“Since her shop is on the corner, it’s a pivotal piece in the architect’s plan,” the barrister pointed out, his shaggy brows knotting in a scowl.

“Perhaps Mrs. St. Vincent knows as much. She may have spoken to some of the other property owners who sold to us. She may feel she now holds the winning hand.”

Another grim scowl. “If so, I wish you well, Your Grace.”

“Come, enough long faces.” The duke nodded at the liquor trolley behind Hutchinson’s desk; a Scotsman was never far from his drink. “Pour me a whiskey and tell me what you know about the properties you’ve already acquired.”

Since he’d cajoled Clarissa into leaving Green Grove and seen her comfortably settled at Frances Knolly’s country house party, the duke was currently free of encumbrances. And frankly, after a fortnight with Clarissa, no matter how heated and exotic the sex, he’d been ready to transfer her into someone else’s care. His capacity for boredom was slight, a defect no doubt of a life free of restraints. He’d been indulged from the cradle save for by his father, and when the former duke had had the good grace to drink himself to death before George could kill him, the title had devolved to the young heir. Despite his youth, the twenty-third Duke of Groveland had found the larger world equally amenable to his wishes.

Although no one but his mother dared call him George. Since he loved her unconditionally and she him, he even allowed her to call him Georgie on occasion. To the world, however, he was Groveland or Your Grace; to his friends he was Fitz or The Monk, while his lovers generally called him darling with great enthusiasm and affection.

Surely he could charm one woman into accepting his offer-particularly a destitute female. Accepting his glass from Hutchinson, he listened while the barrister explained in some detail the entire litany of recent property purchased for what would soon become Monckton Row-God willing and Groveland’s cultivated charm gainfully applied.