The dress was several years out of fashion and a trifle short in the hem, having belonged to a housemaid who had left Alifford's service and left the dress behind, which told Felicity something about the rate at which people came and went from this household. Mrs. Apprentice herself had the manner of someone who had already made up her mind, and was simply awaiting the evidence to arrange itself as she expected. She directed Felicity to the small room off the kitchen passage with the firmness of a woman who considered herself the last line between the household and utter catastrophe. "His Grace will see you in the drawing room," Mr. Holt announced when she emerged, which was the most oblique invitation she had ever received.
The drawing room faced south, holding the October light in that unique way of rooms correctly oriented for warmth without being inherently warm. There was a fire and there were chairs and nothing extraneous. No scattered personal items, no embroidery frame left mid-stitch. No sign of anyone having recently occupied the room for any reason other than specific purpose. There were books, though, not decorative books arranged by binding and height for show.
These were books in the specific disorder of genuine reading, removed from shelves and not returned, stacked near chairs, one left face-down in a way that would make a librarian wince, and another with a folded paper marking a page. A horticultural treatise. Tacitus, something in French with a battered spine. Three different books on Wiltshire agriculture at various stages of being read. She was scanning the spines when the Duke entered.
He had changed from his riding coat into a morning coat of dark blue that fit him with the assurance of good tailoring and no hint of vanity. He looked, Felicity thought, like a man who had tidied himself after a disruption and expected the room to cooperate. He paused when he saw her at the shelves. "You read extensively," she commented. "I read," he said. "The horticultural treatise, Tacitus, and something in French are different kinds of reading."
"Tacitus for duty, I would think, or something akin to it. The horticultural treatise for pleasure. The French I cannot quite read from here." He moved further into the room with the measured pace of a man calibrating something. "You read French."
"My governess was very dedicated to it. The French is for the walled garden," she guessed. He stopped. "Yes," he said, which was technically confirmation of a guess, but delivered with the slight defensiveness of someone who has been accurately perceived. "The south wall has the right aspect for certain things."