Chapter Three
Xander kept having the same dream. He’d wake up in an enormous manor, with a host of servants ready to bow or curtsy at a moment’s notice and a pile of correspondence demanding his attention, with no idea what to do with any of them.
Unfortunately, the dream seemed to last all day. Only at night could he strip off the fine clothes his stepfather, Giles Lynwood, Earl of Northumberland, and better known to most as North, had insisted on buying for him, close his eyes, and remember his simpler life working in his brother’s pub.
His mother had been so proud. “I have no doubt that you can manage a dukedom as well as you manage the pub. You deserve this, Xander. I’m excited for you. We’ll let you get settled, then come visit. And you must write often.”
He was less excited and more overwhelmed, but as she’d pointed out, he’d have help.
The duke’s—his—solicitor, Jacob Lancaster, had journeyed with him to Rutland, inland and just south of Northumberland, and met with the duke’s—his—steward, before leaving his direction and assuring Xander that he would respond to any questions or concerns immediately upon receiving them.
Before he’d left Northumberland, Bruce, his stepfather, and his mother had prepared him as best they could.
His mama had told him to befriend the housekeeper.
“Have daily or at least weekly check-ins with her, and have a second set of eyes on the books, but unless the house appears derelict, the day-to-day and oversight of the rest of the servants will be handled by her. There will be time later—or hopefully a wife—to manage that.”
North had said, “Trust your steward in small increments. Give him the opportunity to prove himself to you or fail. But have Jacob look over the books.”
“You think he could be stealing?” Xander was appalled.
“I do not think he is, but neither do I assume he is honest.”
“Ugh. What of Jacob?”
“I know Jacob’s firm by reputation. And I doubt he would have bothered to come looking for you if he were anything less than loyal.
However, the biggest pitfall of inheriting a title is people’s expectations.
They’ll expect you to have money, they’ll expect favors and leadership.
Indeed, they’ll curry attention. Even if you didn’t have money, you’d need to worry about who is after your title, particularly the ladies.
Jacob says you’re flush, so you’ll need to consider who is ingratiating themselves looking for that, in addition to the title. ”
“That sounds bloody awful. I hated London when I was there to work. Now I have a whole extra layer of disgust for it.”
“Sadly, you’ll likely have to deal with the city and the Ton to some extent in your new role.
You hold a seat in the House of Lords now, as well as a London home you should check on periodically.
As a Member of Parliament, you have a responsibility to guide the country forward and help govern the people of Britain. ”
“Geh. I thought having staff was too much responsibility. Is there someone I can pass this along to?”
“Come now,” North admonished with a half-smile.
“Most men would give their left arm to get a title and a fat purse and retire from working life. It won’t be all bad.
Plenty of ladies will be interested in entertaining a duke without looking for the title or money. Just be careful of the débutantes.”
“And the staff,” Bruce added.
“What? Why? Isn’t that a lord’s privilege?” Xander joked.
North snorted.
His brother frowned and continued. “They work for you. First, Ma would tell you ’tis the height of impropriety to take advantage of that role imbalance. Second, you don’t shite where you eat, brother. You should know that after Lisa.”
He humphed as North guffawed at his brother’s reference to the animosity from a server in the pub after he turned her down for a second night in his bed.
“Fine.”
Jacob Lancaster had written to his firm to investigate Munroe, the steward, and send their own evaluation at the earliest possible time.
By the time Xander had a handful of new pieces of clothing and three days’ lessons done, he was more than ready to leave if only to escape the well-intentioned teachings of his family.
His head was going to explode if he had to sit through one more meeting, scribbling notes and hoping his anxiety did not explode out of his chest.
He changed his mind about being ready when they stopped on the circular drive of Rutland Manor, however.
The previous duke’s parents had both passed, and his sister had married and moved away, so he’d lived in this monstrosity alone when not in London.
If Xander’s head or anything else exploded, it could take days for anyone to find him in this giant edifice.
Munroe gave him a tour of the place. The gardens alone were as big as the main street of Old Shoreston, where he’d spent the last decade of his life.
As for the interior, he had no idea what he was expected to do with eleven guest chambers, several with their own sitting room, and two parlors, not one, a library, and a blooming ballroom.
He supposed he’d learn. He’d rather not, though; he’d been perfectly content to make the tavern patrons’ lives a little better and easier by giving them a pint and a patient ear.
Having staff, tenants, and more at other locations relying on him for their bread and butter was more stress than he’d ever looked for.
Blazes, after watching his parents struggle to get ahead with two children even before his father’s death, he’d never even wooed a girl for fear of accountability.
* * * *
His first full day at Rutland, Xander alternated between meetings with Lancaster and Munroe that made him fear he’d never have adequate knowledge to run the dukedom, much less sit in Parliament.
When his heart pounding in his chest moved to a pulse drumming in his temple, he requested a break to walk the gardens.
Munroe had looked confused when Xander asked the second time, and the London solicitor leaned in to say, “You’re the duke. We are here at your convenience, Your Grace.”
Apparently, politeness was not valued in dukes. He rolled his eyes again.
He’d asked what time supper would be served and got another strange expression from the housekeeper before she blinked and said, “Whatever time you’d like, Your Grace.”
The one bright spot in his new circumstances was his bed.
The giant cherry wood bed frame with fancy carved posts in his fancy ducal bedroom was the first one large enough for his build.
Between its size and the extravagant bedding, he slept better than he ever had.
Although that might be from exhaustion. Managing a pub had been physically challenging, but the mental toll of his new world drained him in a different way.
After a few days of transition, Lancaster excused himself back to London, informing Xander that he was in capable hands with Munroe, and he was only a letter away.
Xander took another sennight to find a routine that worked for him.
Irritation with all the demands waiting for him was slower, and he was less likely to take that out on Munroe if he used the mornings to read alone at the duke’s—his—massive desk in the library, allowing himself to feel overwhelmed when needed and to consolidate his questions.
Munroe would join him in the afternoon, and they’d move to the small table and chairs by a window, where they’d work through whatever the next element of the dukedom Munroe thought he needed to learn that day.
This morning, he re-entered the library and plopped down in his chair.
The desk faced the door with his back to the glass veranda doors so he turned to stare outside at the rolling fields.
That view was more compelling than bookshelves and the hall door; he could not fathom why anyone would have placed the desk facing away from it.
Frustrated, he turned to start work. Wait a minute. He was a duke now. Stepping out into the hall, he called to the footman by the front door. “Hullo. I’m sorry, I have forgotten your name.”
“Ferguson, sir. How may I assist?” The man trotted over, bowing his head.
“No, your first name.”
The man’s eyes went wide. He swallowed and answered, “Duncan, sir.”
“Duncan, would you be so kind as to help me move the desk, please?” Xander wasn’t sure he’d ever rid himself of asking people when he wanted help or service. He didn’t care if other nobs expected it like their due, he’d never be like them.
“Of course.” The man stepped into the library. “Ah, let me call for another servant, sir.”
“Why?”
“I shan’t be able to move that alone without scraping the floors, and then Mrs. Betters will have my head.”
“Duncan,” Xander said on a sigh, trying to find his patience. “I am an able-bodied man who was lifting casks half his days until a fortnight ago. I will lift the other side.”
Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but closed it.
Xander almost laughed, suspecting the man was debating between arguing that a duke shouldn’t do that sort of thing and arguing with a duke, period.
To expedite the solution, he moved to one end of the table and gestured.
“I want to rotate it a quarter turn, so I have the outdoors on one side and the interior door on the other, with the rest of the room and the fire in front of me.”
“Of course, sir.” Duncan grabbed a few books off the shelf nearest him and placed them on the piles of documents on the desk so they wouldn’t spill.
“Ah, good thought. Thank you.”
The footman blinked before saying, “Certainly, Your Grace.”
After they’d adjusted the desk and Xander brought the chair around, he sat to test it, looking in both directions. “So much better, don’t you think?”
Duncan blinked twice and took a moment to form his reply. “Definitely, Your Grace. You can enjoy the outdoors whilst keeping an eye on anyone who might think to disturb you.”
Xander barked a short laugh. “Well put, Duncan. ’Ta.”
The footman re-shelved the books before heading back to his post in the hall.
Alone again but in a better mood, Xander tackled the rather daunting amount of correspondence awaiting him.
Munroe had opened the letters in case anything urgent required dukedom funds or arbitration.
He’d been kind enough to separate letters into two piles.
One was composed of letters of condolences and felicitations, often on the same page, regarding the previous duke’s passing and his ascension.
Xander planned to ignore those as long as possible.
The second pile was more time-sensitive notes, including House of Lords business to review.
Xander picked up a page from the top of the pile.
To Alexander Whitcomb, Third Duke of Rutland,
He doubted he’d ever get comfortable seeing that in writing or hearing himself introduced as such. And the “Your Graces” were downright annoying. He kept looking around for a chit named Grace. He continued reading, phrases leaping out at him.
…part of an alliance…here to help…visit in the coming weeks…
He straightened in his desk chair. There was an alliance by dukes, to help dukes?
He leaned back. Of course there was. Perhaps there could be an alliance of dockworkers to help each other, too, and tavern workers, and whatever else.
But none of them had the time or the wherewithal to form such a thing.
Even if they did, it would only take the coffers of one wealthy merchant, earl, or dare he say it, duke, to smite them.
An alliance, however, would keep power centered exactly where dukes wanted it—among themselves.
Throwing the letter aside, he moved to the next one and spent the better part of an hour trying to decipher the references and the attached proposed bill from the House of Commons.
That, too, was tossed to the side. Sighing with frustration, he thunked his elbows on the desk and threaded his fingers through his hair to support his head.
Staring down at the desk, he closed his eyes in frustration.
He read the newspapers, of course. However, the governance of the country was so far removed from everyday life for most Brits that none of them could speak to the pros and cons of a law or even whether it benefited them directly.
Half the documents revised or amended older laws, which meant he’d need to see if archives were kept at this house by the former dukes or request them from London. It was exhausting.
A rustle from behind his left brought his head up and around. He hadn’t heard anyone come into the office. A maid in a frilled mob cap stood nearby.
Munroe always knocked. The whole point of working alone in the mornings was for these private anxiety attacks.
Now, however, someone had witnessed his silent panic. He narrowed his gaze at her, channeling his newfound ducal energy.
She nodded to him, appearing immune. “They’re expanding the Insolvent Debtors Act to Ireland, hmm?”
“I beg your pardon?” Was this part of maids’ training for a duke’s household? He was relatively sure she was one of the newer hires, and that the two maids who had made sexual advances toward him would not have had that observation even if they’d spent an hour with the letter as he had.
“The bill.” She tilted her head to the second letter he’d thrown aside. “I hadn’t considered Ireland. Rather myopic of me, wasn’t it? I’m glad they are rectifying it.”
He gaped. Half aware that he resembled a fish, opening and closing his mouth without emitting any words, he had a crazy thought.
If he hadn’t been sure before, he was now.
This had to be a dream becoming a nightmare because a lovely chit he’d never hesitate to tup before was suddenly off limits.
Worse, the minute she opened her mouth, she proved she knew more about the governing of the country than he did.