Eleanor's expression grew guarded. "I declined."
"Why?"
"Because the road passes beside the workshop's drying room, and the foundations are old. Heavy traffic could damage the building."
"You might have told me."
She gave him a tired look. "I did, in March. You told me not to trouble you with tradesmen's concerns."
The memory returned with uncomfortable clarity: Eleanor standing beside his study desk, a folded letter in her hand, while he hurried through correspondence before leaving for London. He remembered dismissing her; he had not remembered the subject.
"I see," he murmured.
"Do you?" Eleanor asked.
He looked at her, but she had already turned back to her packing. Julian left without another word.
Downstairs, his secretary waited outside the study with a sealed packet. "The correspondence from Mr. Grant, Your Grace. Lady Margaret instructed me to deliver it privately."
Julian broke the seal. The first letter contained an offer for the workshop. The second described a proposed quarry transport route. The third, dated six weeks earlier, contained a sentence that made Julian grip the paper so tightly it creased beneath his thumb: Lady Margaret had assured Grant that the Duchess's consent was a mere formality. Beneath that assurance was a handwritten instruction from his mother: Proceed with the deposit. My son will obtain her signature.
Julian turned the page and found a fourth letter, one he had never seen before. It was addressed directly to Eleanor. It bore Eleanor's name in Percival Grant's precise, slanting handwriting.
Julian held the envelope beneath the study lamp. The seal was broken. He turned it over, searching for a date, and found one from the previous month.
"Where was this kept?" he asked.
His secretary shifted beside the desk. "In her ladyship's correspondence, Your Grace. The packet came from her private writing room."
"Was it delivered to the Duchess?"
"I cannot say, sir."
Julian placed the opened letter on the desk. Whatever it contained, it belonged to Eleanor. His mother had no business keeping it. Neither did he have any right to read it merely because he had discovered it.
"Ask Lady Margaret to join me."
The secretary bowed and withdrew.
Julian stood by the fireplace, listening to the rain. He had spent the better part of his adult life managing estates, negotiating leases, and ensuring that the Blackwood name remained synonymous with sound judgment. Yet that morning, he had attempted to dispose of property he did not own, insulted his wife, and offered her a fortune to disappear.
He looked toward the door. His mother entered without knocking. "Must this wait until morning?" she asked.