Chapter 29
29
G ran gets released from the hospital four days after she was admitted, refusing my suggestion she come stay at Newcastle Hall while she recovers and insisting her staff in London is capable of caring for her. Dr. Wallace clears the choice, and Elsie tells me privately that Gran already has a full slate of visitors lined up.
Blythe leaves for Florence a day later, informing me on her way out the door that Zara’s family has a flat in the city so the trip will be “basically free.” It’s the first time she’s acknowledged our conversation in the hospital cafeteria, and as irritating as I found her reckless spending before, I hate her worrying about money even more.
I meet with four investors in two days, none of them offering the magic number I’m looking for. The one that will wipe my debts clean.
They know I need the money—there’s no other reason I’d be shopping around—and they’re preying on my position of weakness. But if I can’t clear the debt, there’s no point in selling.
I ride Kensington early each morning—the most exercise he’s gotten in months—hoping I’ll come up with some magical solution trotting through the moors. Mulling over Gran’s suggested fix.
I was supposed to have more time. But so was my dad.
I’ll need to get married eventually—unless I really want to disappoint the past seven Dukes of Manchester—and I need money now. Marrying an heiress would be a loan I wouldn’t have to pay back. A safety net for Gran and Blythe.
And I thought I’d made peace with marrying for convenience. Thought I fully understood what my life would look like. But I’m learning there’s a lot more to this role than I realized. I’m so sick of being stuck. Of there being an endless list of tasks, but never feeling any sense of accomplishment.
I also miss Lili.
She’s the main reason I’m balking at the idea of marriage, if I’m being honest.
Getting married to a woman who wanted a title wasn’t just a hypothetical before. It’s what I fully expected to take place eventually.
But now, I’ve experienced what it’s like to be with a woman who couldn’t care less about my title. Who knows me in ways I’ve never let anyone else in.
I could call her. I don’t have her number, but I could get it from Theo. Reach out, apologize for how I left, and then …
And then I don’t know what.
I’ve been so consumed by figuring out how to get through this financial mess that I haven’t considered what I’ll do if I do manage to resolve everything. That feels too preemptive since nothing is.
Mid-week, an invitation to Kensington Consolidated’s annual gala arrives. I spend an afternoon sitting in my father’s— my —office, staring at it.
I don’t think it’s from Lili. Asher Cotes added me to the list, I’m guessing. But there’s a high chance Lili will be there. It’s an excuse to see her. To talk to her, in person, and at least leave things more resolved than they currently are.
After a moderately productive day of paperwork and a meeting with one of my father’s barristers, I drive to the local village pub for dinner.
It’s close to Newcastle, the trip taking less than ten minutes, but I haven’t been here since becoming the duke.
The sight of it feels like stepping back in time a few centuries. A former coaching inn, the building has been lovingly preserved, original floors and beams intact, rather than renovated, like most of downtown Buckleby.
My arrival causes quite the stir—I figured it probably would, and it’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided this place. I get recognized in London sometimes, but not like here. Here, everyone knows who I am.
A pretty blonde is drying glasses when I take a seat on one of the stools. She glances at me, does a double take, and then nearly drops the pint.
I groan internally, wishing it weren’t too late to turn around and leave. But it is. Everyone who watched me arrive will also watch me leave.
“Hello, Your Grace.” The blonde’s tone is flirty as she rests her elbows on the counter right in front of me.
She leans forward, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her low-cut top. I look because it’s that view or crane my neck back to stare at the ceiling, then immediately feel guilty.
Next, I think, What the fuck? because interest and appreciation are what I should be experiencing when looking at a woman’s tits. Not the niggling sensation of doing something wrong.
“Good evening.” I sound stiff, confusion and compunction holding me captive as I try to figure out when talking to—looking at—a woman who’s clearly interested in me started to feel like a crime instead of a good time.
“Was wondering when you were going to stop by again, Charlie,” she says when I add nothing else.
We’ve met before, apparently.
I can’t remember if I’ve shagged her or not. Fig and I used to frequent this place whenever he came to visit over breaks and such, and plenty of those nights ended with us so pissed that we’d have to stumble home through the fields.
Can’t remember her name either.
“Been busy,” I tell her, giving my standard response to just about anything these days.
“I’m sure.” She reaches for the empty glass abandoned by my elbow, her fingers lightly brushing my forearm in a touch that could be considered unintentional, but I doubt is.
The glass gets added to the rack of dirty dishes, and then her attention is back on me. “You ready to order?”
I pick the first dish I see on the menu—wood-fried chicken—and after a moment of deliberation, I add on an ale. She serves it to me immediately. It’s a local one, brewed in town, the hoppy, fruity flavor one of the best things I’ve tasted in a while.
“Thanks …”
“Ada,” the bartender supplies with a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
I nod, then take another sip.
A few minutes later, I hear my name.
I suppress a sigh, deciding I’ll be eating whatever Martha cooks from now on, before I turn around.
Dr. Evans’s wide smile creases the corners of his eyes. “It is you.”
“Dr. Evans.” I cough, some beer going down the wrong pipe. “What are you doing here?”
We’re not that far from London, but farther than most people in the city would venture for a dinner.
My former surgeon glances toward one of the back booths, where a red-haired woman is sitting. “Getaway with the missus. She’s a Galway girl, so London gets to be a little much for her at times.” His gaze returns to me, peering closely enough to notice the dark circles under my eyes and the day of scruff that’s grown. “How are you, Charles?”
I roll the pint glass in one palm. “All right. Knee is holding up.”
He glances down at the leg he operated on. Smiles again. “Glad to hear it.”
“I went to medical school.” I blurt the sentence, not really meaning to say it. “Started medical school,” I amend. “Only made it halfway through.”
Dr. Evans’s expression is sympathetic. I’m not sure if it’s because he heard about my father’s death and surmised that was the detour or because I sound as pathetic as I feel. “Halfway is still an accomplishment,” he tells me.
I shrug, not wanting to be rude and disagree with him outright. It doesn’t feel like much of one.
I miss that purpose. The ability to make a difference. Going to medical school wasn’t an impulsive decision I hadn’t thought through. It was an achievement I wanted, until my life fell apart.
“Are you considering finishing?” he asks me.
Am I?
I didn’t know I was, until he asked. If I knew Blythe and my grandmother and all the staff employed by the dukedom were taken care of, it would be a serious thought.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “Maybe.”
“It’s a hard profession, Charles. I haven’t met a single colleague who didn’t consider an alternate path.”
“It’s more than that. Leaving medical school … it didn’t have much to do with medical school.”
Dr. Evans nods. “I heard about your father’s passing. My condolences.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate before adding, “He died on the way into surgery.” Something the obituary didn’t mention. The collision had knocked him out cold, but he was still breathing when he arrived at the hospital.
The sympathy on his face shifts to understanding. “We can’t save everyone, Charles. But we wouldn’t save anyone if we didn’t try.”
That sentiment does nothing to improve my financial predicament. But it does make me feel a little better—for the first time in days. It might not be with medicine, but there’s a lot I’m trying to save.
Ada delivers a steaming plate of chicken in front of me, and I twist around to thank her.
She gives me a flirty smile in response that, once again, prompts no reaction from me.
“I’ll let you enjoy that,” Dr. Evans says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Just wanted to say a quick hello. It was good to see you, Charles.”
“You too, Dr. Evans,” I tell him.
He reaches into his trouser pocket, retrieving a business card that he hands to me. “My friends call me Devon. And they call , if they ever want to talk.”
I nod, taking the card. “Thanks Dr.—I mean, Devon.”
“For whatever it’s worth, Charles, I think you’d make an excellent doctor.” He smiles, then heads back toward his wife.
He’s only the second person to say that to me, and it means almost as much as it did the first time.