“That isn’t an answer. That’s a superstition.”
Annie went pale.
Nora softened her tone. “How long?”
“Years, ma’am.”
“Has anyone had it inspected?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who would know?”
“Mr. Pike, perhaps. Or Mr. Crane’s office.”
Nora tilted her head. “Mr. Crane?”
“Mr. Sterling Crane. He handles accounts for the estate. And the company.”
Of course he did.
Men like Sterling Crane always handled more than anyone questioned.
Nora had met him at the wedding reception that was not truly a reception. Five people in a private room. Cold champagne. Damian’s attorney. Her aunt. Mr. Crane with his silver hair and sympathetic smile, telling Nora how difficult transitions could be for “women of sensitive background.”
She had nearly laughed into her glass.
Instead, she had memorized his cufflinks.
Tiny gold cranes in flight.
A man who wore his own name in gold usually expected the world to admire the embroidery while missing the knife.
“Thank you, Annie,” Nora said. “Please tell Mr. Pike I need the chimney records.”
Annie blinked. “The what, ma’am?”
“The inspection records. Maintenance invoices. Repair reports, if there are any.”
“I’m not sure anyone will—”
“Then ask politely first.”
“And after that?”
Nora glanced back toward the smoking room.
“After that, ask again while I’m standing beside you.”
By eight, the household knew Mrs. Vale had asked for records.
By nine, Damian knew.
He entered the breakfast room like a storm dressed in charcoal wool.
Nora sat at the small table near the windows, eating toast and reading a binder Mr. Pike had produced with the expression of a man delivering contraband. The binder smelled of dust, damp paper, and institutional neglect.
Damian stopped beside her chair.
“You requested estate documents.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“What documents?”
“Chimney inspections, fire-safety reports, contractor invoices, and anything connected to the east wing ventilation.”
“You arrived last night.”
“And the chimney tried to smoke me out before dawn. I admire the house’s commitment to your prediction, but I object to dying for it.”
His eyes narrowed. “No one is dying.”
“Not yet.”
“That is dramatic.”
“No. Dramatic is ignoring a blocked chimney in a century-old house full of varnished wood and old wiring because the wallpaper is expensive.”
Mr. Pike stood by the sideboard, looking as if he wished to become invisible.
Damian glanced at him. “Leave us.”
Nora did not look away from the binder. “Mr. Pike, please stay. You may know the answer to the next question.”
Damian’s voice lowered. “Nora.”
She turned a page. “There was a chimney inspection billed last November by Ashbury Preservation Services. Two thousand eight hundred dollars.”
Damian’s face barely changed. “If it was inspected, then this conversation is finished.”
“Except the invoice says ‘visual exterior evaluation.’ That means they looked up from the lawn and charged you nearly three thousand dollars to admire brickwork.”
Mr. Pike coughed once into his fist.
Damian heard it.
Nora continued. “There is no interior sweep report. No flue camera. No draft test. And this same company billed you for eight other inspections across the estate in one day.”
“That is not unusual for approved vendors.”
“No. It is extremely unusual for honest vendors.”
Damian leaned over the table, one hand flat against the linen. “You are not here to audit my house.”
Nora met his eyes.
“Then you should have married someone less literate.”
Silence.
Outside, the rain softened against the glass.
Damian straightened slowly.
“Do not mistake this arrangement for authority.”
“I won’t, if you don’t mistake wealth for competence.”
His expression hardened. For one breath, Nora thought he would tell her to pack. She almost hoped he would. Rage was easier than this cold, polished dismissal. Rage had shape. Dismissal was fog.
Instead, he turned to Mr. Pike.
“Arrange a proper chimney inspection.”
Mr. Pike’s brows rose before he could stop them. “Yes, sir.”
Damian looked back at Nora.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
His mouth tightened.
“The staff refrigerator leaks. The back stair carpet is loose on the seventh step. The laundry room vent is clogged. There is mold behind the pantry wall. The west corridor smells of damp plaster, which means either roof damage or a pipe leak, and someone has been overpaying for firewood by at least forty percent.”
Mr. Pike stared at her.
Damian stared at her.
Nora picked up her toast.
“I don’t like waste.”
That was how it began.
Not with romance.
Not with trust.
With smoke.
By the end of the first week, the house had stopped expecting Nora to leave.
By the end of the second, it had started bringing her problems.
Mrs. Cresswell, the housekeeper, came first with a ledger wrapped in a tea towel as if it were a newborn. She had worked at Vale House for thirty-one years and wore black dresses so severe they seemed designed to frighten dust into obedience.