Somehow, Fletcher had not known the extent to which the late Marquess of Greystone had his fingers in many pots. Property, farms, various investments in new technology…the holdings were vast. More than Fletcher felt he could manage.
Shortly before his death, he’d started investing in shipping goods between England and the Americas. Fletcher had argued with him about the ethics of importing things like cotton and tobacco from plantations that used slave labor, but the elder Basildon had argued that he was investing in the shipping infrastructure and not the goods themselves. “It is not up to me what people choose to buy and sell, or how those goods are produced.” Fletcher disagreed. He generally tried to stay out of political arguments, but he objected to enslaving humans and wanted to see the trade abolished. It was tempting to take up his father’s seat in Parliament for that reason alone. Still, finding a way to divest himself of those holdings had been his first order of business, and his advisors assured him he’d made a tidy profit for it.
Fletcher and his father had not been especially close. John Basildon had been an ambitious man who worked hard to expand his family’s wealth and power. He was domineering with a short temper, and he had very specific ideas about the exactplace each member of his family occupied. As the head of his family, it was his job to be outside the home growing his fortune, so Fletcher didn’t see a lot of him growing up.
Upon his death eight months ago, Fletcher had inherited the lot of it and found it overwhelming. Father had tried to impart his business wisdom once Fletcher came of age, but it had not prepared him forthis. Although once his health started failing, Father had begun lecturing his son on the finer points of his business, Fletcher still felt like he had a lot to learn.
The only saving grace was the small legion of people Father had employed, and whose expertise Fletcher relied on now. Still, he knew he had only a fraction of his father’s business acumen, and he walked away from each meeting he’d had today convinced he’d be the one who destroyed the family’s fortune.
He arrived at his club that night with all this on his mind, thinking he could perhaps sell his stake in a few more of these business ventures and reinvest the money in something Fletcher understood better than, say, cross-Atlantic shipping.
Lark had followed him to the club but was currently otherwise occupied, speaking to an acquaintance. Instead, Fletcher and Owen sat near the fire, their usual spot in the club, and Fletcher mentioned he’d had business meetings but didn’t get into the details. He still thought of all of these men he’d spoken with as his father’s employees; he was still wrapping his head around the fact that he’d inherited all this and now all those men worked for him.
“I suppose the good news,” Fletcher said, wrapping up his brief description of his day, “is that even if I decided to sell all of it tomorrow, I’d still have enough to ensure that my grandchildren are well taken care of.”
“You’d better get on making those grandchildren, then,” said Owen.
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“Far be it from me to suggest that you get married. I understand your thinking. But one thing to consider is that there is something to be said for waking up next to a beautiful woman every morning. And now that my boy can walk, there is never a dull moment at home.”
Fletcher laughed softly. Owen’s wife was a ceramic artist, and Fletcher feared for the beautiful vases she made now that they had a small child on the loose in their home.
He supposed part of him wanted that. Owen seemed much more content recently. He’d spent the summer in Wales, and Fletcher had gone to stay with him for a few weeks because Fletcher’s country home in Cornwall was undergoing renovations and Owen’s home in Wales was near the north coast and the breeze off the Irish Sea kept it from ever getting too hot. Fletcher’s impression of Owen’s home life was one of deep happiness. Owen and his wife, Grace, were obviously in love and they doted on their year-old son, who had a bit of mischief in his eyes. Fletcher looked forward to being the boy’s enabling uncle, wreaking havoc on his well-meaning parents.
“On the other hand,” Owen said, “several of Grace’s friends have recently become engaged, and the rest of this Season is going to be attending one wedding after another.”
“Poor Owen.”
“I know. At least Parliament is out of session. If I had to deal with those stubborn old blokesandattend every social occasion to which Grace is invited, I’d go mad. I had no idea she was such sought-after company when we married.”
“Such a difficult life you lead.”
Owen rolled his eyes. “You are fonder of social gatherings than I am.”
“Perhaps. What is your next engagement.”
Owen stared at the ceiling for a moment while trying to remember. “I think it is Lady Danvers’ garden party a few days hence. I don’t really keep track. I rely on Grace to tell me where to go.”
“When we were children, Louisa and I once replaced the sugar in Mrs. Danvers’ tea service with salt.”
Owen grinned. “You always were good for a prank. Remember the time at Eton when we short-sheeted all the beds?”
Fletcher shook his head. “Not my best work. I am especially proud of the time I found out Banks had that stash of racy literature and I replaced the lot of it with old math books.”
“He wasmad,” Owen laughed. “Or the time you put snowballs in Easton’s satchel.”
“I haven’t done anything like that in years.”
“I am glad I was your friend and thus mostly immune from this trickery, although I do recall you once switched the clothes in mine and Hughes’ trunks so that suddenly his trousers were too short and mine were too long.”
Fletcher smiled.
“Do you ever think about doing things like that anymore?”
Fletcher slowly sipped some very fine whisky and looked around. He caught a glimpse of Rotherfeld, an unwelcome invasion as far as Fletcher was concerned.
“I’d like to hide a very large spider wherever Rotherfeld stores his pretentious cravats.”
