenden, I shall insist you do the same and with all speed to ensure the smooth transition of the line of succession—should the worst happen.”
Not something Giles had the energy to think about when it was the current line of succession and all the responsibilities that hung in the balance. “But this is four years old, Mr. Cribbage. Isn’t there a more recent will that now supersedes this?” One that laid bare theDirty Secretand prevented Giles from fixing everything his sire had broken.
“His Grace and I reviewed the document annually, and as there were no changes to be made after the duchess died and all provision for her was removed, there was no reason to replace the existing will with another document that would only say the same as this one.”
“Can I ask when it was last reviewed?”
Mr. Cribbage consulted his notes. “On the first of September this year.”
Recent enough to ensure theDirty Secretapparently remained intact in the eyes of the law, but not quite recent enough to give him any peace of mind that it would remain so. “And you last met with him?”
“The first of this month as was usual. Just a few days before he died.” That certainly constituted recent enough, yet still did not alleviate the overwhelming feeling that Giles was also living on borrowed time—as a duke at least.
“During that meeting, or any subsequent meetings, did His Grace intimate that he was considering changing his will… in view of his declining health or impending marriage perhaps?”
“I am afraid I was never privy to the state of your father’s health, and when I drew up the marriage settlements there was no request to alter the will accordingly—although I did raise the matter of making suitable provision for his new bride. In view of the vast age difference and the likelihood he would die long before her, I thought that prudent. However, His Grace was in no mood to consider my advice on that particular occasion.” He tapped his papers. “I made a note to revisit it at our next audience postmarriage in the hope he would be in a more agreeable frame of mind.”
