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Chapter 23
In the weeks following his father’s funeral, Silas did his best to transform himself. He knew that he was not, ultimately, reformed. After all, he could not become a new person entirely. He was still the same Silas, despite now having a title. However, he did his absolute best to fill his father’s shoes. It was hard to do; his father had been a paragon of the perfect gentleman.
Silas and his two siblings had remained in London after they had buried their father. Silas and Michael were overseeing the repairs to their home and Dinah, not wanting to be in the country alone, remained with them. Silas had thrown himself into managing the family’s affairs. He spent most of his days in the study of their rented home.
Several boxes had been retrieved from his father’s desk in the London town home, which had been emptied out to prepare for the renovations. There were also several boxes from the study at Thornbridge Manor.
He had just opened one of the boxes that had come from the country estate to find it was filled with receipts from the running of the estate. Mostly, it involved feed for the horses and such. He came to one that was for a much larger sale, though.
Bill of Sale, it read.10 acres purchased by Josiah Sweet, Viscount of Thornbridge. June 1812. The month before his father had died. He perused it, looking for the price and the location, but found none. It seemed to have been hastily scribbled, as a reminder that it had been done, not as a record of the sale.
There was a knock on the door. Silas stuffed the paper into his breast pocket, to ask the solicitor at his next appointment to discuss the estate.
“Yes?” he called out.
The door opened and Michael peered inside. “How are things going, brother?”
Silas sighed. “Our father wasn’t the most organized of gentlemen,” he remarked. “But I think everything is all in hand.”
Michael stepped into the room, closing the door after him. Silas watched him curiously. He seemed to have something that he wanted to say.
“You know,” Michael said. “I’m proud of the gentleman you’re becoming, in the face of our father’s tragic death.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t mention that his lack of romantic pursuits was largely due to Lucy Wilds. He had found that he was no longer interested. No woman could compare to her charms. He thought of her constantly, wondered what she was doing.
“You’re really stepping up and taking on the role of viscount admirably.”
Silas smiled. “It means a lot to hear you say so.”
“I’m also pleased that you’ve given up your mean pursuit of Miss Wilds,” he went on. “Now, you can focus on finding a wife you have some modicum of respect for.”
Silas’s face fell. He watched Michael pull the door closed as he left and then closed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. Following his father’s death, the bet Silas had made with Percy had become inconsequential. Silas had been too busy—first with the planning of the funeral, then with the handling of the estate and the renovations to the house.
Thankfully, Percy hadn’t spoken of it the few times that he had seen him. Silas wished, however, to enjoy the comfort that Lucy’s presence had brought him in the country. He thought about her all of the time, almost to the point of obsession.
As soon as I have all of this sorted, I will call on her.
***
Once Silas was finished going through his father’s papers, he decided to take a break in the parlour. He poured himself a glass of brandy, and then walked to the window.
Outside, the sky was a dark grey, the clouds hanging low over the city. Across the street was a row of townhouses, which all looked the same as the one Silas had rented.
A hansom cab had pulled up to the sidewalk and Silas saw Percy climb out of it, then walk to the front door. He steeled himself, for he knew that Percy had come to see him, specifically.
“Mr Stalton is here to see you, My Lord,” Mr Morton announced.
“Send him in, Morton.” Silas waited, his eyes still on the row of townhouses across the busy street. He took a slow sip of his drink. He heard the door open, and he turned to greet his guest.
“Percy. Can I pour you a brandy?”
“Please, My Lord,” Percy said, smiling at him. It didn’t reach his eyes, which were hard, like flint. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them.
“I’m not quite used to that,” Silas murmured, walking over to the sideboard and pouring another glass. Percy accepted the drink, then began to roam about the room, pausing to look at the paintings, the little statues that the owners of the house had scattered about.
“What brings you over here?” Silas asked, taking a sip and then walking back towards the window, which was open to let in a soft breeze.
He watched as Percy downed the rest of his beverage in one go. Percy hissed, wincing at the alcoholic bite.
