She Was Sold to an Old Duke — But His Wedding Night Gift Changed Everything
Chapter 6
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She found the morning room by following the faint smell of roasted oats and coffee. Thomas Ashbourne was seated at the head of a long, polished table. He wore a dark gray day coat. He looked just as exhausted as he had the night before, heavily focused on a stack of ledgers and correspondence.He glanced up as she entered. He did not smile. "You slept?""I did, Your Grace," Josephine replied, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table. The distance between them was vast; it felt appropriate."Thomas," he said flatly, returning his eyes to his paperwork. "If we are to maintain this barricade, you must call me Thomas. 'Your Grace' makes you sound like one of the scullery maids.""Very well, Thomas." The name felt strange on her tongue—heavy.A footman poured her tea. It was pitch black, exactly as she had ordered. She took a sip, letting the bitter heat steady her nerves. She watched him work as he methodically struck lines through columns of numbers in a leather-bound book."My brother was a gambler," Josephine said into the quiet room.The scratching of the Duke's quill stopped. He looked up, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly. "I am aware.""He was a gambler and a terrible liar," she continued, setting her cup down carefully on the saucer. "I spent the last five years dodging creditors, lying to the butcher, and managing whatever pathetic remnants of our finances were left after he visited the gin houses. I can read a ledger, Thomas. I can spot a discrepancy. If I am to run this house, I will not do it blindly. I want to see the household accounts."Silence stretched across the long table. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked. Josephine held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her face perfectly still. She was not asking for a favor; she was negotiating her position.Slowly, Thomas closed the heavy ledger in front of him. He pushed it down the polished surface of the table; it slid to a halt inches from her plate."The estate manager is a man named Carson," Thomas said, his voice a low gravel rumble. "He has been stealing from me for three years—small amounts, coal shipments routed to private buyers. I have not had the energy to root out the exact paperwork to sack him without a scandal." He picked up his coffee cup. "Find it. Sack him. The household is yours, Josephine."She looked down at the ledger. The leather cover was worn from use. She opened it to the first page: the columns of numbers were neat, precise, and entirely familiar. It was a language she spoke fluently."I will have it done by Thursday," she said.A faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched the corner of Thomas's mouth. "Good. Because my nephew arrives on Friday, and he is a far worse parasite than Carson."Reginald Ashbourne arrived precisely at noon on Friday, bringing with him the stench of expensive cologne and an overwhelming sense of entitlement.