Rhystan shot the valet a blank look. Was he supposed to know where or what that was? He assumed a bedchamber, but it’d been years since he’d spent any length of time at this residence. He’d bought the house years ago, once he’d had his first financial windfall in shipping, with the idea that he’d never have to set foot in Huntley House—his family’s London home—or be forced to deal with the duke’s everlasting displeasure.

Even now, he could feel the man’s disappointment from the grave. Roland had been the heir, Richard, the spare, and Rhystan, ever the duke’s despair. The rebellious son who would never fit the mold of what his father wanted, never abide by the rules of an aristocracy he deemed backward and insular.

“The lady’s companion is in the adjacent blue room, Your Grace,” Harlowe went on, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of Rhystan’s morning coat.

“Very good.”

For the sake of propriety—inasmuch as they could stretch the truth—Sarani’s lady’s maid would also serve as her companion. Despite their engagement, fake or otherwise, a woman could not remain in her fiancé’s residence overnight without a proper chaperone, and there was no way Rhystan was abandoning Sarani to the duchess at Huntley House. His mother, even on her rumored deathbed, would be ruthless.

He strode downstairs to his study and stared at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. Usually, he would receive a bundle of anything urgent at his château in France, but he hadn’t returned to the Continent in months, having chosen to stay in the Americas before the most recent and unexpected voyage back to India.

Roland’s man of business and longtime solicitor, Mr. Longacre, had done an excellent job of managing the various tenant estates. His reports were meticulous and detailed, and Rhystan had never had any reason to doubt the man’s abilities.

“Where is Longacre?” he asked over his shoulder, knowing his ever-efficient butler was hovering in the foyer. “I sent word to his offices that I wished to see him.”

Morton cleared his throat from the doorway. “He has just arrived, Your Grace.”

A tall, twitchy, bespectacled man entered the room, carrying a pile of ledger books in his arms. After dumping the books on the edge of the desk, he attempted a clumsy bow. “Your Grace, welcome home. I have sent you letter after letter with no response. The estates are in disrepair, and I’m at my wit’s end with the creditors.”

Rhystan frowned at the outburst, gesturing for the harried man to sit. Disrepair? Creditors? “Since when?”