Chapter One

 

“Dead?”

Josie Hartwell stared at Mr Pemberton, the word hanging between them like something fragile and impossible. The morning light slanting through the parlour window seemed too bright, too ordinary for what he had just said.

“I am sorry, Miss Hartwell.” The physician’s voice was gentle, though his hands twisted the brim of his hat with visible unease. “Your father’s heart simply… gave out. Mrs Dawson was quite right to send for me at once this morning. From all I can determine, he passed quietly. There was no warning, and no pain.”

Josie’s breath caught. 

Her father. Her kind, distracted, endlessly optimistic father, who hummed hymns while mending books and never remembered to eat unless someone placed a plate before him.

Gone.

She became aware that her hands were gripping the arms of her chair hard enough to ache. With an effort, she released them and smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers. Lily—her younger sister—stood frozen by the mantel, her face drained of all colour.

“When?” Josie managed.

“Sometime during the night, I believe. Mrs Dawson said she found him slumped over his desk at first light.” Mr Pemberton cleared his throat. “There are… arrangements to be made. The church will need to be informed, and—”

“Of course.” Josie rose, though her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She was the eldest. She must think clearly. “Thank you for coming, Mr Pemberton. You have been very kind.”

He departed with murmured condolences, leaving Josie and Lily alone in the suddenly oppressive quiet of the parlour. The clock upon the mantel ticked on with relentless cheerfulness. Somewhere in the house, Mrs Dawson was weeping.

“What shall we do?” Lily’s voice was small—far younger than her nineteen years.

Josie crossed the room and took her sister’s cold hands in her own. “We shall manage, dearest. We always have.”

But even as she spoke the words, doubt crept through her like winter air through a cracked window. Her father had been the vicar of Halford parish for twenty years. The vicarage was church property—owned, like the living itself, by the Duke of Greystone. When a vicar died, his family had no claim to remain.

 

***

 

Three days later, Josie stood in the churchyard and watched them lower her father into the ground.

The service had been well attended. He had been loved—if not precisely respected by those who believed a vicar ought to possess more worldly sense. He had given away more than he kept, forgiven debts that should have been collected, and maintained a cheerful faith in human goodness that the world had rarely justified.

She stood between Lily and their brother Thomas, newly arrived from London and looking haggard in an ill-fitting mourning coat. He had grown thinner since she had last seen him; his face was sharper now, his eyes restless.

“Come,” she murmured when the service ended. “Let us go home.”

They walked back to the vicarage in silence, Lily clinging to Josie’s arm, Thomas trailing behind with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Mrs Dawson had laid out a modest cold supper, though none of them possessed much appetite. Thomas picked at his plate and kept glancing toward the door.

“Thomas,” Josie said quietly. “Is something amiss?”

He looked up sharply, then away. “No. Nothing.”

Before she could press him further, a knock sounded at the front door.

Mrs Dawson appeared a moment later, her expression pinched with anxiety. “Miss Hartwell, there is a… gentleman here to see you. A Mr Granger. He says it is urgent.”

Josie exchanged a glance with Lily, then rose. “Show him in, please.”

Mr Granger proved to be a thin, sour-faced man in a dark coat, a leather case tucked beneath one arm. He bowed stiffly upon entering the parlour, his gaze sweeping the room with the appraising air of someone taking inventory.

“Miss Hartwell. My condolences on your loss.” His tone suggested the words were a duty rather than a sentiment. “I am Mr Granger, solicitor. I have come on a matter of some urgency concerning your late father’s affairs.”

Josie’s stomach tightened. “Of course. Please, sit.”

He did so, settling into the chair with the ease of a man accustomed to delivering unwelcome news. Opening his case, he withdrew a sheaf of papers.

“I shall be direct, Miss Hartwell. Your father died owing a considerable sum of money.”

The room seemed to tilt. Josie tightened her grip upon the arm of her chair. “I beg your pardon?”

“Debts. To various tradesmen and creditors in the village. The total amount is four hundred and seventy-three pounds, six shillings.”

The number struck her like a physical blow. Four hundred pounds. Her father’s living had provided a modest income—enough for simple comfort, but never for savings laid aside.

“That cannot be correct,” Josie said, though her voice sounded distant even to her own ears. “My father was careful—”

“Your father was generous to a fault. He forgave what was owed to him while incurring debts of his own. He gave money to anyone who asked.” Mr Granger slid the papers across the table toward her. “And now those debts have fallen due.”

Lily made a small sound of distress. Josie reached for her hand without looking away from Mr Granger.

“How long have we to settle the debt?”

“The creditors are prepared to be reasonable, given the circumstances. Six weeks.” He paused. “After that, they will pursue legal remedies.”

Six weeks. To find four hundred pounds.

Impossible.

“I see.” Josie forced her voice to remain steady. “Thank you for informing us, Mr Granger.”

He rose, clearly unmoved. “There is one further matter. The living of Halford parish is in the gift of His Grace, the Duke of Greystone. With your father’s passing, His Grace will appoint a new vicar. You and your family must vacate the vicarage to make way for the new incumbent.”

Josie had known this was coming, yet hearing it spoken aloud gave it a dreadful solidity.

“When?”

“That rests entirely with His Grace. However, I would advise against delay. The Duke’s steward will be in contact regarding the arrangements.” He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Hartwell.”

When he was gone, Josie remained seated, staring at the papers he had left behind. Four hundred pounds. Eviction.

“Josie?” Lily’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “What are we to do?”

Josie had no answer.

 

***

 

That evening, Thomas finally confessed.

He waited until Lily had gone to bed, her face blotched from hours of weeping. Then he came to Josie’s small sitting room and stood in the doorway, looking very much like a man awaiting sentence.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

Josie set aside the letter she had been attempting to write—a carefully worded appeal to a distant cousin who might offer them temporary shelter. She looked at her brother and felt dread settle heavily in her chest.

“Tell me.”

He came in and sank into the chair opposite her. For a long moment, he said nothing at all.

“The debts,” he said at last. “Some of them are mine.”

She went utterly still. “What?”

“I borrowed money,” he said hoarsely. “From a moneylender in London. I believed I could repay it—I thought—” His voice faltered. “When I could not, I did something even more foolish. I gambled, hoping to win the sum outright.”

The floor seemed to sway beneath her. “And?”

“I lost.” He swallowed. “Badly.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred pounds. Gambling debts.”

Two hundred. Nearly half the debt.

“Thomas.” She could scarcely shape his name. “How could you?”

“I know.” His face was drawn with anguish. “Father paid it to protect me—to keep me out of debtor’s prison. He said nothing to you or Lily. But it left him with nothing, and then—” He broke off, pressing his hands over his face. “And then he died.”

Josie stared at her brother, feeling something within her fracture beyond repair. Her father had taken upon himself a burden he should never have borne for Thomas, and had been left with nothing.

“Where is the moneylender now?”

“Still in London. Father paid what he could—but only what I owed at the tables. The original sum still remains unpaid. Now that Father is dead, the man has given me until the end of next month to repay, or he will…” Thomas’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He will have me arrested.”

Debtor’s prison.

Josie rose and crossed to the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the vicarage garden lay dark and still. She had played there as a child, had gathered flowers with her mother before the fever took her. This house—this life—was slipping through her fingers.

“We have no money,” she said quietly. “No savings. No property to sell.”

“I know.” Thomas’s voice was wretched. “Josie, I am so very sorry—”

“Sorry does not pay debts.” She turned to face him, and he flinched. “Sorry will not keep you out of prison, nor Lily from ruin.”

He looked away, his jaw set.

Josie drew a slow breath, forcing herself to think. There must be a way.

“I shall write to Aunt Judith,” she said. “Perhaps she will help.”

“She will not.” Thomas’s voice was flat. “You know she will not.”

He was right.

“Then I shall seek employment. As a governess, perhaps—”

“It would take years to earn four hundred pounds as a governess,” Thomas interrupted. “Even if you found a position at once. And what of Lily? What of me?”

“What of you?” The words emerged more sharply than she intended. “You brought this disaster upon us, Thomas.”

He winced but did not protest.

Josie sank back into her chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. Four hundred pounds. Six weeks. A future stretching before her like a dark, unmarked road.

“We are ruined,” Thomas said softly.

“Not yet.” Josie’s voice was steadier than she felt. “Not yet.”

But she did not know how to make the words true.

 

***

 

The summons came two days later.

Josie was in the kitchen, helping Mrs Dawson take inventory of the larder, when the knock sounded at the front door. She heard the housekeeper’s measured footsteps, the low murmur of voices. Then Mrs Dawson appeared in the doorway, her face pale and drawn.

“Miss Hartwell. There is a man here from Greymont Hall. He says the Duke’s steward wishes to see you.”

Greymont Hall. The Duke of Greystone’s estate.

Josie’s heart gave a painful lurch. “When?”

“Now, miss. He has a carriage waiting.”

She untied her apron with unsteady hands and glanced down at her dress—a simple black gown of mourning, plainly made and already fraying at the cuffs. It would have to suffice.

“Tell him I shall be ready in a moment.”

Upstairs, she paused before the small mirror and drew a steadying breath. The reflection that stared back at her was pale and dark-eyed, her brown hair pulled into a modest knot. She looked tired. And frightened.

She squared her shoulders and went downstairs.

The carriage waiting outside was an elegant one—dark blue lacquer, brass fittings polished to a gleam, a crest emblazoned upon the door. A footman in blue livery assisted her inside without meeting her gaze. Josie settled upon the velvet seat and folded her hands in her lap, willing them to still their trembling.

The journey took less than an hour. She stared out the window as the familiar lanes of Halford gave way to rolling parkland, ancient oaks lining a long gravel drive. In the distance rose the great house—vast and severe, its windows glinting like watchful eyes.

She had never been here before. Her father had occasionally been summoned to consult with the steward on parish matters, but the Duke himself had never set foot in Halford church. He was a recluse, the villagers said. A hermit. Scarred in the wars and too proud to show his face.

The carriage came to a halt before the main entrance. The footman handed her down, and she followed him up wide stone steps and through doors that seemed designed to make visitors feel insignificant.

Inside, the entrance hall was vast and chill. Marble floors, dark panelling, portraits of stern-faced ancestors gazing down from the walls. A butler appeared—tall and silver-haired, his expression as distant as the men in the frames.

“Miss Hartwell. Mr Carrick is expecting you. This way, if you please.”

She followed him along a long corridor, her footsteps echoing softly. Everywhere she looked were signs of wealth—fine furniture, gilded frames, carpets so thick her feet sank into them.

The butler stopped before a polished oak door and opened it. “Miss Hartwell, sir.”

She stepped into a spacious study lined with books. A fire burned in the grate despite the mildness of the day. Behind a massive desk sat a man of middle years, his features sharp, his expression unsmiling.

“Miss Hartwell.” He did not rise. “I am Mr Carrick, steward to His Grace, the Duke of Greystone. Pray be seated.”

Josie sat, though the chair seemed far too large for her. She kept her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Mr Carrick studied her for a moment before opening a ledger upon his desk. “I shall be direct, Miss Hartwell. Your father’s death has created a situation requiring immediate resolution. The living of Halford is vacant, and His Grace intends to appoint a new vicar within the month. You and your family must vacate the vicarage.”

She had expected the words. They still landed like a blow. “I understand.”

“Furthermore, it has come to His Grace’s attention that your father died owing considerable debts—sums advanced in great part through Greystone—which makes them His Grace’s concern, and which now fall to you and your siblings as his heirs.”

Josie’s throat tightened. “I am aware of the debts, Mr Carrick. We are endeavouring to make arrangements—”

“Four hundred and seventy-three pounds is not a sum easily dismissed as an ‘arrangement,’ Miss Hartwell.” His gaze was cool and assessing. “His Grace wishes to know how you intend to settle this matter.”

“I do not yet know,” she said, forcing the words past the constriction in her chest. “But I assure you, we shall find a way.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” Mr Carrick closed the ledger with a decisive snap. “However, His Grace has additional concerns. Your brother, I understand, carries debts of his own in London. Debts to a moneylender of questionable reputation.”

Heat rose to Josie’s face. “My brother’s mistakes are his own—”

“They are connected to your father’s debts, which makes them His Grace’s concern.” Mr Carrick leaned back in his chair. “His Grace is well within his rights to demand immediate repayment. He could see your brother imprisoned, your family turned out without reference or assistance.”

The threat hung in the air, cold and unmistakable.

Josie’s hands clenched in her lap. “Is that His Grace’s intention?”

“That depends upon you.”

Her pulse thundered. “I do not understand.”

“His Grace is prepared to offer you an alternative.” Mr Carrick rose and crossed to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “The estate has suffered from His Grace’s withdrawal from society. Correspondence has gone unanswered. Charitable efforts have been neglected. Tenant matters require a gentler hand than my own. Your father managed much of this in his role as vicar.”

Josie’s thoughts raced. “You wish me to assume my father’s duties?”

“In part.” He turned to face her. “His Grace proposes this: you will come to Greymont Hall and assist with the estate’s charitable and social correspondence. In exchange, your family will be permitted to remain in the vicarage for the present, and the debts owed by your father will be forgiven.”

She could scarcely breathe. The debts forgiven. Her family secure.

“And my brother’s debt to the moneylender?”

“That will likewise be settled—provided you fulfil your duties here to His Grace’s satisfaction.”

It was too much. Too sudden. Too generous.

“For how long?” she asked.

“Until His Grace determines that the work is complete. Or until he appoints a new vicar and requires the vicarage for that purpose.” Mr Carrick’s gaze was steady. “It is a temporary arrangement, Miss Hartwell. But it affords you time—time free from immediate obligation, in which to consider what must come next. And it keeps your brother out of prison.”

Time. It was more than she had now.

Yet to come here—to this cold, silent house—to serve a man she had never seen, who hid from the world like a ghost…

“May I have time to consider?” she asked.

“You may. But His Grace requires your answer within two days. Should you decline, the estate will proceed as it must: the debts will be called in, and you will be required to vacate the vicarage within a fortnight.”

Two days.

Josie rose, her legs unsteady beneath her. “Thank you, Mr Carrick. I shall give you my answer soon.”

He inclined his head. “The carriage will return you home. Good day, Miss Hartwell.”

She walked back through the silent corridors, her thoughts whirling. Four hundred pounds forgiven. Thomas spared. Lily safe.

All she had to do was serve a recluse in a house that felt more mausoleum than home.

The butler showed her out, and she climbed into the waiting carriage feeling as though she moved within a dream.

As the carriage rolled down the long drive, she looked back at Greymont Hall. It loomed against the sky, dark and forbidding.

Somewhere within those walls was the Duke of Greystone.

Somewhere within those walls was the man who held her future in his scarred hands.

Chapter Two

 

Josie sat at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

She had not slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw Mr Carrick’s sharp face and heard his measured voice outlining a choice that was no choice at all: accept the Duke’s offer, or watch her family slide into ruin.

Across from her, Lily picked at a piece of toast, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Thomas had not yet emerged from his room. Josie suspected he was avoiding her—and she could not blame him.

“You are going to accept, are you not?” Lily’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Josie looked at her sister—sweet, trusting Lily, who had never done anything to deserve this upheaval. Who ought to have been thinking of new gowns and village dances, not debts and eviction.

“I do not see that I have a choice,” Josie said quietly.

“But to work for him—” Lily shuddered. “They say he is dreadful, Josie. That his face is so scarred no one can bear to look at him. That he has not left Greymont Hall in years.”

“Gossip.” Josie set down her cup with more force than she intended. “He is a man, Lily. A man who has suffered, perhaps, but still a man. And he is offering us a way out of this disaster.”

“At what cost?”

That was the question, was it not? What would it cost her to enter that cold, silent house? To work for a man who hid from the world and allowed his steward to deliver ultimatums on his behalf?

But what choice did she have?

“The cost of my pride, perhaps,” Josie said at last. “But that is a small price to pay for your safety. And for Thomas’s freedom.”

Lily’s eyes filled anew. “It is not fair.”

“No.” Josie reached across the table and took her sister’s hand. “It is not fair. But fairness is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

 

***

 

At precisely ten o’clock, Josie knocked on the door of Mr Carrick’s office at Greymont Hall.

She had walked this time. The morning was fine, and she could not bear the thought of sitting idle in a carriage while her thoughts churned. The exercise had steadied her somewhat, though her hands still trembled faintly as she smoothed her skirts.

“Come in,” came the steward’s voice.

Josie opened the door and stepped inside. Mr Carrick sat behind his desk, looking exactly as he had two days earlier—sharp-eyed and unmoved by sentiment.

“Miss Hartwell.” He indicated the chair opposite him. “I trust you have reached a decision.”

“I have.” Josie sat, keeping her spine straight. “I accept His Grace’s offer.”

Something flickered in Mr Carrick’s expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or merely the relief of a man who had concluded an unpleasant business. “Very good. You will begin tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. So soon.

“What will my duties entail, precisely?” Josie asked.

Mr Carrick opened a drawer and withdrew a stack of papers. “Correspondence, primarily. Letters from tenants, requests for charitable assistance, invitations requiring polite refusal. Your father managed much of this informally through his position as vicar. With his passing, the work has accumulated.”

He slid the stack across the desk. Josie glanced at the top letter—a neatly penned request from a widow in the village seeking assistance with her rent. Beneath it lay another, and another. There were dozens.

“All of these require replies?” she asked.

“At a minimum. Some will require reference to the estate accounts or further inquiry. You will have access to the necessary records.” Mr Carrick rose and crossed to a second door Josie had not noticed before. He opened it to reveal a modest adjoining room with a writing desk, shelves of ledgers, and a window overlooking the gardens. “This will be your office.”

Josie stepped forward. The room was plain but well-appointed—far finer than her father’s cluttered study had ever been. A silver inkwell stood upon the desk, with fresh paper neatly stacked beside it.

“You will attend each morning at nine and work until four,” Mr Carrick continued. “Tea will be brought at midday.”

“And my family?” Josie asked. “The debts—”

“Will be settled immediately. Instructions have already been dispatched to the village creditors, as well as to the moneylender in London.” His gaze was steady. “Your brother’s debt will be paid in full, with the understanding that any further imprudence will not be His Grace’s concern.”

Relief washed over her so swiftly that she had to steady herself against the doorframe. Thomas was safe. Lily was safe.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Do not thank me, Miss Hartwell. Thank His Grace—and repay him with diligent service.” Mr Carrick returned to his desk. “That will be all. I shall expect you tomorrow morning.”

Josie turned to go, but his voice stopped her.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She turned, facing him once more.

“His Grace values privacy above all else. You will confine yourself to the estate office and the principal corridors when coming and going. You are not to wander the house or grounds without express permission. Is that understood?”

A chill traced its way down her spine. “Perfectly, Mr Carrick.”

He nodded and returned his attention to the papers before him.

Josie made her way down the long corridor toward the entrance hall. The house lay silent about her—vast and chill. Servants passed like shadows, their movements soundless upon the thick carpets.

She thought of the vicarage, with its worn furnishings and cheerful disorder, the sound of Lily’s singing drifting from the parlour.

That life was gone now.

 

***

 

Josie arrived the following morning at half past eight, her stomach tight with nerves.

The same silver-haired butler admitted her—Mr Pembroke, she learned—and conducted her without comment to the estate office. The stack of correspondence awaited her upon the desk.

“Tea will be brought at noon, Miss Hartwell,” Mr Pembroke said. “If you require anything before then, you need only ring.” He indicated a small bell at the desk’s corner.

“Thank you, Mr Pembroke.”

He bowed and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

Josie removed her bonnet and gloves, set them aside, and seated herself. She selected the first letter and unfolded it.

 

To His Grace, the Duke of Greystone,

I write to you in humble supplication. My husband has been taken ill and cannot work. We have three children and no means to pay the rent on our cottage…

 

She read it twice, then reached for the ledger. Mrs Fletcher, a tenant’s wife from the village. Her father had spoken of her and her family often.

Josie dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write.

 

Dear Mrs Fletcher,

His Grace has received your letter and wishes you to know that the rent on your cottage will be deferred until such time as your circumstances improve…

 

She paused over the signature, then settled on: 

 

On behalf of His Grace, the Duke of Greystone.

 

She folded the letter, sealed it, and reached for the next.

The work consumed her. Each letter offered a glimpse into lives of people who depended precariously upon the Duke’s goodwill—tenant farmers, widows, tradesmen. All of them had waited far too long for a reply.

Her father would have been heartsick to see such neglect.

By noon, she had addressed nearly a quarter of the pile. A soft knock sounded.

“Come in,” she called.

A young maid entered, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. She was perhaps sixteen, with a round face and anxious eyes.

“Your tea, miss.”

“Thank you.” Josie smiled. “What is your name?”

“Mary, miss.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

Mary curtsied but lingered, twisting her apron.

“Is something amiss?” Josie asked gently.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but—” Mary glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Is it true you are the vicar’s daughter? From Halford?”

“I am.”

“My mother spoke well of your father. Said he was a good man.” Mary blinked back tears. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. That is very kind.”

Mary hesitated. “If you will forgive my saying so, miss, it is good to have someone here who cares. The house has been very quiet for a long while.”

Before Josie could respond, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Mary startled and fled.

Josie remained still, her gaze fixed on the closed door.

The house has been very quiet for a long while.

She poured herself tea and drank it slowly. Around her, the silence pressed close—no laughter, no raised voices, only the distant movements of servants at their duties.

What manner of man chose to live this way?

She set aside her cup and reached for the next letter.

 

***

 

At four o’clock, Josie gathered her bonnet and gloves and prepared to leave.

She had answered more than thirty letters—a respectable beginning, though the stack appeared scarcely diminished. Leaving the estate office, she made her way along the corridor toward the entrance hall. The portraits lining the walls seemed to observe her progress with solemn attention.

She was nearly at the main staircase when she heard it.

A voice. Low, harsh, unmistakably angry.

“I said no, Carrick. The matter is closed.”

Josie stopped short. The sound came from a door to her left, standing slightly ajar, a sliver of firelight spilling across the carpet.

“Your Grace, the tenants are growing restless—” That was Mr Carrick’s voice, calm but persistent.

“Then let them be restless. I will not parade myself before them like some curiosity at a fair.”

Josie’s breath caught. That voice—deeper than she had expected, roughened by something she could not name—could belong to only one man.

She should leave. She should turn away at once.

But her feet would not obey her.

“The harvest festival has been a tradition for generations,” Mr Carrick pressed. “Your absence will be remarked upon. It may be taken as disrespect.”

“Let them think as they please.” The Duke’s voice hardened. “I have given them their livelihoods and their homes. That is sufficient.”

“Your father—”

“My father is dead.” The words cut sharply through the air. “And I am not him.”

Silence followed—long and weighted. Josie pressed herself back against the wall, her pulse beating painfully fast.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mr Carrick said at last. “I shall make the necessary excuses.”

Footsteps approached the door. 

Josie turned and hastened away, her skirts whispering against the carpet. She reached the staircase and descended quickly, not daring to glance behind her.

Mr Pembroke stood waiting in the entrance hall. If he noticed the colour in her cheeks or the tension in her bearing, he gave no sign.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hartwell,” he said, opening the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr Pembroke.”

She stepped out into the cool air and walked briskly down the drive, not slowing until Greymont Hall was well behind her.

Only then did she stop, pressing a hand to her chest.

She had heard the Duke’s voice. Had heard the anger, the bitterness, the refusal to meet the world beyond his walls.

I will not parade myself before them like some curiosity at a fair.

The words followed her all the way home.

 

***

 

That evening, Josie sat in the vicarage parlour beside Lily, mending a tear in one of her sister’s gowns.

“How was it?” Lily asked softly. “Greymont Hall?”

“Cold. Quiet. But the work is manageable.”

“Did you see him? The Duke?”

“No.” Josie bent her head over her stitching. “He keeps to himself.”

“Mary Simmons says her cousin works there as a scullery maid,” Lily went on. “She says the Duke never leaves his rooms—and that even the servants are forbidden to look at him.” Lily shuddered. “It sounds dreadful.”

“It sounds lonely,” Josie said quietly.

Lily looked at her in surprise. “You pity him.”

“I think he must be very unhappy.”

“He is a Duke, Josie. He has wealth, power—everything.”

“Except peace.” Josie set aside the gown and met her sister’s eyes. “Except companionship. Except a reason to step beyond his doors.”

Lily frowned. “He is compelling you to work for him. That is not the action of a good man.”

“Perhaps it is the action of a man who no longer knows how to be good.”

She thought of the voice she had heard—rough, edged with anger, and beneath it something else.

Fear.

“Promise me you will be careful,” Lily said. “In that house.”

Josie managed a small smile. “I promise, dearest.”

Yet even as she spoke, she wondered whether it was a promise she could truly keep.

 

***

 

The next morning, Josie returned to Greymont Hall with an unfamiliar sense of anticipation.

She told herself it was merely the satisfaction of useful labour—of answering letters, of easing burdens where she could.

Yet as she walked along the corridor toward the estate office, her gaze strayed to the door from which she had heard the Duke’s voice.

It was closed now. Silent.

Mr Pembroke admitted her to the office without remark. The stack of correspondence awaited her, undiminished—if anything, larger than before.

Josie removed her bonnet and seated herself at the desk.

Before she could reach for the first letter, the door to Mr Carrick’s office opened.

The steward stood upon the threshold, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Hartwell,” he said. “His Grace wishes to see you.”

Chapter Three

 

“Miss Hartwell. His Grace wishes to see you.”

Josie’s hands stilled on the edge of the desk. For a moment, she could not draw breath.

Mr Carrick stood in the doorway between the two offices, his expression as unreadable as ever. He waited, hands clasped behind his back, while she struggled to compose herself.

“Now?” The word emerged smaller than she intended.

“Yes, Miss Hartwell. Now.”

She rose slowly, her legs unsteady beneath her skirts. Her fingers found the back of the chair and tightened there, as though she needed something solid to anchor herself. The Duke wished to see her. Why? She had only just begun the work. Had she displeased him already—answered something too freely, presumed too much?

Or has he simply reconsidered the arrangement altogether?

“Of course,” she said at last, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I shall come at once.”

Mr Carrick stepped back into his office. Josie followed, smoothing her skirts with hands that would not quite cease their trembling. She had worn her second-best mourning gown that morning—plain black muslin, modestly cut, the cuffs showing faint wear where she had mended them more than once.

She pushed the thought aside. The Duke would scarcely notice such details. He had not troubled himself to notice his correspondence for months.

Mr Carrick led her from the estate office and along a corridor she had not yet traversed. The walls here were darker, panelled in rich wood that swallowed the light from the tall windows. More portraits lined the passage—generations of Greystone ancestors gazing down with stern, unsmiling eyes.

Josie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She fixed her attention on the rhythm of her steps, on keeping her breathing even.

They passed a footman stationed near a doorway. His gaze flickered toward her and away again, his expression carefully blank—yet his fingers tightened briefly at his side.

Even the servants were uneasy.

Mr Carrick stopped before a heavy oak door at the corridor’s end. He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated and turned to face her.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She met his gaze.

“His Grace is…” For the first time, Mr Carrick seemed to search for words, which only sharpened her unease. “He is unaccustomed to company. You would do well to remember that.”

It was not quite a warning. But it was close enough.

“I understand,” Josie said quietly.

Mr Carrick studied her for a moment longer, then nodded and knocked once.

“Enter.”

The voice was the same she had heard the day before—low, rough, edged with something that put her in mind of winter storms. Yet hearing it now, knowing it was meant for her, made her stomach tighten.

Mr Carrick opened the door and stepped aside.

Josie drew a breath and entered.

The room was a library—vast and imposing, lined floor to ceiling with books. Leather-bound volumes filled every shelf, their spines catching the firelight. The ceiling soared overhead, ornately plastered, and tall windows at the far wall looked out upon gardens she had not yet seen. A fire burned in an enormous marble hearth despite the mildness of the spring morning.

And standing before it, his back to her, was a tall figure dressed in dark cloth.

“Miss Hartwell, Your Grace,” Mr Carrick said from behind her.

The man did not turn. Did not move, save for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.

Josie stopped just inside the doorway, acutely aware of Mr Carrick’s presence behind her, of the weight of silence pressing down upon the room.

“Leave us, Carrick.”

The words were quiet—but absolute.

“Your Grace.” Mr Carrick bowed; she heard the faint rustle of his coat as he withdrew. The door closed with a soft click that echoed in the cavernous space.

She was alone with the Duke of Greystone.

Her pulse roared in her ears. Josie folded her hands at her waist to keep them from shaking and waited.

The Duke remained motionless before the fire. Light played across his broad shoulders, the dark fabric of his coat. His hair was dark—nearly black—drawn back severely at the nape of his neck. One hand rested on the marble mantel; long fingers spread against the pale stone.

The silence stretched.

Josie’s throat tightened. Should she curtsy? Speak? She had no notion what protocol required when one was summoned alone into a duke’s private library.

“You are the vicar’s daughter.”

The abruptness of his voice made her flinch. It was not a question.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She steadied herself. “I am Miss Josephine Hartwell.”

“I know who you are.”

Silence again. The fire shifted, a soft crack sending sparks up the chimney.

“I did not summon you to confirm your identity, Miss Hartwell.”

Heat crept up her neck. “Of course not, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

He made no reply. He stood rigidly before the fire, as though she were scarcely present.

Josie waited, her fingers aching from how tightly she clasped them. She forced herself to loosen her grip, to breathe.

“Carrick informs me you have begun work on the correspondence,” the Duke said at last.

“Yes, Your Grace. I have answered thirty-two letters thus far, and noted several others that require reference to the estate accounts before I can—”

“Thirty-two.” He cut her off. “In one day?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your father would manage perhaps a dozen in a week.”

She blinked. She had not known that—had not realised how far the work had fallen behind even before her father’s death.

“I have more time to devote to it,” she said carefully. “My father’s duties as vicar were many.”

“Indeed.” The word was clipped. “And now you occupy his place. How convenient.”

The injustice of it stung. Josie felt her spine stiffen before she could stop herself.

“Convenient is not the word I would choose, Your Grace.”

One of his shoulders shifted—slightly. Surprise, perhaps. Or displeasure.

“No?” His voice lowered. “What word would you choose, Miss Hartwell?”

She ought to retreat. To apologise. To choose safety.

Instead, she thought of Thomas’s hollow eyes. Of Lily’s tears. Of the debts that would have crushed them all.

“Necessary,” she said quietly. “I would call it necessary.”

Silence fell again, heavier now.

Her heart thudded painfully. She had gone too far.

Yet the Duke did not turn.

“Your father,” he said at last, his voice strange and distant, “was a fool.”

Josie’s breath caught. Anger flared hot and sudden in her chest.

“My father,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level, “was a good man.”

“A good man who died penniless and left his children destitute.” His fingers tightened against the mantel. “A good man who forgave debts he could not afford to forgive and gave away money he did not possess.”

Each word struck like a blow.

Josie felt tears gather and blinked them back fiercely. She would not cry. Not here.

“My father helped people,” she said tightly. “He saw suffering and eased it where he could. Perhaps that is foolishness in your eyes, Your Grace, but I call it goodness. I call it mercy freely given.”

“You may call it what you please.” His voice flattened. “It does not alter the fact that you are here because of his choices. Because he valued others’ comfort above his own children’s security.”

“He valued mercy over wealth,” she said before she could stop herself. “And I would rather be my father’s daughter, standing here in debt, than—”

She stopped, biting hard at her cheek.

“Than what, Miss Hartwell?” His voice was soft again—dangerously so. “Finish the thought.”

She could not. Would not.

To say ‘than be you’—alone, embittered, hiding from the world—would be unforgivable.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”

“You did.”

He still had not turned around. Still stood facing the fire as though she were not even in the room.

Josie stared at his back, at the rigid set of his shoulders, and felt something shift within her chest. Anger, yes—but beneath it, something else. Something uncomfortably like pity.

This man had summoned her here to what end? To insult her father’s memory? To remind her of her insignificance? To assert his authority over her family’s fate?

Or simply to speak to another human being, even if only to wound?

“Why did you wish to see me, Your Grace?” she asked quietly.

The question seemed to catch him unprepared. His hand shifted against the mantel.

“I wished to know,” he said at length, “what manner of woman would accept such an arrangement. Who would enter a stranger’s house and work for a man she has never seen.”

“A desperate woman, Your Grace.”

“Yes.” He exhaled, the sound almost a laugh, though emptied of humour. “Desperation. That, at least, is honest.”

Josie said nothing. What answer could she offer?

The Duke was silent for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he straightened—and turned.

Josie’s breath caught.

She had heard the whispers. Had listened to Lily’s wide-eyed speculations, to Mary’s anxious hints. Yet nothing had prepared her for the man who now faced her across the library.

He was tall—taller than she had imagined—broad-shouldered and powerfully built despite the tension held in his frame. His coat was impeccably tailored, his cravat simple and precisely tied. Dark hair framed a face that would have been striking, even handsome, were it not for the scar.

It ran from his left temple, down across his cheek to his jaw—a livid, raised line that drew the corner of his eye and twisted his mouth slightly on that side. The skin was paler there, uneven, poorly healed.

But it was not the scar that tightened Josie’s chest.

It was his eyes.

Grey—cold as winter stone—and fixed upon her with an intensity that seemed to demand a reaction. A gasp. A flinch. Revulsion.

She did not give him one.

She met his gaze and held it, though her heart thundered and her mouth had gone dry.

Something flickered across his expression—too swift to name. Surprise, perhaps. Or suspicion.

“Well?” His voice was harsh. “You have seen me now, Miss Hartwell. Does the reality meet your expectations?”

Josie swallowed. “I had no expectations, Your Grace.”

“Liar.” The word was soft, but sharp. “Everyone has expectations. The servants whisper. The villagers gossip. I am certain you have heard the stories. The monster of Greymont Hall.”

“I have heard gossip,” Josie said steadily. “I gave it no weight.”

His mouth curved into a bitter semblance of a smile, tugged askew by the scar. “How noble.”

“It was not nobility, Your Grace. Merely common sense. Gossip is seldom truth.”

“And yet here I stand.” He gestured sharply toward his face. “Scarred. Hideous. Precisely as the stories suggest.”

Josie’s fingers tightened in her skirts. She saw the challenge in his eyes—he was waiting for denial, for platitude, for false comfort.

She would not insult him with any of those.

“You are scarred, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “That much is true. But hideous?” She shook her head. “That is your word, not mine.”

His eyes narrowed. “What word would you choose, Miss Hartwell? Since you appear fond of choosing your own.”

“I would say you are a man who has been wounded.” She held his gaze. “A man who survived something terrible. That is not the same thing as being hideous.”

For a moment, he did nothing but stare at her. 

Then he turned away sharply, crossing to the window with quick, restless strides. He braced one hand against the frame, his back to her once more.

“You know nothing of what I survived,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“No, Your Grace. I do not.”

“Then do not presume to speak of it.”

“I did not presume,” she said gently. “You asked my opinion. I gave it.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh—or a curse. His shoulders were rigid, tension radiating from him.

Josie waited. The room felt suddenly too vast, the space between them unbridgeable.

“Your father never saw me here,” the Duke said abruptly, still facing the window. “In all the years he served as vicar, he never once spoke with me in private.”

She blinked. “I did not know that, Your Grace.”

“I made it clear I did not receive visitors. Carrick conducted all estate business with him. Your father respected that boundary.” A pause. “You, it seems, have no such reservations.”

“I am not a visitor,” Josie said, lifting her chin. “I am here because you summoned me.”

His head turned slightly—not enough to face her, but enough that she knew he listened.

“And you came,” he said softly. “Without hesitation.”

“I did not have a choice, Your Grace.”

“No.” He straightened, his hand falling from the window frame. “You did not.”

He turned then, slowly, and crossed back toward the centre of the room. He did not approach her—stopped several paces away, maintaining the distance between them like a physical barrier.

Up close, she saw more: the scar’s reach beneath his collar, the slight droop at the outer corner of his left eye, the asymmetry it gave his face. And yet—his jaw was firm, his presence commanding.

He was not hideous. He was not a monster.

He was simply a man who had been hurt.

“The work you are doing,” he said at last, his tone carefully neutral. “Carrick tells me you are thorough. Efficient.”

“I am trying to be, Your Grace.”

“Some of those letters waited months for a reply. Your father…” He stopped, recalibrating. “Your father was slower in his final year.”

Because he had been stretched thin, Josie thought. Because he had taken on too much and believed he could manage it all.

“I am doing my best to address the most urgent cases first, Your Grace,” she said aloud.

“The Fletcher woman. You deferred her rent.”

It was not a question, but Josie nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Her husband is gravely ill. She has three children and no income.”

“You were correct.” He cut her off. “It was the proper decision.”

She blinked. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Do not thank me. It was your judgment. I merely…” His jaw tightened. “Approved it.”

Silence settled again.

“You will continue the work,” he said. “Carrick will provide whatever resources you require.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You will report to Carrick. Not to me.”

“I understand.”

“This meeting,” he said, seeming to struggle with the words, “was an aberration. It will not be repeated.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

He nodded once, curt and final. “You may go.”

She curtseyed—belatedly—and turned toward the door.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She stopped, her hand on the latch.

“You did not flinch,” he said quietly. “When I turned. You did not look away.”

“No.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the air between them. She could feel the weight of it, the challenge and the confusion and something else she could not quite name.

“Because you are not a monster, Your Grace,” she said softly. “No matter what you believe.”

His expression shifted—something raw and wounded flashing across his face before he turned away, presenting his back to her once more.

“Go, Miss Hartwell,” he said, his voice rough. “Before I reconsider this arrangement.”

Josie slipped from the library, closing the door behind her with unsteady hands.

Mr Carrick stood waiting in the corridor, his face carefully neutral.

“Miss Hartwell. I trust all is well?”

“Yes.” She steadied herself. “His Grace enquired after the correspondence. I believe he was… satisfied.”

Mr Carrick studied her briefly, then inclined his head. “Very good. I shall see you back to the estate office.”

They walked in silence.

Josie’s thoughts reeled, replaying every word, every glance.

You did not flinch.

No. She had not.

And somehow, she knew that mattered more than anything else she might have said or done.