Chapter 19
All three men had risen to their feet, with varying degrees of ease, when she entered the room.
His grace, the Duke of Keswick, stood up with the aid of his walking stick and an audible creak.
The Marquess of Penrith tossed aside his newspaper and rose with an unsteady lurch that indicated, despite the early hour, the half-empty bottle of brandy at his side had recently been full. “Thought you said the chit told you to bugger off,” he said in a loud aside to Alistair.
“Father,” Alistair growled. He had been seated behind an ornate oak desk that probably dated back to the Tudors, quill pen in hand, and eyed her with an unnerving wariness.
Keswick thumped his walking stick on the floor. “How may we be of assistance, Miss Parnell?”
Alistair placed the quill back in its holder
