I—I need to inform the cook that Miss Caulfield prefers biscuits and cocoa up in her room each morning instead of a meal downstairs. And I’d like to make certain the room she occupies has a nice view of the garden.”
She bit her lip, thinking of the endless items on her list. “My cousin doesn’t do well with dust. I shall need to speak to the housekeeper, make certain the carpets in her bedroom have recently been beaten.”
“I see.”
“Just very small things, truly, my lady. I hope it won’t be too much of a bother.”
Lady Tavistock set her gold-rimmed porcelain cup and saucer down on the table in front of her. “You may do whatever you think is necessary to make our guests comfortable.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
The dowager rose from the sofa and Lily rose, as well.
The lady reached for her cane. “I suppose I had best let you get on with your work.” She smiled. “I enjoyed our visit, Miss Moran.”
Lily relaxed. “As did I, Lady Tavistock.” She watched the dowager countess leave the drawing room, silver hair gleaming in the light of the whale-oil lamps lit to offset the dark, cloudy day, her head held high though her movements were slow and a little wobbly. She was the late duke’s aunt on his mother’s side, Lily knew, a widow who lived in a manor house on one of her late husband’s estates.
Happy to have the meeting behind her, Lily made her way back out to the marble-floored hall. The list of tasks to be completed awaited her upstairs. It was time she got to work.
Four
The following day, Royal sat in his study, his elbows on the desktop, his head propped in his hands. A stack of estate ledgers lay open in front of him. His eyes burned from the hours he had spent reviewing the pages.
During the first nine months after his father’s death, he had spent most of his time learning about Bransford Castle and its surrounding lands. Aside from the estate’s own farm production, there were dozens of tenants on the vast acreage. Royal had met with each family individually to discuss what improvements might be made to help production, benefiting them and increasing their profits, a percentage of which belong to the estate.
During his years in Barbados, he had studied books on agriculture and used that knowledge to help make Sugar Reef the successful plantation it was today.
Since his return to England, he had been exploring the most modern methodology, trying to find the best way to stop the declining income stream from the agricultural production and instead turn a profit.
One of the ideas he had implemented was the construction of a brewery on lands in the nearby village of Swansdowne. He intended to brew very high-quality ale, which, he was convinced, was the most profitable use of the Bransford barley crop. As he had done with the sugar produced at Sugar Reef, he intended to market Swansdowne Ale as the finest in England. He also intended to increase the estate’s sheep herds and perhaps put in a woolen mill. All of that took money, of course, of which—at least until he married—he had little.
Royal released a breath, the notion of money returning his thoughts once more to the ledgers on the desk in front of him. In the last thirty days, he had begun to study the accounts that reflected former Bransford holdings, including several mills and a coal mine, properties his father had sold in order to raise money.
He had also studied the investments his father had made over the last several years.
At first the amount the late duke had invested had been small, the losses of little consequence. About three years ago his father’s health had begun to decline, though, at the duke’s insistence, Royal had never really known how severely. In an effort to recover the money, larger, even more poorly chosen investments were made and the losses began to mount.
Good money followed bad, and the duke began to sell his unentailed holdings in order to pay off his debts. Even the house itself was not safe from ransacking, as evidenced by the sale of the priceless paintings and statues missing from the castle, and the estate’s run-down condition.
Royal raked a hand through his hair, dislodging several heavy, slightly wavy strands. He looked up at the sound of a familiar rap on the door. The panel swung wide and Sheridan Knowles stood in the opening. Never one to stand on formality, he strolled into the study.
“I see, as usual, your nose is buried in those damnable ledgers. I suppose I am interrupting.”
“Yes, but since I am not particularly happy with what I am finding in the pages, you may as well sit down.”
Sherry walked forward with his usual casual ease, pausing for a moment at the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “Shall I pour one for you?”
Royal shook his head. “I’ve too much yet to do.”
Sheridan studied the rich golden-brown liquid in his glass, just a little darker than his hair. “I just stopped by to tell you the patrols have been organized. My men will start tonight, cover the area around Bransford and Wellesley, and also the road between here and Swansdowne.”
“Well done.”
Sheridan sauntered behind the desk and looked over Royal’s shoulder at the big leather volumes lying open on top, some of the writing on the older pages beginning to fade. “So what are you finding that you do not like?”
Royal sighed. “I am seeing thousands of pounds draining away as if they were sand poured down a rat hole. For the last few years, my father made one bad investment after another. It is a difficult thing to say, but after he first took ill three years ago, I don’t believe his mind was ever quite the same.”
“A lot of rich men make poor investments.”
“True enough, but up until that time, my father wasn’t one of them.” He turned several pages, glanced down at the writing in one of the columns. “See here, for example, money that quite literally went up in smoke. Last year, my father invested in a cotton mill near Bolton. Six months later, the mill caught fire and burned to the ground. Apparently, the company had no insurance.”
Sheridan shook his head. “Certainly a thing like that wouldn’t have happened to the shrewd, formidable man your father used to be.”
“No, indeed. I’ve hired an investigator, Sherry. A man named Chase Morgan. Perhaps it’s a waste of time and money, but I want him to look into the companies in which my father invested. I want to find out which men wound up with the late Duke of Bransford’s fortune.”
Sherry sipped his drink, pondering the notion. “It couldn’t hurt, I don’t suppose. And you never know, you might discover something interesting.”
Royal shoved back his chair and came to his feet. “The money is gone. There isn’t much I can do about it now. Still …”
“Still … it never hurts to find out what happened in the past. As they say, it is often the key to the future.”
Sheridan walked over to warm his hands at the fire and Royal followed. “So where are you headed from here?” he asked.
“Back to Wellesley, I imagine. Though I rode over mostly to escape the house.”
“I
