Two letters. Two letters from the venerable Duke of York’s household awaited James when he came down to breakfast Tuesday morning. He saw the missives next to his place and halted in his tracks.

They were not the only correspondence next to his plate — the morning post was traditionally left just there, that he might look over his letters while he ate. But that these two were left very deliberately fanned out in such a way that he could not mistake the sender. Either of them.

Lucy bustled into the room, carrying eggs and potatoes which she set before him before turning back, no doubt to fetch the rashers of bacon and a selection of bread and jam. Apparently today she was a server.

Of course, she would be. My god, one would think there was not another servant in the place.

“Lucy!”

To her credit she did not flinch, only paused with a certain look he’d come to know all too well. She stood, not as respectfully as a servant ought, nor with downcast eyes, but looking at him squarely with that pointed chin of hers raised, blue eyes flashing fire, just daring him to say something.

At what point did I lose control of the household? Was it all at once? Or did it just creep in steadily?

Not that the other servants treated him this disrespectfully, for which he guessed he should be thankful. Lucy was…well…Lucy. And had she not been the one to raise him, he suspected that matters would be entirely different. He half suspected that the servants had no idea what to do with her and stood back and just let her go where she wished and do whatever she wanted.

Which also meant some serving girl was getting an unscheduled morning off. He sighed. This was no way to manage things.

“Was there something you needed, Your Grace?” she asked, regarding him calmly while his eggs cooled before him.

Was there? He sighed again. Her point had apparently been made. Two letters. Both from the household of the Duke of York. “Nothing, Lucy. Just…for heaven’s sake let Matilda serve breakfast. You are far too…”

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and James hastily checked himself. Telling her she was ‘too old for this’ was certainly not going to gain him any ground and would likely cost him his bacon.

“…busy to bother yourself with such nonsense. Am I to assume you also read these letters before leaving them here?” He took a forkful of eggs before they grew any colder.

If Lucy lifted her chin any higher, he’d be able to see clear up her nostrils. “Your Grace would please notice, that the seals upon each are quite intact.”

He looked at her one eyebrow raised, knowing full well that any servant worth his salt knew how to raise a seal from the paper with a hot knife and restore it again. “You seem to be adapting well to the use of my title.” He reached for the first letter, knowing there would not be a moment’s peace until he’d looked at both.

Lucy dropped into the chair next to his. “I quite seriously think you should reconsider. The offer from the Duke of York is one not to be cast aside easily or without a great deal of thought. To act emotionally...”

“I daresay, I will not likely see any bacon at this meal, will I?” He sighed. “And you are such a master of your emotions that you removed a priceless jewel from the household of a duke, why again?” A cursory examination showed the traces of the original wax seal having been at least a quarter inch to the right of where it had started. “You seem to be slipping, Lucy. There was a time the seal would have been perfectly placed.”

“My eyes are not what they used to be, Your Grace.” She bowed her head, about a meek as a lion.

James snorted. “You might as well drop the ‘Your Grace.’ When you say it like that it fails to sound quite…respectful. And see if you can get someone to bring me my bacon. I am not discussing any of this with you sitting there hovering over me.”

“Even though the matter concerns me?” Lucy asked quietly, as she started to rise.

James threw out a hand to catch her. “Stay a moment. What are you saying?”

“Do you wish your bacon or not, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly from behind her chair.

“Blast you, woman, there are at least a hundred other servants in this house, not that anyone would know it when yours is the only face I ever see. Is there not someone else who can serve my bacon? It grows cold as we speak, much like these eggs!” He threw his fork down in disgust.

Lucy bit her lip. “Allow me, I have been most selfish.” She bent and took his plate, escaping back in the direction of the kitchen with spry agility that belied her age.

James threw himself back in his chair with an exclamation of disgust. Knowing full well, she would have his entire breakfast re-made, and there was naught to do while he waited, he reached again for the first letter.

He had written to the Duke of York when he had arrived at home the previous day. Still distressed at what he had seen, of how his visit had affected Helena, he had spoken simply that he could see no way to continue on this course of action.

In retrospect, it might have been better to return the brooch to Barrington himself, rather than to trust it to Miss Barlowe, but at least the duty was done, and it should have been the end of the matter.

Though what remained to do with his household with his fortunes in such tatters was somewhat beyond him. He was already running with something of a lower staff than he should. Had that not been the case, he highly doubted that Lucy could be getting into so much mischief as she was, in co-opting whatever position suited her needs at the time.

Can we make do with less?

Being winter, he supposed that he could. Perhaps if he reduced the number of horses in the stables. But he would have to give a particular consideration to his country estate then. To let it would be a blatant advertisement to the ton that he was struggling financially. But on the other hand, wouldn’t leasing the property not only support this household but maybe with some fine maneuvering of the amount it could bring in, perhaps be used to do what he’d set out to do with Barrington himself?

The problem was, he would be doing it without Barrington’s contacts, and the matter would be much more difficult. And was that fair to those who depended on him? What had already happened to the servants he had let go? What would happen to Lucy if things grew worse?

Regardless, he had already closed this door. He opened the letter thinking it would be an acknowledgement of his withdrawal.

The note was brief:

Will expect you as planned at the hour of three o’clock at Thornhill. Do not delay.

James swore under his breath and set the letter aside. Apparently sending a message had not been effective, and he would have to grovel at the man’s feet to be free of his responsibility. He groaned and put a hand over his eyes, wondering just where his breakfast was, and worrying that Lucy had taken it upon herself to aid in the preparation.

The second letter was the one he eyed with trepidation. Since there had been nothing, other than a somewhat imperious order to show up at Thornhill that afternoon, then whatever had Lucy all in a dither must be there.

He considered leaving it. Looking at the other post first, assuming that it was most likely the usual collection of social invitations. Even staying in Hull had generated more than a handful. The city boasted something of a society, with the reading club and a certain collection of musicians that made the long winters passable for the more refined inhabitants.

But even the first of these generated a certain trepidation for it was indeed just such an invitation to a concert. Had he not just talked to Lady Barrington about taking her to just such an engagement?

The door opened. Lucy entered, this time with two servitors behind her, each carrying platters of hot food, more than one casting resentful glances at his old governess that they probably thought he didn’t notice. None of them had taken joy in having to procure this second breakfast on her say so.

He murmured his thanks as they set it before him, and very pointedly ignored the letter that inevitably came from Lady Barrington while he ate. Lucy hovered near the door, hands clenched in her apron while she waited, but this time at least she was wise enough to hold her tongue and wait upon him.

Maybe she recognizes that I am the duke here, not herself, after all, he thought with a certain exasperation, thinking not for the first time that she did seem to manage the household with the authority of a duchess, even if such efforts were not met with joy and gladness exactly by its denizens.

She waited until he had finished the last morsel of bread before coming to stand near to him. “You will read it now, then?” she asked quietly, her eyes troubled.

He had half a mind not to answer her at all. She was invading his privacy, undermining his authority, and had managed to waste a perfectly good breakfast. On the other hand, he loved her, and so he let her get away with these things, with a certain equanimity having been restored by hot food on a very cold day.

“I will read it now,” he said and so opened the letter.

As he suspected, this one was from Lady Barrington, a fact that should have been apparent by the gentle hand with which she’d addressed the missive. The seal did not so much break as fall off the paper, meaning it had been restored in haste and he shot a look at Lucy as it fell to the table with a clatter.

She at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I would expect that if you are going to go to the trouble of opening my mail, you can likewise go to the trouble of answering the letters for me. Though I could have sworn I had someone who already did that, in regards to these blasted invitations,” he said waving a hand at the rest of the mail, pausing over the invitation to the concert.

Lady Barrington would like that, he thought and almost smiled. Being free from the brooch meant he was free to court whomever he chose in whatever way he chose to do so. Perhaps her letter was of thanks, for returning the jewelry. Maybe having the pin back would ease her troubled mind.

Only Lucy would not be so worried were it that innocuous, would she?

With that thought in mind, he unfolded the paper with certain trepidation.

To His Grace, the Duke of Durham

Greetings.

I was somewhat dismayed by the ease with which you have seemingly dispatched your duties toward me. I had been under the impression that you were a man of honor. Now I see that you have left my home in haste, without even bothering to perform the simplest of social functions. Is this how you court a lady?

I am wondering at your fondness toward your servant. Perhaps you are less worried about her continued employment in your service than you previously appeared. Is your reputation likewise worth so little?

I am in hope that we can resolve these matters between us this afternoon at one o’clock, for I will be expecting you. If you choose not to attend upon me at the designated hour, then I will assume that you wish me to take further action.

I look forward to the first of your five (5) visits as agreed upon.

Cordially yours,

Lady Helena Barrington

James set the letter down very carefully next to his empty plate. “Perhaps it would be best if the table were to be cleared,” he said softly, laying his napkin upon the table as well and rising without looking at her.

“Your Grace?” There was a quaver to Lucy’s voice, but she held her distance, she held her peace. For that, he was thankful.

“If you would have Hammond handle the rest of this, tell him to arrange for the concert later this week. There will be likely three in attendance.” Three. He would rather two, but the Lady would require a chaperone. He sighed, remembering the dour Miss Barlowe, hoping that she perhaps was having an off night as well on the eve that he’d met her.

There came a sudden exhalation of breath as Lucy bent to pick up the plate. He put out a hand, stopping the movement. “As I said, have someone clear the place setting. If I recall correctly this is not within the realm of your duties.”

Her face went pale. “May I ask a question, Your Grace?”

“You may.”

She swallowed hard. “Do I still have a place here, Your Grace?”

He glanced back at the paper lying on the table, the looping signature still visible. “That, Miss Davenport, remains to be seen.”