Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Good day,” Adrian said, his voice as cold as usual, as he didn’t really see what was good about the day.
The man standing directly in front of him took off his cap and inclined his bald head deferentially. Sidestepping this obstacle, Adrian crossed the threshold and inhaled the atmosphere which smelled of pine needles, ale, and stale tobacco smoke.
Voices hushed as soon as Adrian Falkner, Duke of Wolfcrest, entered the notorious White Hart Inn. He was very much aware of the sounds dying down as he arrived. He was used to this sort of reaction to his presence.
Today, like many other days, he had to deal with various queries and complaints. Tradesmen and tenants alike were waiting for him along an oak table, wondering what his decisions would be like.
Adrian bit back a sigh of resignation.
All his days were filled with just this sort of tedium.
No one ever came to him with a unique quandary.
Townsfolks always bowed, shuffled their feet, and went silent as he approached.
Even when he walked into a room where he had been hundreds of times in the past, people treated him as though he was a supernatural being—worthy of their notice, but also the source of their wide-eyed terror.
As he drew nearer to the table where a group of his tenants were clustered a murmur of greetings sent back to him by some of the village’s wealthiest men.
Adrian knew he was about to meet with men who were used to earning large profits in their various businesses, which included parlors and taverns.
He watched them intently, knowing how he always managed to produce an effect on all of them.
The coldness he displayed was not intentional. He knew he ought to treat them with respect and, at the very least, show some signs of cordiality, but his thoughts and feelings were at war with one another. He simply didn’t like most of these men, and his abhorrence for them showed.
“Good day, Your Grace,” called one gentleman at the end of the table. The fellow bobbed his head as a show of kindness.
“Well met,” another man, the one sitting nearest to the head of the table said jovially as he gestured for Adrian to take the spot that they had left vacant especially for him. “I hope the rain did not hinder your journey, Your Grace.”
Adrian stared at the man, then his gaze flicked slightly toward the empty chair. The longer he stood there, without dropping into the seat, the more the tension built.
The men cast quick glances at one another.
One man, Mr. Barker, a tradesman who specialized in selling fine linens and draperies in his shops, shrugged helplessly. The man on Barker’s left side, Fitzgerald, looked equally nonplussed, so he picked up his mug of ale and took a hearty sip.
Even though Adrian could see how their bravado wavered, he kept his silence. Keeping others uncertain about the future was a form of power and Adrian reveled in the moment. If they did not know what to expect from him, they would dare to make assumptions and that was when Adrian would ensnare them.
He always… always held the upper hand in his business negotiations.
Adrian removed his gloves slowly. He laid them in front of him on the table before finally dropping into the chair and leaning back so that he could make eye contact with every person at the table.
When he spoke, his voice was even. “Report.”
“We had high sales the last few months. We are more likely to double our profits this holiday season,” the butcher bragged, his face red with pride.
“We have had record yields, as well, Your Grace,” the miller said.
“Trade in London is at its highest in years,” the tailor said.
Everyone seemed to have something good to say about their business, each one trying to outdo the one who came before them.
Adrian didn’t reveal much about what he felt. He listened carefully to each report without giving a comment. Instead of speaking or interrupting and asking for further information, he watched the boasting tradesman and catalogued each of their accounts.
Some of the men looked pleased with themselves.
Those were the novices, the gentlemen who were known as the nouveau riche.
They had earned their wealth recently and therefore had only begun receiving invitations to gatherings such as these.
The others, men like Barker and Fitzgerald, who knew him better looked uneasy.
Barker tugged restlessly at his cravat while sweat beaded on his forehead.
Adrian snorted.
Where is Barker’s liveliness now?
The club’s inner room was often protected from the winter chill, but the space was not that warm, either.
He’s nervous.
As one rather pompous fishmonger finished giving an update on the status of his business, Adrian kept his eyes on Barker.
What is he hiding?
Adrian was drawn from his contemplation by the sound of Fitzgerald clearing his throat.
“Your Grace,” the man spoke quietly, clearly comprehending that by drawing Adrian’s attention, he was interrupting a stream of thoughts.
Slowly, Adrian turned to look at Fitzgerald. He lifted one eyebrow high on his forehead, indicating that he was listening and waiting for the man to proceed.
But Fitzgerald said no more. He merely lifted his hands, spread them wide, and shrugged.
Adrian shook his head, slightly disappointed by Fitzgerald’s lack of communication skills, then turned his eyes on the others warily. He waited for a beat.
They have missed something… something rather important. Will it be Fitzgerald who realizes the error, or will it be Barker who steps up and remedies the situation?
Adrian’s disappointment grew as all the men blinked owlishly back at him.
Not one of them had another word to say.
So Adrian drew yet another deep breath, then pointed out his deepest concerns.
“You spoke of profit,” he said solemnly, placing both his hands on the table. “Yet I did not hear about the people.”
“What about the people, Your Grace?” the man asked.
There might already have been some discomfort around the table, but it escalated at this point. There were murmurs, grunts, and sideway glances. Some openly tried to avoid the Duke’s gaze, but he pinned each man in place, anyway.
“Tell me, then, Horace, about how you dismissed three of your workers without wages a week ago, too close to the holidays.”
The merchant looked genuinely shocked that Adrian knew about his actions. He certainly had not shared this information with the others at the table. It seemed that this tradesman was more focused on selling fineries and turning a profit than keeping his workers happy and on his staff.
Adrian’s scalp prickled as a sense of annoyance clogged his mind.
Just look at him. Mr. Horace Greenville has the audacity to look innocent in the face of what he did to those poor people. Has he not one shred of common human decency?
Disgusted, Adrian turned abruptly away from Mr. Greenville and focused his keen stare on another.
The man next to Greenville shifted uneasily in his seat and his hands shook as he reached for his mug.
“You. Mr. Thomas.” Adrian stared directly at the man.
“Yes… Your Grace?” The Adam’s apple in Mr. Thomas’ throat bobbed as he gulped out the simple reply. His trembling hands moved away from his cup, and he plastered them to the tabletop.
“Did you think that the best way to punish an erring apprentice was to give him a few lashes? The boy merely made an error that would affect your income, but you did something that could affect his health.”
The man’s face paled, but he made no reply.
How could he possibly defend his actions?
Adrian wanted to roar his disapproval, to shout at Mr. Thomas, and demand an explanation but the man’s movements were so fluttery that Adrian knew any response he produced would be practically incoherent.
He had been caught out and now must suffer the embarrassment of knowing he had displaced the Duke.
For a moment, Adrian contemplated pushing away from the table and exiting the inn, but he was not finished.
Not yet.
These men had behaved abominably, and he would not rest until they knew how much their transgressions had displeased him.
“You,” he said to the miller, “should be fair with your pay.” Then, he turned to the butcher. “Do you want to have to be put to work all night just like the boys, ages twelve to sixteen you force to do so?”
He also noted one squire who embezzled the rents. Each man looked guilty, speechless. Some muttered something that suspiciously sounded like prayers.
Adrian raised his eyebrow at that. “Really, Albert? Shouldn’t you have been praying when you were considering paying your workers less than the usual fees?”
Fitzgerald and Barker alone were exempt from Adrian’s rebukes. They had both, in the past, committed similar offenses and sat through the same sort of castigation.
While those two men were currently exempt from Adrian’s harsh words and piercing stare, the others were stunned. Everyone became quiet and deathly still.
Adrian did not mean to make this meeting uncomfortable, but he didn’t have a choice.
Many of these men could afford to pay their workers and still earn profits but most decided not to.
They were consumed by avarice and greedily lapped up their own profits, then had the nerve to come to his inn and play the braggarts.
To put it mildly, Adrian was disgruntled. He would have thought that some of these men, other than Fitzgerald and Barker, would have behaved justly and treated their employees with mercy. But almost all of them had failed him and the people.
“This village,” Adrian continued, “as you should know, is under my care. It is not acceptable to profit from the efforts of others without ensuring they are properly compensated for their work. Please be assured that such matters do not go unnoticed. I see everything that happens in this county, gentleman. Never forget that my eyes are always watching.”
Nobody responded. He glared silently, making them squirm.