Page 17 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
Chapter Eight
The next day upon exiting the stables after his daily ride, Preston encountered the architect and his daughter in the courtyard. Miss Davies wore a pale yellow walking dress, her hairstyle severe, spectacles perched on her nose. He suddenly felt exhilarated, wondering what barb the young woman would throw at him next.
“This explains a lot,” he said after glancing over the poem Sir Joseph handed him. He declined to refold the paper as it was so delicate. “The verse about children must have sent Mr. Sparks to the nursery. The line eat, drink, and be merry, to the dining room.”
“By all appearances, the man searched nearly every room in the hall,” her father replied.
A workman rushed toward them. Bowing to the duke, he asked, “May I have a word with Sir Joseph, Your Grace?”
“Of course.”
The worker addressed the architect, “The roofing foreman wants your advice on a matter.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Her father bowed to the duke and walked away with the laborer.
Preston now stood alone with Miss Davies, albeit outside and in view of any passersby.
“Do you believe in the existence of the treasure, Your Grace?” she asked with raised brows.
He shook his head. “I can’t say that I do. My steward obviously did.”
“Mr. Sparks caused quite a lot of damage to the house in his search.”
“That can’t be helped,” he replied somberly.
“I wonder he hasn’t returned to the hall after searching so diligently,” Miss Davies commented with a frown.
He’d had the same thought. “Perhaps he’s given up.”
“Perhaps.”
The young woman didn’t sound convinced.
“Do you really need those glasses?” he asked abruptly.
“No.” She grimaced. “They are purely to keep attention from myself.”
“I would have thought if you wanted to not attract attention, you would dress in a far more dowdy manner. Your clothes are the first stare of fashion and quite eye-catching.”
Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “I merely wish to work unmolested.”
His voice was sharp when he asked, “Has anyone on the estate bothered you?”
“No, Your Grace.”
He let out a breath and replied, “Please advise me if you are treated with anything but the greatest respect. Excuse me.”
Turning on his heel, he left the lady, eager to be away. Her disguise did nothing to hide the perfume she wore or the melodic voice in which she spoke. Wearing glasses and covering her chest was not enough to make her invisible. Her walk, her voice, and her intelligence were attractive. Mesmerizing.
Preston shook himself. Remembering the poem in his hand, he made his way to the library, where he deposited the scrap of paper between the pages of the journal several duchesses had used to write a history of the family and Barton Hall.
His aunt would arrive at the hall in a few days. He wondered what she would think of all this treasure nonsense.
* * * * *
“I think I will take a look at the nursery again,” she said to her father later that day after tea. “To make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Her father grinned. “Not looking for treasure, are you?”
