Chapter Two
Lark was in the middle of writing letters of apology to anyone he might have offended by his drunken behavior of late when a footman knocked on the doorframe of his study and said, “I have today’s papers.”
“Thank you, Johnson. That will be all.”
“My lord, if I may. There is an item on page three that may interest you.”
Lark sighed. “All right. I will look later. That will be all.”
Johnson looked like he wanted to say something more, but he nodded, placed the newspaper on Lark’s desk, and left.
Lark continued writing for a few more minutes, but then curiosity got the better of him.
He picked up the paper and scanned the headlines.
Nothing dreadfully interesting. Parliament was out of session, the Prince Regent was clearly counting down the days until his father finally succumbed to whatever odd illness was plaguing him, wheat prices were fluctuating.
Yawn. Lark turned to page three. Someone, probably Johnson who had been with him for a long time and knew him well, had taken the time to circle the relevant square of text.
It was a birth announcement. The Marquess of Beresford and his wife had welcomed a baby boy.
It was like a knife to the heart.
For two years, Lark and the Marquess of Beresford—Anthony to Lark—had been lovers.
The year before, Lark had ended it, because the pressure on Anthony to marry had become overwhelming.
Anthony had talked constantly as if this was not an issue at all, that he could simply pass on the title to a cousin and continue his secret relationship with Lark indefinitely without marrying.
And yet, two months after Lark had ended it, the announcement had appeared in the paper that Anthony had married the sister of the Earl of Clairbourne.
What Lark should have done was move on. He should find a wife of his own. He should do everything in his power to forget all about Anthony. He told himself this at least once a day.
He had thus far utterly failed to adhere to this plan.
Instead, apparently he was currently trying to determine how much drink was needed to obliterate his memories of Anthony. He had yet to find a sufficient amount of whiskey.
Now he stared longingly at the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room.
The thing of it was, Lark had been utterly, completely, ridiculously head-over-heels in love with Anthony.
But Lark had chosen to end their relationship for valid reasons.
He’d gotten spooked when a man had tried to extort him; that man had met his untimely end in a carriage accident before he could be persuaded not to talk to a scandal sheet, but the incident had worried Lark all the same.
Then Anthony’s mother had given him an ultimatum: Anthony must find a woman to marry by the end of the previous Season, or she would choose bride for him.
Lark knew he had done the right thing, that their relationship could not survive much longer.
They were at risk of getting caught, and thanks to a new bill that had been passed by Parliament, that could very well mean they would have both been hanged.
Anthony had no interest in leaving Lark, so Lark had taken the choice out of his hands, thus freeing Anthony to marry without further obligation to Lark.
And now Anthony had the heir his mother had so desperately wanted.
Johnson appeared in his doorway again. “The Marquess of Greystone is here to see you, my lord.”
Lark supposed he deserved that. “Show him in.”
Fletcher appeared in his doorway a moment later. “I just wanted to check that you were still alive.”
“Barely,” Lark said.
Fletcher frowned at him. “The damage should be minimal, although you might want to send a letter to the Duchess of Montford to apologize for spilling wine on her gown.”
Lark groaned and made a mental note to add her to the list. “She was wearing something hideous, wasn’t she?”
“Her gown was a shade of brown reminiscent of a muddy pond.” Fletcher said with a nod. “Undoubtedly you improved it, but I imagine money to pay for the gown’s cleaning would not go amiss.”
“All right. I will send her a letter this afternoon. Was there something else?”
“Hugh’s pretty worried about you.”
Lark sighed. He understood the implication was that Fletcher was worried, too. “I know. I’ve behaved abysmally all Season. I’ve been unable to shake my melancholy and doing a piss poor job of hiding it.”
“You’re still upset about Beresford marrying.”
“I all but pushed him toward the altar. I don’t know why I should feel this way.
” Lark pointed at the newspaper. “I’ve solved the mystery of why Anthony has been absent this season.
” Anthony hadn’t attended any large social events, although Lark had assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that it was because Anthony was avoiding Lark.
Fletcher sat in a chair across from Lark at the desk. “Don’t torture yourself.”
Lark passed the newspaper to Fletcher. As Fletcher read the item, his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize it would be so soon.”
Fletcher’s tone was that of someone who was anticipating the news. “Did you know about this?” Lark asked.
“I did. I received a letter from Anthony a couple of months ago. I apologize for not saying anything, but his letter explicitly asked me not to tell you. All I knew was that his wife was expecting, but I didn’t know when the baby would arrive.”
Lark sighed. “I had no idea.”
“His letter to me implied he intended to tell you himself. I suppose I am not surprised he didn’t.”
No. Anthony wouldn’t have. Too painful. Too confrontational. “He and I have not spoken since his wedding.”
Fletcher hesitated, but then said, “Look, I cannot know what you are experiencing right now, but there must be healthier options for managing your feelings than trying to find the bottom of every bottle in your liquor cabinet.”
Lark knew Fletcher was correct. He didn’t want to feel this way anymore, but there was clearly no amount of liquor on earth that could obliterate Lark’s grief and regret, or surely Lark would have found it by now. “I’ve been acting like a fool.”
“Your friends have nothing but sympathy for you, but you make it challenging at times.” Fletcher rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, I should not have said that.”
“You’re not wrong. I’m a mess.”
“Come with me to the club tonight. Spend time with your friends instead of wallowing in your pain alone.”
“All right,” said Lark. “But don’t let me drink anything more potent than tea. I think I need to stay away from liquor for a while.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
Before going to see Lark, Fletcher had spent a long, dull day meeting with a parade of accountants and solicitors and advisors in an attempt to get a handle on his father’s vast business empire.
Somehow, Fletcher had not known the extent to which the late Marquess of Greystone had his fingers in many pots. Property, farms, various investments in new technology…the holdings were vast. More than Fletcher felt he could manage.
Shortly before his death, he’d started investing in shipping goods between England and the Americas.
Fletcher had argued with him about the ethics of importing things like cotton and tobacco from plantations that used slave labor, but the elder Basildon had argued that he was investing in the shipping infrastructure and not the goods themselves.
“It is not up to me what people choose to buy and sell, or how those goods are produced.” Fletcher disagreed.
He generally tried to stay out of political arguments, but he objected to enslaving humans and wanted to see the trade abolished.
It was tempting to take up his father’s seat in Parliament for that reason alone.
Still, finding a way to divest himself of those holdings had been his first order of business, and his advisors assured him he’d made a tidy profit for it.
Fletcher and his father had not been especially close.
John Basildon had been an ambitious man who worked hard to expand his family’s wealth and power.
He was domineering with a short temper, and he had very specific ideas about the exact place each member of his family occupied.
As the head of his family, it was his job to be outside the home growing his fortune, so Fletcher didn’t see a lot of him growing up.
Upon his death eight months ago, Fletcher had inherited the lot of it and found it overwhelming.
Father had tried to impart his business wisdom once Fletcher came of age, but it had not prepared him for this.
Although once his health started failing, Father had begun lecturing his son on the finer points of his business, Fletcher still felt like he had a lot to learn.
The only saving grace was the small legion of people Father had employed, and whose expertise Fletcher relied on now.
Still, he knew he had only a fraction of his father’s business acumen, and he walked away from each meeting he’d had today convinced he’d be the one who destroyed the family’s fortune.
He arrived at his club that night with all this on his mind, thinking he could perhaps sell his stake in a few more of these business ventures and reinvest the money in something Fletcher understood better than, say, cross-Atlantic shipping.
Lark had followed him to the club but was currently otherwise occupied, speaking to an acquaintance.
Instead, Fletcher and Owen sat near the fire, their usual spot in the club, and Fletcher mentioned he’d had business meetings but didn’t get into the details.
He still thought of all of these men he’d spoken with as his father’s employees; he was still wrapping his head around the fact that he’d inherited all this and now all those men worked for him.
“I suppose the good news,” Fletcher said, wrapping up his brief description of his day, “is that even if I decided to sell all of it tomorrow, I’d still have enough to ensure that my grandchildren are well taken care of.”