Page 18 of Duke of Sapphire

She drew a breath, squaring her shoulders. “If Redmont’s hounds are searching the post roads, your involvement only puts your own standing at risk. No one knows I am in your company. I can slip away at dusk and spare you further entanglements."

Henry’s brow snapped down. "You will do no such thing."

"Your Grace, I have already brought trouble to your doorstep⁠—"

"You are an unchaperoned gentlewoman with an injured foot, being pursued by mercenaries hired by a ruthless scoundrel," Henry interrupted, his voice dropping into absolute certainty. "I know Vincent Carrington. Leaving you to fend for yourself on this road is something no honorable man could permit. You remain under my protection until we reach Scotland."

“I thank you.”

He held her gaze for one beat. Two. Whatever he read there, he kept it to himself.

“Please sit,” he said quietly, gesturing to the armchair by the fire. “You are leaning heavily on your right side and I am inclined to think that means your ankle is not through with healing.”

Charlotte sat, and as she watched him move about the room, she realized she felt safer with this man than she had with her own father.

CHAPTER 6

The plan had been perfectly organized. Accounts first, then a full inspection of the property. Once that was done, Henry would find Ian, then formalize and complete the solicitor’s groundwork for guardianship. It was a reasonable sequence, manageable if the first stop was efficient.

Henry was still refining the order of it in his head when the carriage turned through the estate gate and someone began shouting.

He looked out the window.

The shouting was coming from the stables. There was a cluster of people near the stable block: a red-faced man in a steward’s coat, two housemaids with their aprons twisted in their hands, and a gray-haired woman he recognized as Mrs. Wick, who was craning her neck at the roofline. They were all talking at once. None of them were getting anywhere.

The source of their distress was sitting on the stable roof.

The boy was small, six years old, with legs dangling over the edge. He was not frightened. He was not in any apparent danger. He looked, if anything, slightly bored.

Henry stepped out of the carriage.

He crossed the yard at a steady pace—not rushing, which would signal alarm, and not dawdling, which would signal indifference. He had managed boardrooms, creditors, and at least one member of Parliament who had locked himself in the House library rather than face a vote.

A child on a roof was a logistical problem. Logistical problems had solutions.

He stopped at the base of the stable wall and looked up. “Ian.”

The boy looked down at him. He had Nathan’s dark eyes, and something of Nathan’s particular quality of stillness when he was assessing something. He took his time before answering.

“Yes?”

“I am Henry Kingswell,” Henry said. “The Duke of Sappherton. Your father’s cousin. I have come from London because I was concerned about you, and I would appreciate it very much if you would come down so we can speak properly.”

Ian considered this. “I daenae ken ye,” he said. He had a slight Scottish brogue, which caused his words to flow together in an almost musical way. “I daenae need to come down.”

“I understand. That’s why I introduced myself.”

“Aye.” Ian swung his legs idly. “I still daenae recognize ye.”

Henry tried the next approach. “It will be dark in two hours. The roof is not a comfortable place to spend the evening.”

“I’ve a blanket.”

“You—” Henry stopped. He had not expected the blanket. “That shows forethought.”

“Aye.”

“Nevertheless.” He kept his voice level. “Coming down would be considerably more sensible.”