Finally, the door opened. A young maid stood there, her apron stained with soot, her eyes going wide as saucers as she took in Victor's polished boots, his immaculately tailored riding coat, and the cold authority in his pale gray eyes. "I am the Duke of Westmoreland," Victor said, his voice flat. "I am here to call upon Miss Penrose and her aunt." The maid squeaked, stepped back, and practically bolted down the hall.
Victor let himself in. The foyer smelled of floor wax and desperation. The cold in the house was bone deep, worse than the winter air outside because it felt trapped, stagnant. A door down the hall slammed open.
Footsteps hurried toward him, accompanied by the frantic thumping of a cane. Agatha Hawley rounded the corner. She was a thin, sharp-edged woman wearing a dress that had been fashionable a decade ago. The moment she saw him, her face contorted into an expression of obsequious terror and greedy delight.
It was a look Victor had seen on politicians and debt-ridden gamblers, and he despised it instantly. "Your Grace." Agatha dropped into a deep, trembling curtsy.
"We are honored beyond words. Had I known... the house is... Please, come into the drawing room. It is the greatest honor."
Victor offered a stiff nod.
"Mrs. Hawley, I presume. Forgive the intrusion. My carriage suffered an accident on your boundary yesterday. Your niece was of some assistance. I came to formally express my gratitude."
Agatha's smile froze. Her eyes darted nervously.
"Florence? Assistance? Your Grace, I am mortified. She is a crude, clumsy girl. She had no business speaking to you."
"I found her quite capable," Victor said coldly, following Agatha into the drawing room.
The room was exactly as Florence had described it. Drafty, shabby. A single pathetic fire burned in the grate, giving off no heat whatsoever.
"Please, sit," Agatha fluttered, gesturing to a faded velvet armchair. "I will send for tea. And I will have Florence brought down to apologize for whatever insolence she surely showed you." "That won't be necessary." Victor began, but Agatha was already yelling for the maid in the hallway. He stood by the cold fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
Ten minutes later, the door clicked open.
Florence stepped into the room. She was wearing a faded blue day dress that was mended at the elbows. Her dark hair was pinned up severely, pulling the skin tight across her sharp cheekbones. She looked pale, tired, and deeply guarded.
When she saw him standing there, a muscle in her jaw jumped. Her eyes flicked from Victor to Agatha, calculating the exact level of disaster unfolding. Florence. Agatha hissed, her voice dripping with venom masked as politeness.
His Grace has come to accept your apology. Florence stood perfectly still. She looked at Victor. He saw the flush of humiliation creep up her neck, staining her pale skin.
She knew exactly why he was there. He wasn't there for an apology. He was there to inspect the ruin. I was unaware I owed one.
Florence said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of the fire she had shown in the rain. It was the voice of a prisoner. You left a duke standing in the mud.
Agatha snapped. Apologize this instant. Victor took a step forward. Mrs. Hawley, please.
Miss Penrose owes me no apology. In fact, I owe her one. I came to ask after her hands. The wood on that fence was rough.
Agatha blinked, utterly derailed. Her hands? Yes. Victor didn't look at the older woman.
He kept his eyes locked on Florence. I fear the splintered wood may have caused injury. Florence held his gaze. There was no gratitude in her dark eyes, only a bitter, sharp resentment.
He was playing a gentleman's game, and she was the pawn. "My hands are perfectly fine, Your Grace," she said, clasping them tightly together in front of her. "It is kind of you to inquire, and entirely unnecessary." "I decide what is necessary," Victor replied softly. "I see." Florence gave a shallow, mocking nod.
"Then I thank you for fulfilling your noble obligation. If you will excuse me, the kitchen requires my attention. We are short-staffed." "You will stay right here," Agatha ordered, her face flushing with rage. "His Grace is our guest." "His Grace is a tourist," Florence said flatly.
The words dropped into the room like heavy stones. Agatha gasped. Victor went completely still. Florence looked Victor directly in the eye, stripping away the polite veneer.
"You wanted to see it, didn't you? The house, the poverty. You wanted to see if I was telling the truth about the fire. Well, here it is, Your Grace. The roof leaks, the coal is rationed, and we are completely ruined. I hope the reality matches the entertainment value you sought."
Silence swallowed the room, thick and suffocating. Agatha looked as though she might actually faint. Her hand gripped her cane so hard her knuckles were bone white. "Go to your room," she whispered, her voice shaking with an anger so absolute it bordered on madness. "Get out of my sight."
Florence didn't flinch. She gave Victor one last, lingering look, a look that told him he had crossed a line he didn't even know existed, and walked out of the room, her spine completely straight. Victor watched the empty doorway, a cold sensation washing over him.