Chapter Two
London, six months earlier
“Welcome back to England, Lord Devereaux.”
Charles winced.
Curse that name! To most, it signaled breeding—a family line dating back to the Plantagenets with which it would be an honor to associate oneself. Or, most likely, a name that the ambitious wished to ingratiate themselves with to further their advancement in Society…
…whatever the fuck that meant.
How dare you curse in my home! Insolent, dim-witted boy!
Devil’s breeches, did that old bastard seek to plague him from beyond the grave?
“Lord Devereaux?”
The voice spoke again, tinged with a thin veneer of irritation. Charles blinked and focused his attention on the man before him.
Clad in black, the clerk had all the appearance of obsequiousness, but it could not disguise the impatient contempt that many in business had for the clients they served, seeing them as merely a means to an income rather than a client in whose best interests they were supposed to act.
But then, he couldn’t expect any man to act in accordance with anything other than what was best for himself.
Men of the world—whether those in trade, or the idle gentlemen who languished in their country estates—only sought to serve their own gratification. As for women of the world…
Women were a good deal worse. Men acted out of self-interest, but women preyed upon men to take advantage of that self-interest.
“Lord Devereaux!”
Charles gestured toward his valet. John was one of the few men, perhaps the only man, whose loyalty surpassed self-interest.
“My master is here to see Mr. Stockton,” John said.
“I know that,” the clerk replied, “but servants must enter through the back door, not the front.”
Charles gestured with his hands. Arrogant arse.
The valet suppressed a smile.
“My master insists on my accompanying him wherever he goes.”
“I don’t think that’s entirely…” the clerk began, but his voice trailed off as Charles stepped across the threshold.
Fear shimmered in the man’s eyes as he craned his head to look up.
A little shorter than average, he’d have to look up to most of the clientele, but Charles topped him by a head and a half.
He itched to grasp the clerk by his lapels and toss him down the steps, and, as if he’d read his mind, the clerk lowered his gaze to Charles’s gloves.
Were Charles to remove them, the little man would see the callouses on his knuckles—trophies of his childhood that uttered a silent warning to anyone who had the wit to recognize danger.
At length, the clerk stepped back and bowed.
“O-of course, your lordship. I’ll tell Mr. Stockton you’re here. And Mr.…?”
“Richards,” John said.
The clerk nodded, then ushered them into a large room on the upper floor overlooking the street. Its occupant, a gray-haired man with soft eyes, rose to his feet from behind a large mahogany desk.
“Mr. Stockton, Lord Devereaux for you,” the clerk said. “I’m afraid he’s insisted on being accompanied by—”
“Yes, yes, Billings, I can see that,” the solicitor replied. “That’ll be all, thank you. Gentlemen, sit, please.”
After the clerk retreated, closing the door behind him, Charles slid into a seat, motioning to John to occupy the adjacent chair.
The solicitor reached for a sheaf of papers, bound with a pink ribbon, which he untied. Then he met Charles’s gaze.
“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father, Lord Devereaux. I…”
He paused as Charles raised his hand.
“Very good, your lordship. I understand. You’re not here to discuss pleasantries.” He flicked through the papers. “The estate accounts are, I’m afraid, in need of your attention. The death duties were substantial.”
Of course they bloody were. Charles gritted his teeth to stem the anger vibrating through his bones. Did the arrogant fool not realize he already knew that?
Stockton raised his eyebrows, as if awaiting a reply. Then he nodded and continued. “Your father passed over four months ago.” He tilted his head, looking at Charles over his spectacles, in the manner of a judgmental schoolmaster.
Charles leaned forward, his frame casting a shadow over the desk, and the solicitor’s eyes widened in apprehension.
He glanced at his valet, then gestured with his hands.
The solicitor watched the motion, confusion in his expression as Charles continued to move his hands in a fluid motion. Then the valet nodded.
“My master says that he’s fully aware of the circumstances surrounding the estate,” he said. “He sold his property in Italy to pay the death duties. Surely there can be no requirement for further payment?”
“There’s already a substantial loan secured on the estate,” the solicitor said, “but the trustees aren’t amenable to selling any heirlooms to service the loan.”
Charles raised his hands again, making a series of gestures. Then his valet spoke.
“Are the trustees amenable to the bank seizing the property if the loan cannot be serviced?”
“The loan is being serviced, Lord Devereaux,” the solicitor said, “but the estate’s income is barely sufficient to meet the interest, which is twenty per cent.”
Twenty per cent?
Devil’s breeches, what the fuck had his wastrel of a father been thinking?
“I share your concern, Lord Devereaux,” the solicitor continued. “Coutts Bank did not consider your father to be an acceptable risk and therefore levied a premium on the interest rate. I warned him at the time, but you know what the late earl was like…” He shrugged.
Yes. I know damned well what that old bastard was like.
Charles closed his eyes, suppressing the memory that had threatened to resurface.
The skin of his back itched and he shifted position in his chair and leaned back, crossing his legs.
He reached for the signet ring on his left hand and rotated it with his thumb, focusing on the repetitive motion to divert his mind from the image of his father’s face, twisted in anger and disgust…
“Lord Devereaux?”
Charles opened his eyes to see the solicitor staring at him, his head tilted to one side. Stockton gestured toward a decanter half filled with a dark amber liquid. “Perhaps a brandy?”
Charles made a series of gestures to his valet.
Doubtless he’ll add it to his bill to increase the profit he’s making out of me.
John frowned, and the solicitor raised his eyebrows.
“My master says he’d greatly appreciate a brandy,” John said, “but only if you pour one for his valet also.”
Charles frowned at John, whose eyes twinkled with faint amusement. The solicitor poured two glasses and pushed them across the table.
“While the estate income can service the interest on the loan, the problem is the repayment of the capital. There’s nothing to spare to reduce the capital outstanding. I’m sure you’d rather the profit from the estate be used to benefit the estate rather than its creditors.”
Charles gestured with his hands.
“What is to be done?” John said.
“If you can raise the funds to reduce the loan,” Stockton said, “even if not eliminate it entirely, then the interest will similarly reduce, leaving sufficient income to reduce the capital further. I trust you understand?”
Yes, you condescending fool, I’m aware how loans operate. Insult me again and I’ll throw you out of the window.
John raised his eyebrows as Charles signed his response.
“Ahem, my master says that he understands you, and he’ll make arrangements to sell any assets that are not under trust.”
Stockton poured himself a brandy, then leaned back and sipped it. “Are you married, Lord Devereaux?”
I don’t think that’s any of your…
“Lord Devereaux is not married, Mr. Stockton,” John said, ignoring Charles’s gestures.
“Then forgive me for being frank, but the solution seems perfectly clear,” the solicitor said.
“A substantial enough dowry should clear the loan, and there are plenty to be had this Season, or so I’m told.
Once Society’s matriarchs know that Earl Devereaux is in Town, I imagine your hallway will be littered with calling cards. You’ll have your pick of the—”
Charles leaped to his feet and his chair tipped onto its side with a clatter.
Was there no end to the torture? Not only was he forced to surrender his home and return to that godforsaken mausoleum in the middle of bloody nowhere, must he now be plagued, within hours of setting foot on English soil, by the prospect of being pecked at by desperate debutantes and their overbearing mamas?
“Yes, yes, very good.” Stockton rose and offered his hand. Charles stared at it for a moment, then took it, his larger hand engulfing the older man’s. One squeeze and he’d be able to crush Stockton’s fingers…
“I apologize if I gave offense, Lord Devereaux,” Stockton said.
“I understand how difficult it must have been to leave Italy after having lived there for so long, and under such trying personal circumstances. But I trust you’ll be happy at Penham Park.
There’s sometimes comfort to be found in knowing that one is doing one’s duty to one’s heritage. ”
Charles released Stockton’s hand. Then the older man escorted them out of the building to the waiting chaise. Charles climbed on without a backward glance and, as soon as John joined him, the chaise set off.
He focused his attention on the surroundings—row upon row of identical houses with imposing, colorless facades. Then he reached for his signet ring to rotate it, focusing on the feel of the hard metal against the base of his finger, until the swell of anger receded.
“If I may be so bold, sir…” the valet began, and Charles moved his hands.
When are you not bold?
John smiled. “Mr. Stockton was right on one matter, at least.”
Are you about to lecture me on the merits of duty?
“Not duty, sir. The merits of ready cash.”
Would you have me sell the shirt on my back? I’ve nothing else to sell.
“There’s one thing, sir, if I may be so bold.”
Bold? Why would John confess boldness as if he expected fury from his master? What could he possibly suggest that Charles could sell which would elicit such a response?
Unless…
Charles turned to stare at his valet. Fear flickered in the younger man’s eyes before he blinked, and the veneer of stoicism returned.
Do you mean…
“Begging your pardon, sir, I wouldn’t make such a suggestion unless out of absolute necessity. But it—”
Charles gestured, then punched his palm with his fist.
He’s a he, not an it.
The valet flinched. Doubtless, most servants were used to their masters roaring at them in fury.
But John had long since understood the potency of dark stare and angry gesture.
Over the years, he’d learned to recognize Charles’s tempers such that he regulated his conduct, knowing when to be silent and attentive and when to steer clear.
That was the curse of being in service—to be beholden to the whims of another.
It was a curse that he paid John for handsomely. Until now, when ready cash had been almost exhausted.
“Forgive me, sir. I wouldn’t mention it—him—if there were any other option. But Destriero is a valuable horse. I could arrange a sale at Tattersall’s, or privately if you prefer.”
Charles closed his eyes.
Curse you, Father. Not only have you cost me my home, but my horse, whom I loved a great deal more than you.
Perhaps he should have attended the old bastard’s funeral. Then he could have spat on the coffin.
“Sir?”
Charles opened his eyes and a needle scratched at his heart at the compassion in his valet’s eyes. But compassion was the last thing he needed. Compassion made a man weak. And Charles had no intention of growing weak.
Not again.
I’d prefer a private sale. But only with a man I trust.
John nodded. “That narrows down the list of potential purchasers. But I’ll start making inquiries before we leave London.”
I’ll accept nothing less than five hundred guineas.
“Very good, sir.”
And an assurance that the horse will be treated well.
“Naturally.”
Charles let out a sharp sigh and resumed his attention on the world outside—the soulless London townhouses that the creatures of Society valued so much. As unappealing as it may be, his exile to Penham Park would at least remove him from London.
He curled his hands into fists to temper the rising anger. Was this how a caged beast felt, trapped in a life he never wanted?
“Sir, perhaps…” John hesitated.
Charles lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Perhaps, before we leave for the country, I could make arrangements for a woman? You’re in need of a little recreation before you leave.”
I no longer have money to waste on a doxy.
“If you sell Destriero you’ll have enough to reduce the loan, with plenty to spare for a whole coven of doxies.”
Charles let out a snort. So, I’m selling a horse and buying a woman?
The valet grinned. “At least the woman will be cheaper.”
But far less pleasurable to ride.
“I’ll find an Italian doxy if you like,” John said. “To remind you of home.”
Charles sighed, then motioned again. England is my home now.
“An English doxy it is, then.”
The chaise drew up alongside Charles’s lodgings.
Yet another colorless building. Like every other house in England, it was filled with damp and mold, the stench of which not even the strongest of colognes could mask.
The furnishings were torturous—hard chairs that caused the bones to ache, as if Society measured elegance in direct proportion to discomfort—with dull, muted colors, soulless compared to the vibrant hues of Italy.
As for the servants within—stiff with disdain, engaging in bland conversation and serving even blander food.
The item they’d placed before him last night, which they tried to pass off as steak, had almost dislodged a tooth.
Devil’s breeches, was this what life would be like from now on? Perhaps he ought to take pleasure where he could.
Charles glanced at the valet, then nodded.
Better make it two.