His heart was beating rapidly as he spoke, however, which didn’t help his headache. He turned and left the room, unable to take her green eyes gazing at him any longer.
***
Steven couldn’t find any servants. The house was dark with the winter afternoon, and no lamps burned anywhere, nor did any fires. The new duke took frugality to an obsessive extreme.
He’d have to go down to the servants’ hall and recruit a few sturdy footmen to help. Shouldn’t be too much problem—no one was doing any actual work in the house that he could see, and Steven was good at rallying people to obey him.
He did run across a servant standing in near darkness in a parlor on the second floor. The windows faced west, so a trickle of light came in, but only enough to show there was a person in there at all. The man wore a dark suit, like the footman John, but had hunched shoulders and spindly legs. Not much good for moving furniture.
A closer look showed Steven that he was perusing papers on a tall table in front of him. Also that his clothes were wrinkled and looked less costly than even the footman’s kit.
This was either a vagrant who’d wandered inside, or the new duke himself, the repugnant Albert.
Whoever he was, he heard Steven’s step, and turned with a jerk. The man looked Steven up and down, his hands curling as his gaze lingered on Steven’s kilt. “What the devil are you supposed to be made up as?” he snapped.
“A Scotsman,” Steven said. “I thought you weren’t at home, Your Grace.”
Chapter Six
Steven saw a resemblance to the late duke in Albert, but everything that had been strong in Charles was weak in his son. Charles had sported a receding hairline, as did his son, but the older duke had had a robust mane of white hair to go with his, while Albert’s graying hair straggled in thin wisps. Charles hadn’t been tall, but his back had been straight and strong, while Albert’s shoulders were slumped with too many hours of poring over papers.
“A Scotsman.” Albert repeated. “What is a haggis-eating, sheep-loving bagpiper doing in my house?”
“I don’t eat haggis,” Steven said, letting his accent deepen. “And I never mastered the pipes, much to the despair of my poor brother. As for the sheep . . .” He shrugged. “Could never get very far there. Damp wool makes me sneeze.”
Albert’s scowl deepened. “Get out of my house, sir.”
Steven debated explaining his presence, and Rose’s, but decided to let the man wonder. “Not until I take what I came for.”
“Are you robbing me, then? I’ll have the constables on you.”
Steven folded his arms. “No, you won’t.”
However strong-willed his father had been, Albert had inherited only pigheadedness, Steven decided. He was half Steven’s size, yet he swung away from the table, grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and came at him.
Steven easily caught the man’s upraised arm as it descended, and twisted the poker out of his hand. He propelled Albert back to the table and slammed him face-first onto it. “Only attack if you have the advantage of surprise or superior strength and position.” He pressed Albert’s face harder into the wood. “Or prepare to be trounced. I have a raging headache, and see how easily I’ve bested you?”
“Get off me, you bloody dung-eater.”
Steven’s temper flared through the hangover. “Your own mouth’s plenty full of shit. Thinking about what you’re doing to Rose, I’ve a mind to grind you through this table until you learn some manners.”
“Are you her latest lover, then? What happened to the comte?”
Steven pressed Albert down harder until he cried out. Steven growled, “Keep a civil tongue, man, before I’ll—”
“Steven, what on earth are you doing?” Rose’s exclamation cut into the room, followed by the rustle of her skirts. “Is that Albert? Good heavens, let him up.”
Steven didn’t want to. He’d love to beat son Albert into the table until the man’s face was bloody. That would be satisfying.
But the note in Rose’s voice made Steven release Albert and step away. She was a good woman to feel sorry for Albert in spite of it all, no matter how much Steven didn’t share her sympathy.
“You’re lucky she’s such a sweetheart,” Steven said to Albert. “And that she walked into the room just now.”
“I’ll have the law on you,” Albert snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“No, you will not,” Rose said decidedly. She was an angel in black, her hair and face the only color in the gloom. “Captain McBride is here to help me take the furniture Charles left me, that is all. I’ve rung for John—he and Thomas and James will carry down the chest from the old parlor.”
“What furniture?” Albert snapped. “You can’t take any furniture.”
“It’s in the will,” Steven said, stopping himself from slamming the man into the table again. “Two pieces of furniture, her choice. She’s chosen one; she’ll be back for another.”
“My solicitor—” Albert spluttered.
“May contact Her Grace in London.” Steven went to Rose and took her elbow. “I think we should be off, love,” he said softly to her.
“Don’t call her Her Grace,” Albert snarled behind them. “She’s not a duchess—she’s the bloody whore who killed my father. She deserves nothing.”