As his loyal man of crooked spine but honest endeavour shuffled out, Casper tugged at the ribbon, sifted through, totted up the amounts and hauled a deep breath.
“Ernest!” he bellowed. “Hoist your feckless arse into my study and explain these gaming vowels.” Gathering more air, he placed the eight slips upon the leather inlay in ascending order of amount owed. Most derived from a certain Prince’s gambling hell.
“You called, brother?”
With a pull of cuff, Casper narrowed his eyes as Ernest perched himself upon an arm of the freshly vacated chair, a swinging leg and jaunty grin combining to fuel the fire which roared well enough of its own.
Stumbling in behind came Uncle Virgil, wearing what appeared to be evening clothes and dancing slippers.
At ten in the morning.
Ignoring the aberration, Casper marshalled his ire and shoved the costliest vowel across the desk towards his sibling. “Eighty-six guineas, seventeen shillings and sixpence. Would you care to explain?”
Fingering the slip, a beatific smile gripped Ernest’s chiselled profile. “A fine night, I recall… But no more,” he lamented, “as you will be pleased to hear, brother of mine, that I have given up the cards. I had to. And all this…” He waved a hand over the stubs which totalled some one hundred and sixty-four guineas. “…trifling paperwork is but a fond memory.”
Casper had heard many a promise over the years but never had it been quite so emphatic. Perhaps his daily lecture had at last been heeded. “An admirable decision, Ernest.”Ifunlikely. “And so these will be deducted from your allowance.”
“Indeed…” his brother continued, and Casper tilted his head. Here it came. “…little choice remained as I’ve wagered Harry ten guineas that I could avoid the card room for one month.”
Casper pinched his forehead, then closed his eyes as Uncle Virgil chuckled.
Where had it all gone so wrong? Ernest had been wild as a youth but never so irresponsible. He glared at his handsome brother’s faultless cascade cravat and perfectly perched gold-rimmed spectacles – too like their damn father to trust with tuppence.
“Of all the cork-brained… You’re gambling on gambling.”
“No, no, ’tis completely different. And in any case, I’ve taken up reading.”
Praiseworthy…if wholly improbable. “Defoe? Voltaire? Or have you finally begun studying literature of a more practical bent? Humphry Davy’sElements of Agricultural Chemistry in a Course of Lectureswould give you a solid base with which to begin.”
“Gads.” A Rothwell nose wrinkled. “Nothing so dry, brother. No, I’ve recently discovered Gothic novels. Devilishly good for wooing the ladies. Upon my recitation, Mrs Stokes fainted in my–”
Casper rose to his full height, placed his fists upon the polished mahogany and loomed forward. His brother’s leg ceased swinging and the smile wilted.
Excellent.
“May I remind you that as heir to the centuries-old Rothwell title, your first responsibility is to the estate, tenants and our business concerns. Your club memberships will be rescinded forthwith, Lord Ernest Brook, until I witness a change in conduct.”
“When your father was heir,” butted in a swaying Uncle Virgil, “he swived three trollops, drank two pints of wine and lost a hundred guineas every night. And then on Saturdays–”
“Father’s negligence almost ruined us,” Casper snarled. “I will not have my heir committing the same destruction.”
His brother wafted fingers through his overlong blond hair. It made the ladies sigh; it made Casper want to reach for the shears. “‘Rancour,’” Ernest wittered, “‘works deepest in the heart that strives to conceal it.’”
Uncle Virgil’s eyes widened to incredulous. “Is thatHamlet, nephew?”
“No.The Old English Baron. A rollicking good Gothic tale full of ghosts and blood and–”
“Disowned brothers, if I’ve my way,” Casper snapped.
“If you’re so concerned, Casp, why don’t you get leg-shackled and produce offspring yourself. I don’t want the bloody job of duke anyhow. I wished to become a cavalry soldier, if you recall, fight for the freedom of our country, but you wouldn’t even let me–”
“The bestowment of duke is not a job; it is our duty as a Rothwell to provide and govern.”
“That’s what men of affairs are for.” Ernest’s voice rose as he leaned forward to place a hand upon the desk. Casper glared at the misdemeanour and his brother shrank back to clasp a knee instead. “Being a duke,” Ernest continued, “should be a charmed life of women throwing themselves at you, lunching on pheasant with Prinny, visiting Tattersalls for a chinwag and…going boating, or somesuch. You act like it’s a bloody yoke.”
At least a yoke could be removed at dusk. Duty bore upon Casper without respite, and never more so than this year with its incessant rains and arctic temperatures which threatened to send wheat prices soaring.
How could Ernest not comprehend their responsibility? To ensure tenants did not starve, that returning soldiers could find work on the estate, and that they compel the blinded eyes of parliament to see the impoverishment that persisted everywhere.
