I wonder what you think that you have found.’
‘If I am not mistaken, Graves, there are some discrepancies here which I ought, perhaps, to discuss with you.’
Graves, who was well aware of the lack of consideration and respect which the Earl had for his heir, always addressed Russell in a manner which showed that he shared his master’s opinion of him. He shook his head and there was a slight hint of mockery in his answer.
‘I, too, have checked these figures and have discovered nothing untoward. I fear that you must be mistaken.’
‘I, however, fear that I am not,’ returned Russell in a voice which Graves had never heard before. ‘You will do me the courtesy—’
Graves did the unforgivable: he not only interrupted his superior, but refused to do as he had been ordered. ‘I am a busy man, m’lord. I have gone through these accounts and reports most carefully and find nothing wrong with them. May I suggest that you raise this matter with your father, who, I assure you, has the utmost faith in my ability and my integrity. He, too, always checks my work, and that done for him by Mr Arthur Shaw, his agent at Eddington, and so far all has been to his satisfaction.’
For a moment Russell was tempted to seize the impudent swine before him by his cravat and threaten to throttle him if he continued to refuse to discuss the matter. Only the thought that his father would be sure to take Graves’s part prevented him. Yes, he would speak to his father, but he knew full well that his answer would be the same as his secretary’s: a refusal to listen to what his son might have to say.
And so it proved.
His father had been quite jovial at dinner, so much so that over their port at the end Russell had felt able to lean forward and remark, ‘By chance, sir, I saw the accounts from our estate at Eddington. I thought that I detected evidence of something wrong there. I wonder if you would allow me to—’
He stopped. His father’s face was rapidly turning purple with anger, as it had done so often when he had been a boy, and his old helplessness in the face of that anger had returned to plague him.
‘Come, Hadleigh, what do you have to say to me that is so urgent that you see fit to badger me over a glass of port? Why do you hesitate? Pray continue.’
‘I was wondering, sir, whether you would allow me to go there and see if all is well. As I recall, neither you nor any other member of the family has visited Eddington, preferring our home in Norfolk instead. Perhaps it is time that one of us did. You are occupied in government, Ritchie is reorganising the estate he has inherited, so that leaves me.’
‘So it does, Hadleigh, and why in the world you think yourself fit to go to Eddington and trouble my good agent there is beyond me.’
‘But I am your heir. My name is Hadleigh, which is taken from a village not ten miles from Eddington and I have reason to believe, from looking at Mr Shaw’s reports, that it might be useful if I visited the land to which I owe my name.’
Russell knew, by the expression on his father’s face, that it was hopeless to continue: his final words confirmed that he was right.
‘Confine yourself to matters of which you might know something,’ his father almost snarled. ‘Arthur Shaw is a good, hard-working fellow—unlike yourself—and I will not have him distressed by your meddling in affairs with which you have nothing to do, and of which you know nothing. That is my last word to you, sir.’
Russell was tempted to try to continue to plead his case. Unfortunately his scrutiny of the accounts and reports had been cut short by Graves so that he had been unable to gather enough evidence to convince his father that he had right on his side. He was also dismally aware that even if he had his father would continue to snub him. To press the matter further might, he feared, result in him saying something unforgivable, but what would be the point of that in the face of his father’s intractability?
Fortunately he would shortly be out of the house for some little time, even if the errand he was sent on to Markham Hall was not one which he would have chosen. At least, while he was there, he might forget for a time that he was not only unloved, but also despised.
Mary Wardour moved a chess piece on the board which stood beside her before beginning to fill yet another sheet of papers with numbers and arcane signs. She was halfway down it before there was a respectful knock on the door.
She sighed. Gibbs, the butler, of course. What was it now? Was she never to have a whole afternoon of quiet and peace?
‘Come in,’ she called, laying down her quill pen on the stand before her.
Gibbs entered, looking rather more solemn than usual. ‘A lady to see you, madam,’ he began, but got no further before the lady in question pushed urgently past him.
‘No fuss,’ she trilled. ‘I will announce myself. You may leave us.’
Mary gave an inward groan. Of all the people in the world who had to interrupt her just when she had thought that she was about to solve the tricky problem of the knight’s move, this particular woman was the last she would have welcomed.
‘Lady Leominster,’ she said, rising. ‘Pray be seated. I quite understand that your fame is such that you need no announcing.’
The Lady chose to interpret this as a compliment.
‘Oh,’ she declaimed, ‘and I am sure that you will be delighted to have a short rest from your labours. I am, I own, a little surprised that you should frowst indoors on such a fine sunny day. But no matter, I have come to reprimand you, you naughty thing. It is a godmother’s privilege, after all. You so seldom go into society these days that you are in danger of becoming that strange thing, a female hermit. This will never do. To that end I have prevailed on my cousin Markham to invite you to his grand house-party next week.’
Mary’s expression was so mutinous that she raised her gloved hand. ‘No, do not refuse me. It is high time that you married again.’
She put her head on one side and studied Mary’s face as though it were a fine painting brought out for her to admire.
‘Quite lovely,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, quite lovely. With that complexion, those dark eyes and even darker hair, any man would be proud to call you wife. And your fortune, of course. We mustn’t forget that.’
How many more of society’s taboos could the old trout ignore or break? Wasn’t it enough that she had burst into the room without so much as a by your leave when Gibbs must have assured her that the mistress was not at home?
‘Yes,’ said the Lady, and then, as though issuing an order from on high, ‘Yes, of course, you must marry again. Thirty is not such a great age for a widow.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ exclaimed Mary and goodness, where had that come from? After all, her marriage to Dr Henry Wardour had not been an unhappy one, despite the great difference in their ages and that it had been arranged between him and her father and presented to her as a fait accompli.
‘Do admit that it must have been off-putting’ exclaimed her tormentor, ‘to marry an old fellow like Dean Wardour. I suppose that is why you feel condemned to carry on his work.’ She waved a disparaging hand at Mary’s pile of papers and the chessboard, having ignored another taboo—that one did not raise such intimate matters as the nature of a couple’s married life with one of the
