"Eleanor Reed, Your Grace."
A woman near Nathaniel laughed uncertainly. "Reed? Surely not Henry Reed's daughter."
Samuel's jaw hardened. "The same."
"But she is a tenant's daughter."
"Yes, my lady."
Nathaniel looked again at the empty chair near the end of his table. "If she saved Blackmir, why was she not invited?"
This time, Samuel did not lower his eyes. "Because, Your Grace, the people who prepared tonight's guest list are the same people who spent all winter believing she had nothing worth hearing."
Nathaniel slowly closed the ledger. Then he pushed back his chair. Every conversation died.
"Where does Eleanor Reed live?"
Samuel did not answer immediately. The fire snapped in the enormous hearth, and somewhere down the table a spoon touched porcelain with an embarrassingly clear click.
"East Tenant Row, Your Grace. The stone cottage beyond Miller's field."
Nathaniel reached for his coat.
Lady Harcourt stared at him. "You cannot mean to leave your own dinner."
"Apparently, someone important was omitted."
He walked out before anyone found a polite argument against it.
Twenty minutes later, Blackmir's carriage stopped before a cottage with one lit window and a gate leaning slightly toward the road. Nathaniel stepped into the cold alone. When he knocked, footsteps approached without hurry.
The door opened.
Eleanor Reed was not what he had expected, though he could not have said what he had expected. She was twenty-seven, perhaps, with fair skin, chestnut brown hair pinned plainly at the nape, and gray-blue eyes that moved from his evening coat to the Blackmir carriage behind him. She wore a dark wool dress with ink on one cuff.
No curtsy came. Not immediately.
"Your Grace." She finally dipped her head.
"Miss Reed."
"Has something happened?"
"That depends upon whether saving my estate qualifies."
Her expression barely changed. "Samuel told you."
"Samuel appears to have been protecting several surprises for my return."
Cold air moved between them. Nathaniel expected her to invite him inside. She did not.
"May I come in?"
One eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. "You are the Duke."
"That was not my question."
For the first time, something warmer touched her eyes. "Then, yes."
The cottage was small but orderly. A fire burned low beneath a blackened mantle. Papers covered the table beside a chipped blue cup. Nathaniel recognized columns of figures. Eleanor noticed where he was looking and gathered the sheets into a neat stack.
"Samuel says you kept Blackmir solvent."
"Samuel is generous."
"The accounts are less modest."
"Accounts generally are."
Nathaniel removed his gloves slowly. "How?"