Chapter Four
Lucian was startled to see Mr. Hatchet, the family’s butler, waiting for him when he arrived home. Even more startled at Hatchet’s expression, which was somber.
“What’s happened?”
he asked, handing the butler his hat and coat. “My father?”
The butler shook his head. “The duke is fine, my lord. He’s asked to see you straightaway in his study.”
Now, that was the most startling of all. Lucian and his father, though they resided in the same town house, generally made it a habit to avoid one another as much as possible.
Lucian walked swiftly across the foyer’s slick marble floor to fling open the door to the study, his eyes searching the dark for his father.
“You’re back. Finally.”
The duke’s voice came from the shadows, and then he stepped into the light of a lantern, placed on his desk. The one where he passed judgment of all kinds on many and sundry sorts.
The most frequent of the judged being Lucian.
“I’ve just come from the Montbrays. Shammie, that is, my friend Samuel, the Viscount of Alston, has just married their daughter.”
“Hm,”
was all the duke said, going to sit behind his desk. “Sit down. I have something to tell you.”
Lucian took the chair at the other side of the desk. He was very familiar with this room, as it was the place his father called him to when he was going to chide Lucian for some action or another. It was austerely decorated, with dark, heavy furniture dominating the space and only a few serviceable rugs bringing any kind of intimation of warmth to the room.
His father had chosen the decor with the same judgmental eye that assessed Lucian and found him wanting. Anything that was in the slightest bit frivolous—or deemed so—was lesser, and so the heavy furniture was the best at what it did, but it offered nothing more. No suggestion that it was made for anything other than service.
His father had molded himself into that type of person, only doing what he deemed important, rather than fun. He’d raised both his sons with that ethos, and John had taken to it fairly well, whereas Lucian . . . had not.
“Well?”
Lucian said, impatient.
“Your brother has had an accident,”
the duke replied. “He tripped on some uneven ground while deer hunting, and hit his head on a rock,”
the duke said. “I told him such an unnecessary hobby could be dangerous.” Of course he couldn’t keep himself from commenting, even though his heir was injured, and this wasn’t the time for blame. Also never mind that Queen Victoria herself had taken to deer hunting with alacrity. Because it was a pleasure, he disapproved of it. The duke drew a paper toward him and squinted at it.
John, Lucian’s older brother and the duke’s heir, was off in Scotland at the ducal hunting lodge. He had done his duty and married, and so now all he had to do was father children and stay alive long enough to inherit. Like their father, John loathed parties and was more than grateful to escape Society. He took after the duke in terms of moral rectitude, so it was just as well he wasn’t often around to observe Lucian’s usual antics.
In fact, his hunting was the only thing he did that wasn’t entirely of necessity.
Lucian rose from his chair to walk to the other side of the desk, peering at the paper, which was upside-down. He could see the ducal crest on the letter, but the handwriting was a frantic scrawl, impossible to read from this angle.
“MacLean—that’s the steward—doesn’t say anything else.”
The duke looked up to meet Lucian’s gaze. “Except that I should proceed there immediately. It sounds as though it is serious.”
For a moment, it felt like the two of them, father and son, were going to have a moment of commiseration. Of mutual support and understanding.
But then the moment was gone.
“It comes at the worst time,”
the duke continued, as though there was a good time to be informed one’s eldest child had suffered an accident. “That damned lawsuit between the Earl of Courtenay and myself has nearly been settled. After twenty years,”
he said bitterly. “And it was not resolved to anybody’s satisfaction. You’ll have to handle the immediate aftermath. I expect you to negotiate a reasonable outcome, since the courts couldn’t. And then you’ll have to be prepared,” the duke said, his mouth thinning.
“Prepar—”
Lucian began.
The duke slammed his fist onto his desk, sending the letter flying across its surface. Lucian snatched it before it could fall onto the floor.
“Yes, prepared. If there—if John—you’ll be the heir.”
His father gave him a dismissive look. “And you are certainly not the heir this title deserves. I’ll expect you to conform to my standards, starting with dealing with this property. There is an outstanding property matter between the earl and myself. A factory we bought. You’ll manage the matter. You are too old to be frittering your time away with frivolity. You should be more like your brother and me.”
That his father and brother both assumed Lucian was frittering his time away at disreputable things was one of the things that hurt the most. Besides wanting to have an enjoyable life, Lucian did nothing that wouldn’t pass inspection. It was just that neither his father nor his brother had ever asked.
“We shouldn’t assume John will be anything but fine,”
Lucian said.
The duke was already shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter if he’ll be fine or not. Now is the time for you to become worthy of our family name.”
He glared at Lucian. “The settlement and John’s accident are indications that it is time for you to change who you are.”
Just like the comet. External circumstances being some sort of mandate for internal change. How was that possibly a basis for running one’s life? It was unpredictable, subject to interpretation, and completely random.
Or . . . ? The question lurked, unspoken, hanging in the air between them.
The duke raised his head slowly and gave Lucian an assessing look, answering the question. “Or I’ll have no choice. I cannot disinherit you, much as that idea is appealing. Queen Victoria would be most displeased. But I can let everyone in town know that you are in disgrace and that to include you in any gathering is to invite my ill will. I also can change the terms of my will and leave anything that is unentailed elsewhere. That would include this house, for example.”
Lucian stared at his father, his words whirling in his head. I cannot disinherit you. He had known his father disapproved of how Lucian lived his life, but he hadn’t realized just how deep the disapproval ran. How much the man seemed to actually dislike him.
Lucian would never be able to satisfy the duke, no matter what he did.
He’d never realized his father’s antipathy to the very essence of who Lucian was. That his father would never acknowledge that there was a legitimacy to how Lucian viewed life: taking care of others, being kind, and generally striving for happiness, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone.
The emotion roiled inside, making his throat tight and his fists clench. But the duke didn’t notice his distress and instead continued to talk.
“As luck would have it, I’ve invited a distant cousin of mine, a Mr. Bishop, to town. I won’t be here, but you will. He is a model of propriety, someone you could pattern your behavior after, if you are wise. I expect you to show him around and introduce him to everyone. You will also consult with him regarding this factory business. I imagine Mr. Bishop would likely appreciate inheriting a London town house.”
The threat was clear.
Either Lucian behaved as his father wished him to or the duke would ensure the rest of his life was spent in miserable discomfort. With this cousin taking anything that wasn’t a recognized part of the duchy.
Both options had the same result, but the former, at least, meant he had a chance at future happiness. Lucian didn’t doubt but that his father could wreak a lot of damage with a few alterations to his will; he didn’t respect the man, but he knew he was sharp when it came to business and ruthless when it came to making sure people did what he said. The duke had inherited some time ago and had built his fortune through smart investments and careful management of his properties. If he left the bulk of his fortune elsewhere, giving Lucian only the properties, it would take a considerable amount of work to keep it thriving. And Lucian knew people depended on the Waxford estates to make their living, so it wasn’t as though he could just neglect everything, like more feckless aristocrats would when faced with the same problem.
“I will behave as I should to Mr. Bishop,”
Lucian replied. It was an honest answer, even though it likely wasn’t obsequious enough for his father.
“You will. No matter what you have to deprive yourself of to do it.”
The constant denial of oneself, even though that denial meant little, was the backbone of his father’s and brother’s personal ideology. Refusing to take an extra lump of sugar in one’s tea, even though one could well afford it and it made the tea more to one’s liking seemed like deliberate martyrdom.
Granted, martyrdom on the cause of delicious tea, but when that ideology was extended to everything, it had a profound impact.
That was the problem with zealots, Lucian mused. They weren’t content with just living the lives they wished to live on their own. They wanted everyone around them to live those lives also, even if the people in question were ill-suited or absolutely opposed to living that way.
Which described his relationship with his father.
He wondered what type of manufacturing this factory did—if it might be possible to fulfill his father’s wishes and still live according to his own standards, perhaps finding a solution that might actually make other people’s lives better.
That would be making himself worthy of the family name, despite what the duke might think.
“I’m going,”
the duke said, rising from his chair. “Mr. Bishop arrives within the week. I expect to hear you are according him every politeness. You could learn from the gentleman. He is a sober, respectable young man. Someone any father would be proud of.”
“You mean the opposite of me?”
It shouldn’t hurt. But it did.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,”
the duke said, sounding smug. “Mr. Bishop has drive, ambition, and a strong moral code.”
He paused at the door, looking back at his son. “Remember what is expected of you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Lucian alone in the dark study, a sinking feeling of dread making a tight knot in his chest.
Not to mention the added burden of taking care of this factory and what that entailed—which Lucian had no idea about—and a stranger who posed a real threat to his way of life.
“Get up! Get up, I say!”
Diantha opened bleary eyes to see both parents, one on either side of her bed, glaring down at her. Unusual, since she hadn’t realized either one of them knew precisely where her bedroom was. She spent most of her waking hours in the library, untangling estate business and fielding various difficult questions from family and staff alike.
“Do you two know it is seven in the morning?”
she said, that loathsome squeak returning to her voice. Perhaps this was who she was now. A woman who squeaked in distress.
Had they somehow found out about the previous evening? And were coming to chastise her?
No, if anything they would be congratulating her for her reckless behavior. Another reason why she absolutely should not have done any of the things she had last night. Except for go to the party in the first place. She owed that to Julia.
But the rest? Should not have happened.
So it was not that, but it had to be something extreme for them to be awake and nearly dressed this early. Her mother wore some flowing garment that looked as though it might have been a bedspread at some point, while her father had pajamas and a tricorn hat on.
They were rarely up before noon, and her mother had lately taken to patronizing a few different gambling hells, so she was often coming home at six in the morning and sleeping until it was time to have supper. Her father, on the other hand, was devoting himself to building an excellent wine cellar, which to his mind meant going and drinking as much wine as possible throughout an evening, so he was usually insensible by two in the morning, and would sleep—and snore—for at least nine hours after collapsing into his bed, wine-stained clothing and all.
It meant, however, that Diantha was free to conduct the family business as she wished to, so she didn’t begrudge them their hobbies. Or, that is, didn’t begrudge their hobbies until they started costing the family a lot of money.
Then she would sit them all down and give them the Responsibility Lecture (as Drusilla had dubbed it), and they’d nod and smile and promise to do better.
They never did better.
Still, neither had they ever woken her up at seven in the morning, so perhaps she shouldn’t wish they actually listened and implemented her lecture.
“It’s a catastrophe!”
her mother said, wringing her hands.
“A catastrophical conundrum,”
her father added. He was always fascinated by language, and he often spoke only in alliterations.
Which made it difficult to understand what he was saying, but then again, even without the alliteration, he was difficult to understand.
Diantha sat up in bed, pushing her hair away from her face. “One of you—I don’t care which one—tell me what is going on.”
She used her placating tone, since her parents’ frequent hyperbole when discussing how dreadful it was, for example, that there were no pure white horses to be found just at the moment her mother wished to recreate Lady Godiva’s infamous ride.
“I’ll tell her,”
the earl said, while the countess said at the same time, “Let me.”
Diantha winced, then shut her eyes and pointed to her father. “You. You tell me what is wrong.”
“Do not doubt, Diantha, that I am determined to do so,”
he replied, sounding pleased even in the face of apparent disaster. Or discernible disaster, if she was being her father.
“It has finally happened,”
he said dramatically, perching on the end of her bed. “The lawsuit has been settled!”
His face made it look as though he was expecting some sort of enormous response.
Instead, Diantha pulled her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“What lawsuit?”
she asked.
“What lawsuit?”
the earl replied, sounding as if he too was in squeaking territory. “The lawsuit between the Duke of Dullness and myself!”
“The Duke of Waxford?”
Diantha ventured. It had to be that one, the only duke her father was in dispute with was that one. Though, Diantha couldn’t help but marvel at the coincidence.
“Yes, that one. The Wearying Duke of Waxford,”
her father said, sounding triumphant.
“What was the lawsuit?”
Her mother sat on the other side of the bed. “You see, your father and the duke were in a partnership.”
“I know that. Move on to the lawsuit part.”
Because if either one of them started talking about the history of the relationship it would take all day. Her parents were not people who appreciated concision.
“The lawsuit came about because your father distributed the profits to the workers, after this one—”
“Nicholas Higgins was his name,”
the earl supplied.
“This Higgins told him about the egregious conditions in the factory. When he and the duke couldn’t agree as to how to remedy it, your father went ahead and gave them all money, with the understanding they would have to look for other work.”
“And the lawsuit was . . . ”
Diantha prodded.
“The duke took exception to the distribution of funds and filed a lawsuit. But now the Court of Chancery has resolved the money question, but the factory is still under both of their control.”
Her mother’s expression was distressed. “We thought it would remain undecided long after we were gone, but now your father is going to have to deal with that man about the factory!”
Leave it to her parents to be the only people grateful for the labyrinthine process of England’s chancery court system and wish it had taken even longer.
“I will deal with it,”
Diantha said. As her parents no doubt hoped she’d say. She was the Courtenay problem solver, after all. “But first, let me get dressed.”
She scrambled out of bed and drew on a wrapper over her nightdress, then turned to give a pointed look at her parents, both of whom were still sitting on her bed. “That means you two have to leave.”
The earl and countess uttered matching harrumphs, then left, leaving Diantha to herself.
Thank goodness.
But now, not only would she be dealing with her family’s various escapades, she would have to learn enough about this factory and its entanglements to solve the problem. While dealing with her parents’ mortal enemy who also happened to be the father of the gentleman she’d kissed the night before—and whom she wished she never had to see again.
This, she thought ruefully, was most definitely not fun.