Chapter 1
Christopher shifted in the uncomfortable hard wooden chair, trying to find a position that would not leave him utterly stiff.
By Jove, this is worse than the seats at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. At least I have a cushion there. How did Father manage to get through thirty years of this?
As if he’d read his mind, his uncle, Nestor Hicks, the Earl of Totham, leaned over toward him. “Getting stiff already? Wait until you reach my age.”
Christopher nodded with his chin toward the speaker. “He has been up there for three hours, talking. How much longer are we expected to sit through this?”
His uncle chuckled. “However long it takes. Lord Westchester once spoke for near six hours. I would have paid a pot of gold to have gotten out of having to sit through that one. You gather my meaning, eh, wot?” he laughed quietly once more.
Christopher had always liked his Uncle Nestor, brother of his late mother. He had to admit he found it a great relief to have an instant ally in the House of Lords, where he did not know many of his fellows. He glanced around the gallery at the many empty seats. There were no more than thirty or forty lords in attendance and all of them appeared to be rather on the old side.
Following his gaze, his uncle cleared his throat.
“Shameful, it is really. All these empty seats. It’s the Season, and we should have a full house each evening. Yet our fellow lords would rather shirk their duty to sit at White’s drinking and placing wagers.”
“I must say, having sat through that,” he nodded at the speaker who stood between the two sets. “I do not blame them.”
His uncle sighed. “Which makes me even prouder that you are here, doing your duty. Your Father would be ever so pleased.”
The mention of his father stirred something inside of Christopher. His father had passed away almost six months ago. He looked around the great chamber and tried to imagine his father sitting where he was now, listening to one speaker or another making their point and then heading down to White’s with Uncle Nestor or one of his fellow lords.
The thought made Christopher smile. It felt good to think of his father as the healthy man he had once been.
How I wish I had known him better when he was well. I should have spent more time with him when I had the chance.
He sighed and felt his uncle place one wrinkled hand upon his forearm. He patted the older man’s hand and they exchanged a nod, each knowing what the other was thinking.
Once, when Christopher was just a young boy, his father had been one of the most respected Peers in the Realm. The title of Duke of Westmond had inspired fear and loyalty in the heart of his subjects and trust and reverence in the minds of his fellow lords, as well as the Regent. His power and influence had reached far and wide.
But then disease had struck him and the once strong, fear-inducing man had withered away over several painful years. The disease had robbed him in a few short years of not just his health and vigor, but also of his position at Court as well as much of his wealth.
Christopher blamed himself. He’d trusted Horton, their steward, the run the estate while their father sought treatment after treatment, never realizing Horton was lining his own pockets while bleeding the Westmond estate dry.
Between the steward’s stealing and the expense of the physicians who were summoned from far and away, they had soon found themselves almost on the rocks financially. By the time Christopher had taken control of the estate, they were almost bankrupt.
No matter, I shall rebuild it all. I shall ensure that the Westmond name will once again be respected and I shall reclaim my Father’s position at Court.
The desire to rebuild the respect and wealth he felt he was owed to his family, was his main reason for sitting through these tedious proceedings day after day. He had arrived in London after the Easter break and had attended Parliament each day with his uncle, who made introductions he thought beneficial for Christopher.
The speaker at the podium had at last concluded his speech, causing even his uncle, a passionate Parliamentarian, to exhale with great relief.
“At last. Now, come quickly, Christopher. I would like to introduce you to another of my fellow lords.”
His uncle got up and made his way down the aisle, toward the Prince’s Chamber where the lords often gathered before and after the sessions. He was surprised at how spry his uncle was when he wanted to be.
Christopher struggled to follow him and when he finally managed to catch up, his uncle had already struck up a conversation with two men, both of whom appeared to be in the same age range as his uncle.
“Ah, very well. Here he is now. This is my nephew, Christopher Newmont, the Duke of Westmond. Lord Westmond, this is William Lornsdale, Viscount Havers, and Peter St. Clair, Baron Strygar.”
A Viscount and a Baron. And I have never heard of either. I wish Uncle Nestor would introduce me to some more influential types.
Hiding his disappointment, Christopher greeted his fellow lords with a nod of the head.
“My, I’ll be darned. You look just like your Father when he was your age. Same striking blue eyes. Your Father could instill the fear of God in anyone with those eyes,” Viscount Havers said with a chuckle.
“Indeed, it is true. Quite the force, your Father was, My Lord. I expect you’ve inherited his spirit as well as his eyes,” Baron Strygar added.
