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Prologue
“I beg your bloody fucking pardon?” Arthur Barrow all but growled from his desk, his lowborn accent bleeding into his voice from the sheer shock of it all.
The solicitor sitting across from him visibly flinched before nervously smoothing the papers in his hands. “I apologize for the shock, Mr. Barrow, or should I say, Your Lordship. The truth of the matter only came to light upon the Earl’s death. The family, that is to say, your family has been quite beside themselves with the news.”
“My family,” he echoed dumbly, leaning back in his seat.
The solicitor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Yes, My Lord. The documents are all here, collected from your grandfather’s desk as instructed in the will.” He gently slid the bundle of papers towards him.
Arthur plucked the first document from the pile and eyed it warily. It was a marriage license concerning the union between Elizabeth Barrow, his mother, and one George Harrington. “They were married?” he muttered quietly, staring at the record in disbelief. He’d never known the true identity of his father, only parsing together that he had been a nobleman from the vague insinuations of his mother.
“He abandoned us,” she’d nearly spat when he’d gotten the courage to ask about the subject. His mother had refused to elaborate on the matter, even on her deathbed when he was just seven years old. Arthur had always assumed his mother had been a tossed aside mistress, a fact seemingly confirmed with him bearing her surname and the fact that the man who had appeared before him at the age of twelve claiming to be the secretary of his long-lost father had said nothing on the matter, merely whisking him off to a hellish but mercifully brief few years at school.
“What of this George Harrington?” he asked, unable to acknowledge his sire as such.
The solicitor shifted in his seat. “Mr. Tremore passed about eight years ago, Milord.”
The same time he had been whisked off to school. “And did he ever say why, exactly, I was left to rot in the filth of Whitechapel for nearly five years after my mother’s death?”
The solicitor blanched at Arthur’s icy tone. “I cannot say, My Lord, as I have only been employed with the estate for the past year. It appears that no one was aware of your existence aside from the old earl. Even now, the family is unaware of your complete identity, only that Mr. Harrington had a secret marriage and son.”
“Another directive from my… grandfather, then?”
“Yes. Mr. Tremore was his second son. The first died a few years ago with no children, the only other offspring being a daughter. She is at the estate with the dowager countess.”
“And where is this estate?” Gods! He had an estate.
“You are good friends with the Marquess of Amberwood, correct? Renwood neighbors his principal seat.”
Him and Amberwood were neighbors. He would have laughed at the thought were he not utterly flummoxed at the moment. Deciding that the man had told him enough, Arthur grasped the remaining documents and placed them neatly at the corner of his desk. “Thank you, Mr…?”
The man stood and performed a quick bow. “Chase, My Lord.”
Putting on a bland smile to hide how jarring the man’s deference had been, Arthur stood. “You may leave, Mr. Chase.”
Mr. Chase blinked before adjusting his glasses yet again. “If I may be so bold.” He shuffled from side to side. “The dowager and the rest of the family are expecting you at Renwood.”
He was nowhere near ready to be doing that. “I will come when I am able.”
“They were quite insistent.”
“I am the owner of this establishment, Mr. Chase,” Arthur interrupted with a frown. “There is a business to run and no time for silly aristocratic frivolities. I will come to inspect the property and ensure whatever tenets I have are being adequately cared for, but that is all and I won’t be doing so for a little while yet.” The White Heather was London’s premier gambling hall, a business he’d built from the ground up with the paltry sum left to him by his then unknown grandfather after leaving school. He’d be damned if the family that had never wanted him would have any impact on its running.
Arthur braced himself for any argument, yet the solicitor merely nodded quickly. “Of course, My Lord.”
He wondered if this was part of being a lord, having your commands taken without complaint. “Mr. Raleigh will see you out,” he supplied after realizing the Solicitor was still standing there, waiting to be dismissed once more.
The man turned to leave, but paused. “If I may be so bold to give you one more suggestion?”
Arthur sighed irritably. “Ask away.”
Mr. Chase looked down for a moment. “Though many will despise you for it, I recommend you keep this establishment of yours. Good day, My Lord.” With that, the man strode from the office, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts and what that vague statement had suggested. No wonder the country was being run to the ground, he thought with derision. A lord could fritter away his entire fortune without his steward being able to bat an eye, whilst Arthur was sure his own men would have his head on a silver platter were he to bankrupt The White Heather in such a manner. Ignoring the estate was no longer an option.
“Lovely,” he murmured, walking to his sideboard to pour himself a drink. “Not only am I an earl, but a dreadfully impoverished one at that.” He took an angry swig of his whisky, wondering what in the hell he was going to do now.
Chapter One
“This was a terrible idea, Your Grace.” Francesca smiled tightly at the Duchess of Ashford, lest the gawking pedestrians staring up at their box think anything was even more amiss than it already was.
