Martha finally slept, but fitfully, her dreams waking her often during the night. They featured the duke, but not as she’d seen him earlier, a man alone on the dock. The man she imagined wasn’t troubled by a limp but walked easily, spoke often, and charmed effortlessly with his smile.

She woke finally, staring up at the ceiling and feeling a strange sense of loss. Closing her eyes didn’t bring back her dreams. She was awake and now that she was, there were things to do.

After she dressed, in her only other garment, a lavender dress she’d chosen because it was loose and comfortable, she went to her grandmother’s room to see how she’d spent the night.

Breakfast had already been brought to Gran on a tray. Someone had put a bright summer flower in a small vase and Gran and Amy were discussing whether or not the roses should be pruned at Griffin House.

Her grandmother didn’t look the least bit ill, but Martha didn’t remark about the color in her cheeks or the fact that the empty plates revealed her appetite was healthy.

After Josephine joined her, they were led by one of Sedgebrook’s maids down the grand staircase.

Josephine was looking around, taking in the expensive appointments, the brass-and-crystal chandeliers, the curiosities set inside the niches along the wall. She seemed to note the thickness of the carpet beneath her feet, the gilded frames of the portraits lining the hall. Martha could almost see her tallying up the cost of everything in her mind.

She truly wished the doctor hadn’t prescribed three days of rest for Gran. The quicker they left Sedgebrook the better.

Their breakfast was to be served in the Morning Parlor, a sunny room on the east side of the house. The walls were hung with a patterned yellow silk replicated on the cushions of the chairs around the mahogany rectangular table.

The gold-framed sketches hanging on the wall caught her eye. At first she thought the artist duke might have drawn them, but they seemed to date from the time of Sedgebrook’s construction, each detailing a section of the great house and the gardens as they were being built.

Breakfast was served buffet style, the silver chafing dishes placed on the sideboard along the wall. She wondered if the leftover food would be going to the staff or to the poor. As it was, it looked as if Sedgebrook’s cook thought she would be feeding a small army this morning.

She and Josephine helped themselves before taking a place at the dining table. Despite the fact that her sister kept glancing toward the doorway, they weren’t joined by anyone. They might have been guests in a luxurious but empty hotel.

Josephine kept up a running commentary about Sedgebrook, her enchantment with the house not only evident but troubling. When their breakfast was finished, Josephine stood.

“I’m for a walk,” she said, placing her napkin on the table and standing. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“I’d prefer you sit with Gran.”

Her sister didn’t say anything, just gave her a faint smile. She knew what the look meant—Josephine was going to do what she wanted. She also suspected Josephine wasn’t going walking as much as exploring.

“It would be rude to wander through Sedgebrook without permission, Josephine.”

“Of course it would,” her sister said. “You don’t need to lecture me on manners, Martha. I’m not the one who seems to annoy the duke.”

She hadn’t annoyed him, not personally. No doubt he’d been irritated at the situation, but not at her. At least he shouldn’t have been.

There was only one thing she needed to do today—ensure the duke understood where her father’s notes were located and how to translate his journals. In addition, if the duke had any questions about the remainder of her father’s inventions, she wanted to be able to answer them.

She needed to find Charles and let him know about the change of plans. Plus, she might as well go ahead and send the wagon driver home.

She found one of the maids industriously cleaning a carpet runner in the hallway not far from the Morning Parlor and asked for directions to the stables. She found her way outside only after navigating a series of corridors, getting lost, and asking for guidance again.

The stables were located some distance away and built of the same yellowish stone and tiled roof as the main house. She was surprised at the size of the complex, but then everything at Sedgebrook was a little larger than it needed to be. A large fenced paddock was to the right of the building. Beyond was a grassy valley where a few horses were grazing.

Their carriage and the empty wagon sat in a graveled area to the left of the main building. Inside, she stopped a curly-headed stableboy and asked for the stablemaster only to be told he was taking breakfast at the house. When she asked if he knew Charles or their wagon driver, the boy was willing to go in search of both men.

“Does the duke have a workroom nearby?” she asked before he left.

“A workroom, miss?”

“A place where he works on his torpedo ship,” she said. At the boy’s blank glance, she realized she needed to rephrase her request. “I need to know where they put the contents of the wagon we brought.”

He surprised her by turning and walking to the end of the row of stalls, pointing to one.

“Right there, miss.”

She walked to where he stood and glanced inside.

To her shock, all her careful planning and packing had been for nothing. Her father’s journals were stacked every which way on top of the crates. Cards with notes in his handwriting spilled out onto the packed earth floor. Bessie, the last prototype of the York Torpedo Ship, was propped up in the corner, the crate buried in hay. Two of the other crates were half-open, their contents spilling out.

Had the pendulums been damaged? What about the gyroscope that had been her father’s last purchase?

She stared at the destruction, her anger building. She’d spent hours packing everything, worrying about the damage that might occur to the delicate scientific instruments. All for nothing. Only for the Duke of Roth to take her father’s work and treat it like so much manure.

“Where does the duke work?” she asked, trying to contain herself. “Where is his laboratory?”

“Miss?”

“Where does he spend his days?”

He looked toward the main house.

“Does he never go out on the lake?” Had she misunderstood everything? Did the man have no interest in the torpedo ship?

“Oh, yes, miss. Or he’s in the boathouse.”

“Where is it?”

He gave her the directions and she thanked him, grateful she’d been able to be civil before emotion overtook her.

The path to the boathouse was wide and graveled, but a far distance from the main house. Each step seemed to push against the boundaries of her anger.

How dare he?

How dare he treat her father’s bequest so shabbily?

How dare he insult her father’s memory in such a way?

Being the Duke of Roth did not give him the right to impugn the honor of another human being, especially not such a good man as Matthew York.

Her father was well respected in scientific circles, in business, and as the head of the company bearing their name. His invention could save lives, could end wars early, could help England retain its dominance over the seas.

And what had the Duke of Roth done? Thrown it away. Treated it as if it was nothing more than a child’s old toy, well-worn and broken.

If she hadn’t been so angry, she might have stopped to marvel at the view of Sedgebrook’s lake, the lawn manicured down to the banks, the blooming wildflowers along the path, and the breeze smelling of water and fish. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to reach the duke, she might have even taken advantage of one of the benches situated at a picturesque spot and taken in the scene.

Instead, she increased her pace when she saw the boathouse. The structure sat on a small rise, the dock jutting from the first floor out into the lake. The second floor was dotted with windows, a terrace, and a white ornamental railing.

She marched to the door of the building and opened it, quickly taking in the workbenches and shelves filled with material and equipment. The area was neat and orderly, unlike her father’s cottage when he was deeply involved in a project. It became a function of her day to go behind him and straighten up his mess.

Do you need this, Father? Shall I put this up? Can we throw this in the rubbish?

She was not going to cry. She was most definitely not going to cry in front of the arrogant, unkind, beastly Duke of Roth.

“What are you doing here, Miss York?”

She heard him before she could see him, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom after the bright summer morning.

He was sitting at the long workbench stretching the width of the room. Next to him sat Mr. Burthren.

“How could you?” she asked. “How could you simply toss all my father’s work away?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You should,” she said, nodding emphatically. “You truly should. You’ve been very kind when it came to my grandmother, Your Grace, and I appreciate your hospitality. But you’ve been beastly about my father and his work and I don’t appreciate it one whit. How could you?”

He didn’t say a word. Not one word. Not one word of explanation. Not one single syllable to try to make her understand or to defend himself. He simply kept silent, looking at her with his handsome face stern and unmoving.

“I could hate you at this moment,” she heard herself saying. “I could. Do you know that on his deathbed my father spoke of you? Some of his last words were for you. ‘Have you heard from Hamilton? Has he written?’ But you didn’t write. You didn’t come. And now, Your Grace, now you’ve done the worst you could do. You’ve thrown all his work into a stall in your stable.”

Turning, she left the boathouse, her anger spent, tears she’d pushed back now winning the battle. She brushed them off her cheeks, overwhelmed by grief.

“Miss York!”

She was not going to pay any attention to Mr. Burthren. He was going to say something she didn’t want to hear, words that would be critical and no doubt correct. She shouldn’t have spoken in such a way to the duke, their reluctant host. She really shouldn’t have lost her temper.

“Miss York!”

He was gaining on her and, short of gathering up her skirts and beginning to run, she had no option but to stop, turn, and face him.

“You’ve been crying,” he said, his warm brown eyes filled with concern.

“Yes, Mr. Burthren, I’ve been crying. Go ahead and lecture me about my rudeness. I no doubt deserve it.”

“I didn’t follow you to lecture you, Miss York, but to bring you back to the boathouse. His Grace wishes to talk with you.”

“I don’t wish to talk to him. I’ve said everything I wish to say.”

“He deserves a hearing, don’t you think?”

“No,” she said, turning and beginning to walk away again.

“There’s a reason he didn’t want your father’s bequest. Aren’t you curious why?”

She was not going to listen to the man. She kept walking.

“No,” she said. “I’m not. I would have thought he’d be thrilled to accept everything my father wanted him to have. Evidently, he doesn’t care. No doubt he thinks it’s all worthless.”

“That’s not the case, Miss York, I can assure you.”

She stopped again, turned, and looked up at him.

“Then I don’t understand,” she said. “Why put everything in the stable?”

“Because of his honor,” he said.

It was such a strange answer she didn’t move.

“Jordan has a rather well-developed sense of honor,” he continued. “Overdeveloped, perhaps. If he has one overriding flaw, that’s it. Other people might be able to get away with telling a lie, but he doesn’t. Nor can he abide anyone in his circle who does. In school his nickname was Saint Jordan. Not a positive sobriquet, by the way.”

“I haven’t asked him to lie, Mr. Burthren.”

He smiled. “No, of course you haven’t. Jordan’s honor doesn’t limit itself to honesty, Miss York. He dislikes subterfuge of any sort. Or cheating. He was the first to report a boy for cribbing on an exam.”

She frowned at him, still not understanding.

“He thinks taking your father’s notes and his vessel would be like cheating,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t do the work on the torpedo ship himself.”

“He and my father communicated about Bessie every week,” she said. “He knows everything about it.”

“I understand your father got the vessel to work.”

She nodded.

“A great achievement,” he said.

“Not as great an achievement as you think, Mr. Burthren. He didn’t share the information with anyone.”

“Not even you?” he asked, sounding surprised.

She shook her head. “He was saving the information for the duke. That’s why giving him my father’s notes wouldn’t constitute any advantage. The information isn’t there.”

“Then perhaps you could tell him that.”

“I see no reason to have to explain anything to the man.”

“Don’t judge him too harshly, Miss York. The torpedo ship has been the one thing occupying him for the last year.”

She wanted to ask about the duke’s accident and why he walked with a limp, but she didn’t. First of all, she didn’t want Mr. Burthren to know of her interest. Second, it would be rude to talk about the man behind his back—just as they were currently doing.

“Perhaps you could add your expertise to Jordan’s work,” he said. “As long as you’re here. It might be a form of collaboration.”

She glanced at him, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Not many men would welcome a female into his sphere of work.

“He truly wants to apologize.”

“He has no intention of apologizing,” she said, certain of it.

“He told me, ‘Go and get her, Reese. I have to explain.’”

“That doesn’t constitute an apology.”

He didn’t answer.

If she returned to the boathouse it would be for her father and not the duke.

Taking a deep breath, she brushed the remnants of tears from her face and nodded.

“For a moment,” she said. “Just a moment.”

He didn’t say a word, merely kept her company as they retraced their steps. At the door to the boathouse he stayed back.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

Once more she nodded, opened the door, and stepped inside.