“Oh yes, we all had a laugh about it now and then, but when dealing with estate matters—matters of business—a temper like that is no laughing matter.” He took another sip of tea. “Sir Roderick, on the other hand, has a nice steady temperament.”

For an instant, Maggie forgot herself. “Sir Roderick is thoroughly disagreeable.”

Mr. Entwhistle took her outburst in stride. “He’s not a pleasant man, I grant you. Not one you’d like to share a pint with down at the tavern. But he’s a reliable sort, the same man on one day as he is on the next. In business, men come to count on reliability. They trust it.”

“And what about his son? What about his temperament?”

“Master Fred? He does have his moods, right enough. But still…” Mr. Entwhistle seemed to consider. “He keeps it out of estate business. And the Burton-Smythe name is respected around these parts. People like continuity. Makes ’em feel safe.”

“It’s my name that provides the continuity, not his. As a Honeywell—” She stopped short. “But I suppose the Honeywell name doesn’t carry as much weight here as I thought it did. Never mind that my father single-handedly built Beasley Park into the estate that it is today.”

Mr. Entwhistle gave her a look of sympathy. “The Honeywell name still carries weight. People were fond of your father. They’re fond of you, as well. But unlike Master Fred, you—”

“What?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “You’re a lady.”

Maggie was temporarily rendered speechless. The fact that she was a female had never made a difference before. At least, not when it came to Beasley Park. As a girl, she’d accompanied Papa all over the estate. Had learned at his knee how to run it—how to care for it—as he did. No one had ever treated her differently because of her sex. She’d been Papa’s right arm. His chosen successor. Or so she’d believed until the day his will had been read.

“An unmarried lady at that,” Mr. Entwhistle added. “Most folks would prefer to deal with a man.”

“Well that’s just… That’s just ignorance, is what it is. Any one of them should know by now that I’m as capable as a man. More capable than Frederick Burton-Smythe. More to the point, Beasley Park is in my blood. It’s…it’s my birthright.”

Mr. Entwhistle sighed. His heavily lined face was the picture of an old retainer on the verge of delivering some very bad news. “You must understand, Miss Honeywell, after your illness, you quite disappeared from public life. During those years, what with your mourning and—”

“I hadn’t much choice on that score. First Papa died, and then my aunt. Would the villagers have rather I flouted the rules than adhered to them?”

“No, but—”