“Also,” continued Ernest, glaring over his spectacles, “how could you steal Lord Humby’s land? We grew up together and were friends.”
No wonder Casper took care of everything himself. Ernest and Uncle Virgil embodied the age they lived in – careless pleasure-seekers.
“Your allowance is cut. Your credit with Hobbs’, Weston’s and Manton’s withdrawn till these vowels are settled.” He sat and yanked a parliamentary paper from the pile. “Now go…boatingor somesuch. Some of us have work to do.”
Uncle Virgil tottered out with whisky decanter cradled lovingly in arm, but Ernest lingered, eyes…well, earnest.
“Casp, I’ll pay the vowels, but I also wanted to talk to you about that business venture I…”
Raising his head, Casper cast a withering glance upon the outstretched hand. Ernest? A man of business? Absurd.
More likely his brother required a new set of togs. Diamonds for a mistress. More horses. A boat.
“You are dismissed, Lord Ernest Brook. There is work to be done.”
Their eyes clashed, both bearing a winter’s lake of ice.
“As there always is…Your Grace.” His brother executed a short bow, bordering on the insolent. “With nothing better to do, I am for Hatchards, as I hear they have Eliza Parson’s tale ofThe Miser.”
Ernest swivelled, shoulders tight, and Casper closed his eyes to the retreating footsteps.
Slowly, he opened them once more to the portrait on the far wall, to the young woman who faced an uncertain future with turned chin held high. At the slam of study door, she trembled in the scrolled frame, and Casper wearily rose to cross the room and stand before her.
“But you understand, don’t you, my defiant one?” he questioned softly.
A bare shoulder of resolve was her sole reply, doing what she must to succeed and survive.
And thus shewouldunderstand.
Understand why he must manage his slothful family with an iron rule if he was to prevail in bequeathing a dukedom with full coffers, abundant fields and a future.
His days were scheduled to the half-hour with no occasion for ludicrous business ventures or boating on the Serpentine.
Duty had eroded any time for pleasure.
Only on the wrong side of midnight, when the sun had long since set, would he allow his burdens to loosen and worries to uncoil.
For then, with cravat slack and surrounded by signed documents and well-thumbed reports, he would sprawl back with brandy in hand and let this portrait soothe.
He would set a candle either side for best illumination, let light strike the crimson material, transforming it to fire and flame.
Reaching out a finger, he brushed a walnut curl at her nape, traced the scar upon her shoulder and wondered how she came by it.
What would happen if she were to twist her head? Would she smile shyly or boldly grin? Would she tease or comfort? What eye colour would gleam? Would she draw his mouth to hers…?
More likely, his defiant one would disdain his ducal audacity, thrust her shoulders back and return his impudent stare.
The mantel clock chimed its half-hour. The estate manager would be waiting outside with more dire wheat forecasts.
Hauling in a breath, he focused on the girl’s left fist clenched in her skirts.
‘“Time and tide wait for no man,”’ he murmured.
And Casper twisted back to his desk.
* * *
No.12 George Street.
