The apocalypse must be very near.
Ellis jumped out of his carriage with a growl, caught up in his own emotions, and nodded to one of the grooms before jogging up the steps. The hunting lodge was much smaller than Beresford Cottage and needed some updating, but Ellis had only visited the place twice in the last ten years. His home was primarily in London these days. Or at least it had been. Before Rome.
The lodge’s butler and caretaker, a dour elderly man named Sykes, opened the door at his arrival.
“My lord.”
“Good day, Sykes. I prayed for your soul, in case you were wondering.” Ellis doubted his butler ever grew overly concerned for the whereabouts of his master. He’d been in residence at the hunting lodge, along with Cook, for years. Ellis was probably interrupting their routine with his presence.
“Very good, my lord.” The expression Sykes wore, always that of an exhausted bloodhound, never changed. If Ellis’s butler was ever happy, sad, frightened, or anything else, one would never know. “Mr. Estwood has arrived.”
“Estwood?” Ellis stopped short. He’d completely forgotten about Estwood’s visit. Finding Beatrice Howard in Chiddon had him thinking of little else but her.
Another sound of aggravation left him.
Sykes raised a brow. “He awaits you in the front room, my lord. Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”
“Do I look indisposed?” Ellis breezed past the butler. “Bring a tray of...something.” He waved a hand. “Set another place at the table. And prepare a guestroom.”
If Sykes had been capable of rolling his eyes, Ellis thought he would have. “Yes, my lord.”
The hunting lodge wasn’t grand enough for a drawing room. Or a parlor. The largest room at the front of the house was a toss between both. There was an ample sideboard. A mounted deer’s head that Ellis hung his hats on, much to the dislike of Sykes. Some rusty weaponry displayed along one wall. And a collection of overstuffed, comfortable chairs all clustered around a massive fireplace.
Estwood sat sprawled in one, a thick packet of papers at his side.
“I was wondering when you would arrive home, my lord.” His friend didn’t bother to stand. Estwood wasn’t well-born and discarded manners as quickly as he assumed them. “Your unbelievably dismal butler told me you were at church. Do you suppose Sykes is taking nips of the sherry?”
“I don’t keep sherry. And Iwasat church.” Ellis strode over to Estwood who finally stood. He wrapped his friend in a warm embrace. “There is a roast on the menu for tonight, and I’ll have the dust blown off the guestroom bed for you.”
It was Estwood who had overseen his affairs while Ellis had been in Rome attempting to bring forth his nonexistent artistic talent. His friend had taken on, without complaint, the daunting task of managing Lady Blythe in Ellis’s absence. Lady Blythe, bastion of decorum and breeding, had initially balked at having a man such as Estwood looking out for her, but she’d come around. Estwood was self-made, the fortune at his command not the result of numerous generations but carefully curated through intelligence and his own ambition.
Ellis had a great deal of respect for Estwood.
Estwood had helped Haven dig his estate out of poverty by wisely investing Theodosia Barrington’s dowry in a mix of property, railways, and shares of the East India Company. Haven would never be poor again.
“Has all the machinery arrived for the textile mills in Lancashire?” Ellis asked, walking to the sideboard. A great deal of factories decorated the portfolio of the Earl of Blythe, and Ellis was determined to modernize every one of them. Not only was it a profitable practice, but Ellis liked machinery. All those lovely gears spinning about. A curious habit for an earl, to admire axles, pistons, and the like. Poetry and art seemed much more colorful.
“Yes,” Estwood answered. “Installation begins next week. Productivity should more than double within the next few months.”
“I hope so.” Ellis spilled some brandy into a glass. “And the ironworks?”
Estwood nodded to the thick leather packet. “It’s all there. Including the importing of bat guano for fertilizer. You’ve a head for business, my lord. If you weren’t an earl, I think you would have become wealthy on your own merits. Your idea to turn one of the mills from manufacturing textiles to producing rope was quite astute.”
“Everyone needs rope.”
Estwood nodded in agreement. “Even so, I’ll admit I hadn’t considered rope. Or twine. Given my origins, rope should have been the first thing that came to mind.”
Estwood was the son of a village blacksmith, a man who had struggled at times to provide for his family. Days had been spent attempting to bring forth crops from the tiny plot of land Estwood’s family home sat upon. Estwood’s mother had kept chickens and sold the eggs. His sisters had grown vegetables to take to market. It had been an existence of never having enough. Of always being hungry. Some wondered at Estwood’s ruthless determination. Not Ellis.
“You’ve grown soft living in London,” Ellis replied. “To forget the importance of a good length of rope. Besides, it is wise to never depend too entirely on the rents of your tenants for your wealth.” Ellis’s father had taught him that. One year of poor crops or disease wiping out an entire herd of sheep and a lord could find himself near destitute.
“You’ve a keen instinct for such things.” Estwood regarded him with eyes like two slivers of pale moonlight. “You’re a fine engineer with your love of industry and machinery. But not a painter. Definitely not a sculptor.” Estwood picked up one of Ellis’s carvings which had been discarded on a table beside him. “What is this supposed to be?”
Ellis sighed in resignation. No one saw his vision. “I was trying for a trout.”
“Looks like a rock with eyes. It’s an honest mistake. There is weathering across the side.” His friend swallowed the remainder of his brandy before leaning toward Ellis, waving his glass in a plea for it to be refilled.
“Those are scales, you idiot. And I hope your manners are better when dealing with Lady Blythe.” Ellis splashed more liquid in Estwood’s glass.
