Prologue #2
He turned to see Franklin weaving through the aisles, his coat flapping as he hurried.
A few years his junior, Franklin shared Alistair’s dark reddish hair and sharp features, but where Alistair was broad-shouldered and imposing, standing over six feet with a presence that filled the room, Franklin was leaner, with a quick wit that often lightened the burdens of management.
His eyes, a shade lighter than Alistair’s, often sparkled with the energy of someone who thrived on numbers.
As second-in-command, he handled the ledgers and negotiations, leaving Alistair to the operational heart of the mill.
“Franklin,” Alistair greeted, falling into step as they headed toward the offices at the far end of the hall. “What’s the word from London? Any progress on the Hollingford ledgers stacked on shelves lined with fabric samples in various weaves; and maps of canal routes pinned to the walls, marked with red ink for proposed improvements.
No ostentatious frippery here. This was a place of work, not show.
A small coal fire crackled in the grate, warding off the January chill that seeped through the bricks.
Franklin followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click, muting the mill’s roar to a distant hum.
Alistair sank into his chair, a worn leather affair that had been his father’s, and reached for the stack of letters on his desk.
He cracked the seal and unfolded the first letter, a supplier’s invoice for raw wool from the Dales.
The next, from a banker in Leeds, confirmed a loan extension for the latest engine installation.
These details were the lifeblood of the mill, the threads that wove their fortunes.
Franklin lingered by the window, gazing out at the bustling floor below. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “You have inherited.”
Alistair glanced up, saw his brother’s businesslike expression had shifted to something more somber, and then frowned, too busy leafing through his correspondence to pay his brother mind. “What do you mean?”
“The duke was killed last week. You are next in line,” Franklin elucidated with a shrug, his voice casual but his eyes watchful.
Alistair’s head shot up, and he glared at him in confusion. “What?”
“You have inherited a dukedom … Your Grace.”
Springing to his feet, Alistair thumped the desk in anger, the impact rattling the inkstand and scattering a few papers. “I do not want it.”
Franklin flashed a smile laden with irony, unperturbed by Alistair’s flare of temper. “Ah. But it wants you.” He leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, his manner light to counter Alistair’s storm. It was the marriage of levity and severity that made them such good partners.
Alistair paced the room, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards.
The Duke of Oxley, their estranged uncle Jerome, dead?
And the title falling to him? It was absurd.
The Oxleys had always been the aristocratic branch, distant and disdainful, residing in their grand Fortunestone Hall while the Fraser-Oxleys toiled in trade.
Their father had been disowned by Grandfather Peregrine for marrying Moira Fraser, a mill owner’s daughter, and embracing commerce over pedigree.
Edmund had built this mill alongside Grandfather Alistair, scorning the nobility’s idle habits, and his sons had inherited that disdain, channeling it into relentless ambition.
Now this?
“Killed how?” he demanded, halting to face Franklin, his hands clenched at his sides. “And why me? Surely there are some nearer kin.”
Franklin sighed, a regretful note to his voice when he said, “Hunting accident, or so the solicitor’s letter claims. Fell from a cliff on the estate, leaving behind four daughters and no sons.
As the eldest son of Grandfather Peregrine’s second son, you are next in line.
It is set in stone, Alistair. You are the tenth Duke of Oxley now.
” He produced a letter from his coat, the solicitor’s seal prominent.
Alistair snatched it, scanning the lines with growing incredulity. The words blurred.
Inheritance, entail, immediate attention required.
He crumpled it slightly in his fist.
Duke.
The word tasted like ash. He had no use for titles, for the idle pomp of the nobility.
His life was here, in the mills, forging a legacy through sweat and ingenuity.
“To hell with it. I will not accept. Let it pass to you or Benedict or Gregory.” His voice was rough, edged with the Yorkshire accent that softened in business dealings but emerged in moments of passion.
Franklin shook his head, a wry twist to his lips.
“Cannot. Entail’s strict. Eldest male heir.
And even if you could, think of the scandal.
The Crown does not take kindly to refused peerages.
” He straightened, his tone turning persuasive.
“Besides, it could be an asset. The Oxley lands are vast. Prime pastures for sheep. Integrate them with our suppliers, and we could control the wool chain from flock to fabric. And the influence? Seats in the Lords, swaying tariffs on imports.”