Chapter 2
Why George had shown up to the earl’s funeral, he didn’t know. But he tried his best to push it from his mind as he spent the entire night looking over the important documents of his father’s – his – estate.
It was something he had put off for a long while. Even though he had returned to England months ago, he had failed to show his face at home.
His mother had sent several letters, pleading him to return, to take care of all the business his father had left him, and to accept the dukedom that had been laid at his feet.
And it wasn’t until he heard of the earl’s demise that he finally plucked up the courage to go.
How could he not have done? The earl had been as much a part of his family as his own mother and father over the years.
In fact, sometimes more so, for the earl had never expected anything of him.
He had merely been proud of the young man he had become, and George would forever be thankful for that.
He would have been grateful for the earl to be there now, to help him make heads or tails of the accounts his father had left. Everything appeared to be in shambles. There was much to do.
And he spent much of the night pouring through letters, ledgers, and bills, feeling as if he were drowning in the work that he had left for himself.
As the dawn turned grey outside, there was a gentle knock upon his study door.
For a second, he considered ignoring it. He had no desire to speak with anyone right now. He had heard the front doorbell ringing only moments earlier, though he couldn’t imagine who would be visiting him at such an unreasonable hour.
And so, he called, “Enter!”
Mr Dawling, the man who had served as his father’s butler for as long as George could remember, entered the room with his head bowed. A silver tray in his hands caused George to sigh with relief. It was not a visitor but the post.
“Your Grace, a letter has arrived for you,” Mr Dawling said, stepping forward, “it is marked urgent.”
George’s stomach twisted. Just what he needed, something else to add to his pile.
He waved the butler forth and took the envelope from the silver tray.
For several seconds, he stared at the handwriting on the front. He recognized it well. Mr Jones, the solicitor, was well known in these parts, and George had corresponded with him often since his father’s passing.
Yet, he had believed everything had been settled regarding his father’s estates. All he could hope was that something terrible hadn’t been uncovered during his absence.
“Thank you, Dawling,” George said dismissively. Whatever this letter was, he wished to be alone when he read it.
Mr Dawling was a respectable man, a loyal servant of the family, and yet, George still didn’t entirely trust him. All servants were known to gossip.
“Might I ask, do you need anything else, Your Grace?” Dawling asked, hesitating by the door.
George shook his head as he picked up the letter opener from his desk. “No, thank you. Leave me.”
Only when the butler had firmly closed the door behind him did George dare to remove the letter from its envelope.
Lord George Ellsworth,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I am writing to you today to request your honourable presence at the residence of the Dowager Countess of Westmere, Lady Rosalind Flannery, this very afternoon.
Some urgent business has come to light, and it cannot wait.
I have written to the lady herself to request an audience and hope to find you there in due course.
Sincerest Regards
Mr Patrick Jones
Of Jones & Co.
George’s interest was piqued for only a moment before realizing what this letter meant.
Attending the funeral had been hard enough. So many memories had been brought forth in that churchyard.
But the visit to Fernworth Manor, the very place where it felt his life had come crashing down, made him feel sick to his stomach.
Still, the urgent tone of Mr Jones letter left him with little doubt. He had to attend. Whether he liked it or not.
And so, against his better judgement, he did.
That afternoon, he arrived to find Fernworth Manor almost as he had left it. The gardens were as manicured and lush as ever they had been. And the house itself stood tall and proud at the centre of them, forever unchanged with its grand sandstone facade, its window beds flourishing.
As his carriage travelled down the driveway, he could almost forget about the last several years and all he had seen and felt.
He could almost imagine he was that seventeen-year-old boy again, come to spend the summer in his favourite place. Come to see her.
It was only when he glimpsed the fountain through the trees that he remembered he hadn't.
He was here on business and nothing more.
If the war had taught him anything, it was that duty was duty, and as he was now duke, it fell upon him to do the right thing, whatever that may be.
He scoffed silently to himself wondering what his father might say of him now. The man who had never been happy with him no matter how hard he tried.
Though he tried not to, he could not help thinking of the day before. He had never expected to be called to Fernworth Manor so soon after seeing Lady Cecelia at the funeral.
Nothing could have prepared him for that moment. She had grown so beautiful in the years since he had been gone, breathtakingly so. Her raven hair had been longer and glossier than ever before, pinned up in a graceful fashion, causing her to look elegant.
She had been a far cry from the young lady he remembered with the muddy hem and scrapes all over her hands, elbows, and knees.
There had always been bits of grass or hay or even leaves in her hair before, but when he had seen her yesterday, dressed all in black, her skin porcelain perfection, he had barely recognized her.
No, he would not think about that now as he thrust himself from the carriage.
He was here to do his duty and that did not involve conversing with the young lady he had loved right up until the very moment she had twisted a knife into his heart, mocking him in front of all their closest friends and relatives.
He entered Fernworth Manor stiff-backed and sombre, offering his coat to the butler before he was quickly ushered to the drawing room.
The room itself was just as he remembered it, pastel pink wallpaper, gold accents, beautiful floral arrangements. But the people within felt like strangers to him.
That was until Catherine, the middle Flannery sister, jumped up from her seat beside Mary and rushed to wrap her arms around him.
It was a gesture of innocence and friendship, one that told him she had not yet been stomped down by the rules of the ton.
And for just a second, he was disarmed, smiling into her hair as he hugged her back.
“George, it is so good to see you!”
“It is good to see you too, Lady Catherine.”
Only as she pulled away, drawn by the clearing of her mother's throat, did he recompose himself.
His eyes were drawn instantly to those of Lady Cecelia, and he closed down his expression, fighting the pain in his gut at the sight of her.
She was even more devastatingly beautiful than she had been the day before. Dressed still in black, her skin glowed against the darkness of it.
Yet, he would not allow himself to forget that day all those years ago, the day she had ripped out his heart and stomped on it right there in the gardens that lay just beyond the drawing room.
“Your Grace, please, have a seat,” Lady Rosalind Flannery insisted, rising to her feet to offer him a bow. “Can I offer you anything? Tea, perhaps, or some other refreshments.”
“Thank you, My Lady, but no. I am afraid I cannot remain long,” George stated, urging her to return to her seat even as he took one as far away from Cecelia as he could get.
Still, it did not feel far enough.
“I am certain you are a very busy man of late, Your Grace,” she said, a half-smile on her lips. “We thank you for attending.”
George dipped his head and turned to Mr Jones, struggling not to meet Cecelia's striking green gaze. “What, may I ask, is this about?”
Mr Jones cleared his throat and adjusted the papers he already had in hand.
“We are here to read the last will and testament of Lord Edmund Flannery.”
At that, George's throat constricted. What could he possibly have to do with any of this?
His palms grew clammy at the possibilities.
He could not help glancing in Cecelia's direction. And it appeared she was just as surprised as he.
She met his gaze studiously, her expression growing unreadable, and George would have given anything to ask what she was thinking.
Instead, he remained silent as Mr Jones began to reel off the will, explaining how and when all assets would be given to the relevant recipients.
And just when George believed it was all over, just when he was questioning even more why he had been called there, Mr Jones gave the reason.
“Lastly, Lord Flannery wished to make it clear he expects his eldest daughter, Lady Cecelia Flannery, to attend this year's social season. He states that it is of the utmost importance to secure a husband and a future for you all.”
“But we have no chaperone for her!” Lady Flannery exclaimed, her eyes tearful at the reading of her late husband's will.
Mr Jones offered her a slightly sad smile before he turned his gaze to George. “That is where you come in, Your Grace. It is Lord Flannery's wish that you be the one to chaperone Lady Cecelia this Season.”
George's mouth fell open, and only when Cecelia's own mouth did the same, did he recompose himself.
“There must be some mistake,” George protested, holding out his hand for the pages Mr Jones was holding.
Silently, the gentleman offered the will to George, and he skimmed it quickly.
“There is no mistake, Your Grace,” Mr Jones stated, even as George saw it there written before him in black and white.
“This … this says she is to find a husband within the year,” George said, his heart skipping a beat at the thought.
Mr Jones nodded. “That is correct.”
“And I … I am to be her chaperone?” he said the words to try and make sense of them, and yet, he only felt all the more baffled.
Why would the earl do something like this?
“That is correct,” Mr Jones repeated and yet, George still could not bring himself to believe it.