She reached out and touched the spine of a leatherbound volume of poetry. It had been her father's favorite before the gambling took him.
"It's just paper," Jane whispered, her voice betraying a tremor she hated. "I shouldn't care. But I've dusted these shelves for 5 years. I know every title, and some fat, powdered lord in London is going to pawn them off to buy a new racehorse."
She felt the warmth of him before he spoke. Tom had moved up behind her, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, breaking through the chill of the damp room.
"Perhaps," Tom said, his voice a low rumble right behind her ear, "The Duke isn't entirely aware of what his men are doing. Estates are complex. Stewards make decisions."
"Don't defend him," Jane said bitterly, refusing to turn around. "Ignorance is not an excuse. Power demands responsibility. If you own the land, you own the people on it, the roof over it, the debts tied to it. If he doesn't know, he's a fool. If he does know, he's a tyrant."
Silence stretched. The only sound was the muffled drumming of the rain against the glass and the quiet dripping of water onto the canvas above them.
"You're right," Tom said quietly.
Jane finally turned. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. The mask of the quiet, simple, stable hand had slipped entirely. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and heavily burdened. He looked like a man who was carrying a weight far heavier than damp canvas.
He reached out. Jane stiffened, but she didn't pull away. Tom's rough, calloused fingers brushed a wet strand of hair away from her cheek. His touch was incredibly light, a stark contrast to the heavy labor his hands performed every day. His thumb lingered for a second on her jawline.
"You are shivering," he said softly.
"I'm fine," she lied. "Go to the kitchen. Sit by the fire. I'll finish up here."
Jane wanted to argue, but the exhaustion was a physical weight pressing down on her spine. She looked into his gray eyes and for the first time in 5 years allowed herself to surrender control to someone else.
"Don't drop the ladder on the mahogany desk," she muttered.
Tom smiled. A real genuine smile that reached his eyes and transformed his face from rugged to strikingly handsome. "I'll treat it like glass, my lady."
Jane turned and walked away, her heart hammering a strange, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She was a cynical woman. She knew better than to rely on transient men who worked for daily wages. But as she sat by the fire an hour later wrapped in a blanket, all she could think about was the rough heat of his thumb against her skin.
3 days later, the letter arrived. It bore a heavy red wax seal stamped with the crest of a wolf. Jane stared at it on the silver saloon tray for a full minute before breaking it open. As she read the heavy looping script, her stomach plummeted into her boots.
Mrs. Gable, who was kneading dough on the butcher block, stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. "What is it, Miss Jane? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Worse," Jane said, dropping the parchment onto the table. "The Duke of Penrith."
Mrs. Gable gasped, making the sign of the cross, a habit from her youth. "He's dead?"
"The old man?"
"No," Jane said, her mind racing, calculating food supplies, clean linen, the state of the guest chambers. "The old duke died two years ago. Remember? This is the new one, and he is coming here tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Mrs. Gable shrieked. "But the east wing is closed off. The rugs are full of moths. We don't have enough meat to feed a ducal party."
"We have to make do," Jane said, her voice instantly snapping into the commanding tone of a battlefield general. Panic was a luxury they couldn't afford. "Send a boy to the village. We need two hams, whatever fresh vegetables they have, and coffee. Real coffee. I will open the master suite in the West Wing. It's the only one without a leak. Get Sarah to help you pull the Holland covers off the furniture."
The next 24 hours were a blur of frenzied, backbreaking labor. Jane scrubbed floors until her knees bled. She polished silver that hadn't seen the light of day in a decade. She aired out feather mattresses and built roaring fires in grates that smoked from disuse. She didn't sleep.
By the time 5:00 a.m. rolled around the next morning, she was running purely on adrenaline and anxiety. Out of habit, she went to the kitchen, stoked the fire, and made the tea. Two pinches of the black leaves, the brown clay mug, the chipped white porcelain.