“With Aldous Whitmore’s help, I understand.”
“He mentioned it to one of my men.”
She stared at him. “Your men have spoken to the Whitmore family?”
“I make it a habit to know the estates I intend to visit.”
He said it simply, without apology, though something in his tone suggested it was not habit at all, that this had taken months, not days.
He asked about the library next, how she had sourced replacement bindings for the water-damaged volumes, where she had learned to read old estate ledgers well enough to catch an error the family’s own steward had missed for six years. He asked about the tenant children, about which families still struggled through winter, about a schoolhouse that didn’t yet exist but clearly should.
He was not flirting. He was not performing charm the way suitors did with Marguerite. He was listening, and worse, he already knew half the answers before she gave them.
“You’ve been investigating me,” Serafina said finally, quiet enough that only he could hear.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Not you directly at first. I was searching the eastern county records for the girl who helped me at the gamekeeper’s cottage years ago. When I traced your name to Ashford Manor, my men uncovered the local whispers about how you quietly balanced the neglected estate ledgers and taught the tenant children to read. Longer than you’d believe.”
Across the table, Lady Cordelia’s knuckles had gone white around her wine glass. Isolde leaned toward Marguerite, whispering something behind her fan, her eyes darting between Serafina and the duke with open suspicion.
When dinner ended, the duke did not linger over dessert wine with her father as custom demanded. Instead, he turned to Lord Devereux directly.