Page 46 of The Texan Duke
Words were powerful weapons, a fact Felix had evidently learned. Sam’s expression didn’t change, but he was beginning to actively dislike the younger man. He liked the man even less when he saidTexasin that jeering way.
“The bequest is a pittance,” Felix said, “if we have to move away from Bealadair. We can’t subside in London on such an amount, not for more than a few years. Having to buy a property would deplete us of a large sum. The least the duke could have done was to turn over the London house to Lara.”
“Perhaps you can apply to Connor for relief,” Sam said, his words laced with sarcasm. Felix, however, didn’t pick up on that. The man was not only a braggart and a popinjay, but he was regrettably stupid.
He sidestepped Felix, more than willing to bodily remove the other man if he tried to waylay him again.
There wasn’t as much money in Connor’s inheritance as Felix evidently thought. Sam hadn’t lied. From what he knew, Gavin had been remarkably generous to his family.
That wasn’t enough for Felix, which meant that he possessed another trait: greed.
A greedy man, especially one who was as stupid as Felix, could be dangerous. A thought Sam tucked into the back of his mind.
Chapter 15
After dinner, Elsbeth disappeared again.
Instead of engaging in desultory conversation in the parlor or complimenting the McCraight sisters on their pianoforte skills, Connor opted to return to his room and try to sleep. Sam didn’t notice, trailing after the duchess like a bird dog on a scent.
The second night at Bealadair was more restful than the first. At least Connor had been able to sleep for a few hours. He awoke at dawn, his first thought that he would get to see Elsbeth again.
He liked how she behaved when she wasn’t around the family, a thought that irritated him somehow. At dinner she’d hardly said a word, and when she had, no one seemed to pay her any attention.
She wasn’t in the family dining room. Nor was she in the kitchen. According to the cook, whose name was Addy, and who giggled a great deal when he spoke to her, she was checking the cattle.
“She’s all for looking out after the poor, dear things,” Addy said. “Especially with all the snow we’ve been having.”
“Don’t you have a foreman to do that?”
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “A foreman, Your Grace? Do you mean like Mr. Condrey? He’s the steward and does all the bills and orders the supplies, but he doesn’t actually go out and check on the cattle. Now, the ghillie, that’s Hamish Robertson, he makes sure there’s always game, and it’s looked after by him and his boys, but he always meets with Miss Elsbeth, too.”
Evidently, Glassey’s briefing had left out some details about the estate, namely that Elsbeth seemed to be managing it.
“How does she check on the cattle?”
“Why, she rides out to see them, Your Grace.”
“With all this snow?” he asked.
“Oh, her and that mare of hers, Your Grace, they go everywhere together, no matter what the weather. Why, it’s a common sight to see Miss Elsbeth and Marie racing over the hills.”
He’d gotten the impression from Elsbeth that she didn’t ride.
He thanked the cook and left the room without his breakfast or the faintly colored water they called coffee. Later, he was going to brew some on his own. No doubt he’d shock the servants. From what he was able to determine, being a duke meant sitting in the library all day and nothing more.
He grabbed his coat and hat, heading toward the stables. The building was as ornate and fancy as the rest of Bealadair and built of white stone like the main house.
He was all for treating his horses well. After all, a horse was a lifeline in Texas. He couldn’t go anywhere without one. But the stalls at Bealadair were adorned with plaster decorations, what looked like cupids riding horses and nameplates for horses that were long gone. He’d only stepped a few feet inside the building when a man introduced himself as Douglas McCraight, the stablemaster, no doubt another cousin somewhat removed.
He was about to introduce himself, but the man called him Your Grace, which was a dead giveaway that he knew who Connor was. Another man who was going toYour Gracehim to death.
“We have your saddle, Your Grace, I put it in the tack room. It’s a beautiful example of Spanish workmanship.”
“Mexican,” Connor said, correcting him. “It was done by Pedro Florian, one of the finest saddle makers in Texas.”
The other man nodded. “A beautiful piece of work, Your Grace. I can see why you brought it with you.”
“Have you got a suitable mount?”
