Page 62 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Penwellen was not the inheritance Joseph had anticipated.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. For when had Fate ever showered great things upon him? To others, perhaps, who had done something to earn their distinction.

Perhaps Creation kept some grand scheme of balance, Joseph thought as he paced the parlor of his new home. He was the get of a second son and a foreigner. A scholar with no real profession to speak of. And now a baronet by accident, a tradesman’s grandson masquerading in a gentleman’s coat, with no right of blood or ancient lineage to sit in the master’s chair.

He had stepped into the shadow cast by Reuben, which hung over this house like poisoned air, seeping into every corner. If he wanted to make any good of his situation, he had to clean up that miasma first.

At least he wasn’t the weak, useless man that he’d feared becoming. A week ago, he’d been an awkward virgin, rubbish when it came to women, but Inez had transformed him. She’d shown him how matters of desire were meant to work, at least for him. So that was one fine and beautiful thing—one astounding thing, really—that shone like a promise through the current gloom, hinting that better fortune might await down the road. Aye, even for him.

He couldn’t think of Inez at this moment. He’d have a cockstand through dinner, and he heard the front door open as Hoskyn, the solicitor, arrived. The visitor greeted Thaker, who was dressed in livery made for a smaller man and had sullenly submitted to his wife trimming his side whiskers in order to perform the roles of butler, porter, and footman this evening.

Joseph reviewed his standing like a man assessing the table where he had sat down to gamble everything. He held a title no older than the Civil War, an estate that, if he read the signs aright, had not been kept in good order, and a deaf-mute for a butler.

And the woman with whom he was engaging in coital relations pretending to be his housekeeper.

Yes, indeed, he would look a sorry sight to Mr. James Hoskyn of Liskeard.

“Sir Joseph. Good of you to receive me.” The solicitor advanced into the parlor where Thaker had erected an oakwood folding table which his wife had cloaked with a swath of crisp linen. Joseph recognized the print on the creamware dinner service; Favella had chosen the pattern.

The silver was free of spots, and the room had been hastily aired and dusted. Some fragrant wood burned in the hearth. A fire on a mild night—that was an extravagance he’d seen in the duke’s house, but never his own. Joseph wondered if he could afford the expense.

There was a friendly smile on Hoskyn’s face as he stepped forward, offering a brief nod of his head, but his large, protuberant eyes roamed efficiently around the parlor, taking note of every detail.

The solicitor wore a coat of dark blue cloth with golden embroidery and a small bob wig, powdered gray. His necktie was plain, lacking any ruffles, and so was the watch chain hanging at his waist. Joseph, with the scratch wig he’d worn for travel and his best brown coat, was dressed no better than his solicitor. He would have to order a new wardrobe at once.

If his accounts could suffer the expense.

He must stop this habit of ever comparing himself to other men. He came out lesser in the comparison, every time. His father tried to teach him to be grateful for what God had seen fit to give him, yet Joseph had always thought his own portion mean and slight when he saw the vaster advantages some others possessed.

What a very small-minded way to exist. He would take the example of his father for once. Jonas Illingworth would have made an admirable baronet: courteous, benevolent, far-seeing.

Joseph gestured Hoskyn to a chair and then sat heavily, burdened by the weight of an unexpected grief. His parents’ graves lay only ten miles away, in the quiet cemetery behind St. Cleer’s church, and the knowledge pressed on his heart like a stone.

“My condolences on the loss of your cousin,” Hoskyn began.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t feel much of a loss. Speaking for myself and my sister,” Joseph said, conscious he might come across as surly.

“Ah, the duchess. I hope she is in good health? Sir Reuben was very grateful for the way she supported the estate in the last year.”

Joseph held back his surprise. Of course Anth would have sent money, if Reuben asked. The man himself didn’t deserve it, but no one in his care deserved to suffer because of his greed or oversight.

“She is in very good health, and hoping to enlarge the Hunsdon nursery in the near future. Thank you for seeing me on short notice, and for acknowledging my claim. I fear my staff thought me an imposter at first. They said there have been several.”

“Yes, oddly, there have been a number of strangers pretending to your inheritance.” Hoskyn’s brows rose, the dark hairs a contrast to his powdered wig. “Mrs. Thaker chased them away when she realized they were coming to steal from the house. I recognize you from your father’s funeral, though it was some years ago. A sad event,” he added politely.

“To be sure.”

The memory was dulled by grief and Joseph’s sense of bewilderment, at the time, over what he was to do next, and how he was supposed to look after his sister. Dimly he recalled Hoskyn, in a different wig, reading his father’s will. The one that put his parents’ tiny estate into a trust managed by Reuben, who, Joseph later learned, had conceded to fund Joseph’s time at university but had directly transferred Amaranthe’s allowance into luxuries for himself and Favella, before and after Anth had fled from his house.

Joseph scowled. He would not be anything like the former baronet. Nothing like.

Save that he was already swiving a woman under his roof, one under his protection. At his mercy, whether she thought so or no.

Hoskyn cleared his throat, perhaps concerned that Joseph’s scowl was directed at him. “I suppose you do not wish to mix pleasure with business⁠—”

“This is a business call, Mr. Hoskyn. Though I see fit to feed you for your trouble.”