Casper’s pleasant days of learning at Oxford had ended abruptly. The estate manager had been squirreling away funds for his brothel habit; ditches had not been dug; crops had rotted and not been re-sowed; water had flooded the castle basements; roofs had fallen in; and the tenants had hurled stones at the Rothwell carriage – too poor to even throw vegetables.
Shame and fury had shaken Casper to his core: that his Father had abandoned those who generated the money for his gambling and trollops, that the very dukedom was now reliant upon credit and hatred.
He’d left university, gathered every debt to be cleared and spent months selling what he could – paintings, land and horses.
The situation had only worsened for the first three years as Casper had dismissed staff that he’d not the money to pay, whilst his mother complained she couldn’t possibly dress with fewer than four maids.
Father had always discouraged visits to the “tedious estate”, never explained or taught Casper the duties of a duke unless it concerned how to gamble, bed a harlot or drink till three sheets to the wind, and Casper had felt like he’d been drowning within a sea of burden and obligation.
Without the discipline of a tutor, Ernest had roamed wild about the estate until they’d got him to Eton, and even then, the fees had been paid on credit.
Casper had done it all. Supervised drainage for the waterlogged fields, commenced his gem trading as insurance against harvest failures, bargained like a commoner for leases and factories, clawing back the unentailed lands.
Ernest had been too young to see the havoc that Father had bequeathed, and Casper had done his best to shield his younger brother, but perhaps that had been an error as–
“Is all well, nephew?”
He peered up to find Uncle Virgil in the doorway sporting a wolf’s mask.
At noon.
A masquerade outfit, perchance?
He’d really not the strength. “Of course, Uncle.”
“Hmm… I dislike interfering as you know, but… Ernest is his own man now. Liken him to your father and you will lose him.” And without another word, he spun, black cloak and bushy tail swishing to depart before Casper’s indignation could rouse.
Frowning, he scanned the dozen or so papers that lay upon the desk, awaiting his decisions and signature, but he picked up the book which his brother had left behind and peered at the spine.
The Vindictive Spiritby Mrs Bridget Bluemantle, an alliterativenom de plume, if ever he saw one, but the title pricked his conscience.
Was he…resentful of Ernest’s carefree life, envious of his lack of burden? Was he venting his own frustrations on his brother?
Casper thudded the book down and picked up the draft lease for a wool mill instead.
There was no time for any of this. He had work to do.
With the midnighthour having long passed, Casper stretched, fingers aching from the quill, shoulders stiff from hunching.
He raised himself from the desk, heard his knees complain, and stumbled to the side table for a decent brandy and to peruse the selection of cold meats that Coppers had left out.
Exhausted in body but with mind full of restless energy, he nibbled, sipped and then wandered to his picture in search of solace.
What would he discover on the morrow? A hopeless trick or the face of this defiant beauty who’d held him captive for so long.
Her skin shone in the candlelight without the sallowness it acquired by day, brown locks twisting, lemon corset ribbon awaiting a tugging finger, that cheekbone…
Why did this painting affect him so?
Certainly, it had been created with a loving hand – every detail perfect, the colour imbuing a vibrancy that cheered the spirit and revived the soul.
Yet it was the young woman who had forever entranced him. Her fiery air of stubbornness and poise, the juxtaposition of fragility and strength.
She would not complain of her circumstance but seek a means to prevail.
In this frozen moment of time, she sold her body, knew this fate would lead to alleyways of darkness and distress, but her resolute jaw conveyed her determination for more – she would labour and strive, do everything within her power to escape this vice.
Her shoulders remained unbent.
