Baker reversed the cart and soon they were tooling sedately along the pebbled sweep of the driveway, and around the right side of the castle. They pulled up at a black-painted door set in the side of a towering stone wall.
They followed Baker into a small office decorated comfortably with leather chairs and a glass-topped coffee table, which held a few neatly stacked magazines. The room was empty and they passed through it and into a long, stone-paved corridor lined with hunting prints. The castle atmosphere was strong, with even the faint scent hinting of centuries of dusty history. Miranda had no problem picturing the ancient relic of a duke who'd be waiting at the end of their trek.
The door at the end of the corridor stood ajar, as if welcoming them, and Miranda decided to view it as a positive sign. But nothing could have prepared her for what waited on the other side. They stepped into what was clearly a modern room, humming with the sound of machinery at work. A large desk faced the door. A credenza wrapped around two walls was covered with computer monitors and other technological equipment. Bright lights and humming machines brought the ambiance of the 21 century to the ducal estate.
A middle-aged man rose from behind the desk. He was nattily dressed in a blue business shirt with white cuffs, a yellow bow tie dotted with polka dots, and trim suspenders. His light brown hair was short and neat.
Disappointment flooded Miranda. This man couldn't be the duke. Though he gave off vibes of competence, he was too mild, and of course, much too young. The duke was a contemporary of her father's, which would put him well into his sixties. This man couldn't be more than forty-five.
He held out his hand to Sharmie. "David Highgrove," he said with a pleasant smile.
"How do you do," Sharmie said breathlessly, extending her hand. "I'm Sharmie Foxglove, and this is my step-daughter, Miranda."
The man turned his pleasant gaze from Sharmie to Miranda. "Two lovely ladies to brighten up my day." Gesturing to the chairs facing his desk, he sat down. "What can I do for you?"
"We've come to meet with the Duke of Devonwood," Miranda said firmly. She ignored the offer to sit down. "I don't think you can be him."
"No." He smiled again. "But I handle his business affairs."
"Our business is private." Miranda knew instinctively that a go-between could never be the person who could set aside the terms of a will. "We can only discuss it with the duke himself."
"I'm sorry." He managed to even look apologetic. "The duke has no appointments on his schedule today and therefore—" He waved an arm to avoid having to state the obvious. They did not have an appointment and could not meet with him.
"We're prepared to schedule an appointment." Miranda lifted her chin. "Can you suggest an appropriate time?"
"Ms. Foxglove." Folding his hands, Highgrove leaned over the desk. "May I be frank?"
"No," she said coolly. "There is nothing you can say that will reduce my determination to speak with the man who controls my inheritance."
Highgrove stared at her for a long minute. Then he stood up. "In that case, let me get Baker to show you out."
Miranda clutched the back of the chair. "I'm not going anywhere."
Sharmie was making small sounds of distress.
"The Duke of Devonwood," Highgrove said, "is a very busy man. He simply doesn't have time to meet with everyone who wishes to see him." He glanced at Sharmie, clearly indicating that she was the reasonable person. "I'm sure you can understand."
"Oh, yes," Sharmie murmured. "Miranda, perhaps we—"
"Absolutely not!" Miranda thumped her purse and laptop down on the desk. "Mr. Highgrove, I warn you that I will not tolerate you trying to intimidate my step-mother. Let me remind you that she has recently been widowed, has been left with two young children to raise, and is completely without funds due to the high-handedness of the Duke of Devonwood."
Highgrove's eyes narrowed. "So you're here for money."
"For our money," she corrected.
"Which you seem to believe the duke is withholding from you."
"Which he is withholding from us."
Highgrove stuck his hands in his pockets and regarded them silently.
"Perhaps you should tell me your story," he finally said. "You mentioned an inheritance?"
His raised brows invited her to continue.
Miranda remained silent, weighing her options. Highgrove seemed perfectly confident in his ability to refuse them an audience with the duke. But she had one more card to play.
"My father," she said, "was close personal friends with the duke. Very close." She watched him carefully, but he seemed unmoved by the news. "That's why he made the duke the trustee of our trust funds. So I don't think the duke would be pleased to discover we were here at his home and were prevented from seeing him."
"Whatever your father's relationship with the duke was, I can see that you don't know him at all."
"Is he that difficult?" Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that.
"Not at all," Highgrove said calmly. "But he can't be manipulated or guilted into doing anything he doesn't wish to do."
"Difficult," she muttered under her breath to Sharmie, "and highhanded as well."
Highgrove chose to ignore that. "Ms. Foxglove, you say that the duke is a trustee of yours. Why is this suddenly an urgent matter?"
"My father died recently." Unexpectedly, her lip quivered. Her father never would have intended to put her, let alone Sharmie, through all this. She couldn't imagine what he had been thinking. Mentally, she reviewed the explanation Hascombe had given them after dropping the bombshell that their trustee was a landed duke in England. Hascombe had said her mother had been English, a fact of which she was only vaguely aware, and her father had been determined to introduce her, Miranda, to her English heritage when she became an adult.
His mind had failed him before he accomplished his goal, so he'd hit upon the idea of putting her affairs into the hands of his old college friend and classmate, hoping the man would—well, Miranda didn't know what her father had hoped. But it seemed clear that the duke didn't feel much of an obligation to his old friend's daughter and wife.
"Please accept my condolences on your loss," Highgrove said, recalling her to the present. He even managed to sound sincere. She had to give him points for that.
"Thank you." She accepted the tissue Sharmie pressed into her hand. "When the will was read, we discovered that the duke was the executor of the will, our assets had all been left in trust, and he was the trustee."
She stopped, suddenly realizing that she was telling Highgrove a lot more than she'd intended. The man did have an ability to inspire confidences with his quiet attentiveness.
"You are Americans?"
Miranda nodded. "It seems unusual to us as well that my father would complicate his will with an international connection. But, as I said, he was a long-standing friend of the duke's. So, perhaps to him it didn't seem odd."
"Hmmm." Highgrove frowned. "I do see a few inconsistencies in your story. Not the least of which is the fact that the duke, though trained as a barrister, does not actually practice law anymore."
Of course not, Miranda scoffed to herself. The man must be well into retirement.
"Perhaps he'd be happy to be relieved of this responsibility," Sharmie said, her voice wavering a bit. "We don't wish to be a bother."
"Exactly." Miranda smiled. She appreciated the support from Sharmie, especially when she knew that Sharmie disliked conflict.
"It is an unusual situation," Highgrove said, his brow still knit in thought. "Perhaps we can sort it most easily by speaking with the duke."
He inclined his head toward a door at the back of the room. "Please come with me."
Miranda grabbed Sharmie's hand on the way out. "I think it's going to work," she whispered. "We'll have your money by dinnertime."
Sharmie sighed. "I hope it can be so easy."
They followed Highgrove down another hall, still in the modern addition to the ca
stle. Miranda tried not to let hope bloom too intensely. Even if she actually met with the duke, she had no guarantee he'd agree to her plan.
Highgrove knocked on a closed door. A deep voice calling out an order to come in sent shivers over Miranda. That was a virile voice for an old man. Maybe he wouldn't be the pushover she'd been hoping for.
Highgrove opened the door and sunlight poured out of the room. Miranda's eyes widened to take in the wall of windows on the far side of the large office. Her breath was knocked out of her at the sight of the beauty spread before her. The design was unstudied, but not wild, with rolling green lawns, overarching shade trees and a profusion of flowers, which looked like a tapestry of jewels in her quick glance. But the oddest thing in the entire garden was the bubble-gum pink child-sized house standing in its own spot of sunshine. What in the world was that?
Once her eyes adjusted to the brilliant light, something more forceful even than the garden or the pink house caught her attention. A dark-haired man had risen to his feet. His gray eyes were fastened in surprise on Highgrove.
Two lean, tan dogs rose alongside him.
"I believe I asked to be undisturbed this afternoon," the dark-haired man said.
Yum. Miranda shivered. That plummy British accent combined with the deep baritone voice buzzed her skin as if he'd physically caressed her.
She could see this man as an eighteenth century nobleman, with a crisp bowler on his head, and a long-tailed formal jacket outlining his delectable form as he surveyed his domain with a smug certainty that he deserved it all.
Of course, she could also see him as a pirate with a bandana tied around his head, and a white grin daring anyone to defy him as he plundered.
There was a certain look in his eyes that said he'd take what he wanted and leave the rule-following for those in his wake.
But, most of all she could see him bareheaded, wearing nothing at all, naked in bed.
She shivered, telling herself it was anger, not pleasure that caused such a strong reaction to this man.
Because, clearly, they'd been conned again. This man was not the duke. His black hair held no hint of gray. His bold features were strong and firm, marked only by small wrinkles fanning from his eyes.
She could see the outline of his body beneath a white oxford-cloth shirt and dark wool trousers. There was no hint of the soft slide toward middle-age, let alone old age. The white shirt was folded up onto his forearms, showing the taut muscles of a well-exercised man. She pegged his age as somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.
Highgrove cleared his throat. "Pardon me—"
"There is no need to make excuses," Miranda snapped. "I will not be put off by this game you all seem to be playing."
"Game?" The dark-haired man raised his eyebrows.
Miranda scowled at him. "I came all the way from New York to see the Duke of Devonwood. I keep getting passed off to other men. I suppose you all hope I'll give up and go away. But, if you think so, then you don't know me."
"Part of your logic is irrefutable." Mr. Yummy glanced over her. "I don't know you."
He nodded to the man at the door. "I'll handle this, Highgrove."
Then he walked around the desk toward Sharmie. "Ma'am?" He held out his hand. "May I ask your name and your business here?"
"Sh…Sharmie Foxglove," she squeaked, casting a speaking look of distress at Miranda.
"Foxglove…" The man's voice trailed off as his gaze became thoughtful. "I seem to have heard that name before…"
"You've never heard our name," Miranda said crossly, "because we don't know you. There's no need to be sarcastic about it."
He turned his cool gaze on her. "Are you another Foxglove?"
"Yes," she said, trying to ignore the spike of pain in her chest. They all shared the same Foxglove name. But she was the only one not related by blood. If the rest of the Foxgloves chose to move on with their lives and not include her, there would be nothing she could do about it.
She jerked up her head and stiffened her spine. Yes, she could do something. She could make sure that they knew she was capable of taking care of all of them. She could be so indispensable that they'd never consider drifting away from her.
"I suppose we're making progress," the man said drily. "Perhaps someone could tell me why you're here."
"As I mentioned, I am here to see the Duke of Devonwood," she said, "and no one else."
He gave her a slight bow. "At your service."
She almost cheered. "You'll take us to him?"
"Ms. Foxglove." Mr. Yummy inhaled a sharp sigh. "I am the Duke of Devonwood. You may choose to believe that, or not." Turning on his heel, he strode back around his desk. "However, since you have forced yourself on me, may we get on with the reason for your visit?"
But she'd lost the power of speech. He was the duke? Impossible. Dukes were ancient, and riddled with gout, and imperious. Well, he had the imperious part down. She couldn't deny that.
She had to force her mouth closed, and then it wouldn't open again to speak because she couldn't think of anything to say.
"Finally speechless?" The duke gave her a sardonic smile. "I should have announced my title when you walked in the room."
"There's no need to be nasty," she snapped. Thank god she'd gotten her brain and power of speech back. "Not that I believe you."
"Why would I lie about who I am?"
"To get rid of me."
"Would it be so easy?" The little lines around his eyes crinkled.
Was he laughing at her?
"Only in your dreams could you get rid of me so easily." She slammed her hands on his desk and leaned over. "In your nightmares, I'll be suing you for impersonating the real duke."
His lips twitched. "I can hardly misrepresent myself. I am the Duke of Devonwood."
She took a deep breath, grabbing for her patience. Obviously, the real duke was well protected with a retinue of retainers. But she hadn't come all this way to be fobbed off.
"Miranda." Sharmie pulled at her sleeve. "I think there is some mistake."
"You're right, Sharmie." Miranda tilted her head at Mr. Yummy. "He can't possibly be one of dad's contemporaries." She leveled her gaze at the imposter. "My father told our lawyer in New York that he'd left our affairs in the hands of his classmate from Oxford. When my father died two weeks ago, he was sixty five years old. Clearly, you could not be his contemporary."
Counter that, she dared him with her eyes. "I think you would agree that my step-mother and I have every right to meet the man who has the complete control of our financial affairs."
She tried to smile sweetly, just to annoy him, but she was too frustrated to pull it off.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Control of your financial affairs? I have more dependents? Impossible."
His words stung. It hurt to feel unwanted, even by a man she didn't know. But she wouldn't let him see her distress.
"If the duke doesn't want more dependents, that problem can be fixed immediately. As we told Mr. Highgrove, we will be happy to manage our own finances." She glared at him. "Which is all the more reason why you should take us to the duke right now so we can straighten this out."
"Ms. Foxglove." He pointed to the empty leather chair next to Sharmie's. "Please sit down so we can discuss this."
She wanted to refuse, merely on principle, but his cold gaze unnerved her.
She sat. "Will you promise to take us to the duke once we've explained our errand?"
He dropped into his own chair. "I promise you that you'll meet the duke." He met her gaze, his own mocking. "Do I need to pinkie swear?"
Pinkie swear? The man must have a daughter. That would also explain the pink house in the garden. Her eyes flew to the fourth finger on his left hand. No ring. But that didn't rule out either a wife or a daughter. For some reason, the thought was unsettling.
"There is no need for any childish nonsense," she said. "I am willing to take your word for it, Mr.—?" She raised her brows. It was quite rude of
him not to have introduced himself.
"Call me Devon," he said.
Devon, huh. He must be one of the family. Possibly even the heir? Her gaze returned to him again. He leaned back a little in his chair, and rested one hand on the sleek head of the dog to his right, as if trying to appear relaxed. But his back was straight and his eyes vivid with energy and charisma.
This was a man who looked like he didn't know the meaning of the word "relaxation". So he probably wasn't a member of the nobility. Her vague impression of such people was that they not only didn't need to work, but they also disdained it.
"Fine." She drew in a breath, trying to settle her annoyance. "Mr. Devon, my step-mother and I are here to discuss the terms of a will my father signed, which leaves complete power over our financial affairs to the Duke of Devonwood. As my father suffered from Alzheimer's, he clearly was not in his right mind when he wrote the will. We've been persuaded by our lawyer that litigation will be lengthy and costly. Therefore, we would like to meet with the duke to reach a reasonable settlement."
"You’re here about a will?" He leaned forward suddenly and pressed a button on a console on his desk.
She recognized Highgrove's voice when he answered. "Yes?"
"Have I recently been named executor of a will in the name of Foxglove?" He pressed a button which turned off the speaker.
But Miranda could guess what was being said.
When Mr. Yummy ended the call, he was frowning. "Apparently," he said, "I have recently been named executor of your estate. Highgrove has been handling the details."
"Wait." Miranda held up a hand. "It's your father who is the executor. Maybe you handle your father's affairs now, but I insist on dealing directly with him."
Mr. Yummy stood abruptly, and the two dogs rose beside him, their heads tilted up in inquiry. "Let me take you to the cemetery then," he said. "Since you insist."
Chapter 4
Miranda's gasp was echoed by Sharmie's. Their quarry was dead? For a long moment, she sat there in Mr. Yummy's fabulous office, clutching her laptop, unable to speak. Finally, she managed to choke out, "You are the new duke?"
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 114