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“Would you not have eventually sought a wife anyway, Your Grace?”
“That isn’t the point. My brother’s reach has extended from beyond the grave to dictate every aspect of my life, right down to the sort of woman I may marry. Even now, he seeks to change me into a different man, into someone like himself.” He ground his teeth. “But I am not like him. I have never been like him. And I don’t want to be like him. I prefer to enjoy life, not squander it trying to cure miseries that can never be remedied. Life is far too short to waste it in such a useless manner.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” agreed the solicitor unconvincingly. “But tell me, does Your Grace plan to be in London for the Season?”
Roland’s gaze locked on the man’s face, searching for signs of insolence, but there were none. Pity. He’d have liked a good fight. “His Grace certainly damned well does. His Grace is sick of being stuck out here with nothing but solicitors and the bloody wildlife for company.”
Indeed, he couldn’t wait to get back to London. He might as well enjoy the privileges that came with his title—those allowed him, anyway. Even with all of the restrictions set out by William, he would still have a good time. Good enough to forget his pain and anger. For a little while.
Damn you, William. I was never meant to be a duke. That was your destiny.
“Then you will be available to inspect the Hospital?” the little man prompted, circling back to the annoying subject.
“Yes,” Roland growled. Fine. He would visit the bloody place. He’d take a tour and “inspect” it. And then he’d appoint someone to run it on his behalf and wash his hands of it until the next time he was required to pay a visit.
“Excellent,” said the solicitor, taking a sheaf of papers from his case. “Then perhaps you won’t mind reviewing a few documents requiring your signature to authorize some necessary purchases. I would not trouble Your Grace, save that the need is dire.”
Snatching the papers from the man’s hand, Roland stalked over to his desk, took up a pen, and signed them one after another with no more than a cursory glance at each. Coal, linens, provisions. Whether or not the expenses listed were reasonable, he did not know. He had to assume they were. Blast it all, he’d never had anything to do with his brother’s confounded charity, and he still didn’t want anything to do with it!
He looked at the final sheet—a request for funds in the amount of five hundred pounds for building repairs—and saw the name R. Dun, Assistant Administrator written in neat script at the bottom. The tip of his pen hovered over it as his thoughts whirled. Perhaps Mr. Dun might like a promotion. A quiet one. He certainly appeared to know what he was doing. Ink spattered and smeared as he carelessly scrawled his name on the line provided. Roland Montagu, Duke of Manchester…
Now both of his feet were firmly encased in William’s boots, ill-fitting as they were.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said the solicitor as he gingerly took the sheets back. “Is there anything I can do for you upon my r
eturn to London?”
Roland almost told him to get buggered, but at the last second reconsidered. His brother’s—no, his solicitor now—might as well be of some real use to him besides relaying a dead man’s commands to the living. “Yes. Apparently, I’ll need a wife by the end of this Season, and I’ve no idea what is currently available. You see, prior to William’s death, my attentions were given to ladies of a somewhat less lofty rank than my brother would have approved of—at least with regards to marriage,” he added with a sneer. “You can provide me with a list of eligible young women fit to play the role of duchess.”
The solicitor smiled. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall be delighted to oblige. Do you have any preferences of which I should be aware?”
Teeth on edge, Roland flung William’s description of his future paragon of a wife at the man word for word. “A highborn female of satisfactory family and impeccable reputation. I don’t care what she looks like as long as she is reasonably attractive. If I’m to plant the field, I wish to at least have some pleasure in the task.”
The man’s smile faded. “Very good, Your Grace. Perhaps it is better to go into it without any prejudices. I shall craft a list forthwith and have it sent to your London address in time for your arrival.”
Taking his time, Roland drained the last of the brandy from his glass while the man stood waiting to be dismissed. “You may go,” he said at last, bored of baiting him.
The door closed and he went to the chair by the hearth, ignoring the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. The staff would clean it up later. He sank into the chair and ran his hands along its arms, feeling the places where other hands had worn the wood smooth and the leather rough. His father’s hands. His brother’s. Both had sat here in this exact place countless times over the course of their lives.
In this room more than in any other their presence lingered. It was both comforting and disturbing. Comforting in that most of his early memories of this place were very good ones. Disturbing in that he now felt his father’s disappointment and his brother’s disapproval radiating from the very walls.
Especially from the empty spot above the desk. The former duke’s portrait had always looked out over this office from that vantage point. When he was a child, his grandfather’s cold blue eyes had stared down at him, surveying all that transpired beneath his carved and gilded frame, witnessing triumphs and failures alike. The balance had tipped further and further toward the latter as the years passed, and he’d grown to hate standing before that portrait. Those eyes saw everything. Those eyes had judged and convicted him far more times than he liked to remember.
When his father died, they’d put his portrait up in its place, relegating his grandfather’s likeness to the hall alongside his forebears. And they’d done the same after William’s death. William’s likeness had been here to greet him when he’d first come in after the funeral, and the sight of his brother’s face staring down at him from that place had struck him like a physical blow. Unable to bear its presence, he’d had the portrait taken down at once. A month later when William’s bloody charity had asked for a painting of him to commemorate his contributions, he’d been more than happy to oblige by giving it to them.
The housekeeper had asked him if he’d wanted his father’s portrait brought back to replace it, and he’d shouted at her. No one else had inquired about it since.
But even without his family’s eyes accusing him from on high, their censure haunted him. His father’s words, echoed later by an unknowing William, rang in his memory: You are better than this, Roland...
Guilt and anger writhed in his gut like an angry serpent. Rising, he sought the only cure he knew for such unpleasantness. Lifting the decanter, he scowled to see how low the level of amber had sunk. No matter. He could afford more. He poured the remainder into his glass and drank it.
A charity he didn’t want. A wife he wanted even less. All he really wanted was to be left in peace. Why couldn’t the world let him be? Why did everyone keep placing demands upon him? Why couldn’t everyone, including the dead, just leave him alone?
Two
Twickenham House
Harriett trailed behind Cat as she entered the fray, willing herself to move forward. Stares and whispers followed her, most of them sympathetic. A few were not.
