A sense of lightness surprised Hart. He was home. But with no family, was it really a home?
“Will you be in for dinner, milord? Shall I alert Cook?”
“I’ll take a tray in my room. A cold collage will do, Crispin. Leonard will bring me coffee in the morning, and I’ll be down to breakfast at eight.”
With a pang, Hart noted the blank places on the walls where paintings once hung. But the stately marble statue of Aphrodite and a lecherous Pan still took pride of place at the foot of the stairs. The sculpture held a great deal of fascination for Hart when he was young.
The stone mansion would fetch a good price should he choose to sell it. But it seemed wrong to sell what had been home to Montfords for over two hundred years. And his mother’s touches remained in every room. He could imagine her here, quietly going about her day.
As he climbed the curved marble staircase, he faced the fact that he must begin his search for his future bride. It must be someone who understood his way of life and fit smoothly into it. Someone he liked and liked him. A woman he found both attractive and interesting. It was a tall ask in such a short space of time.
In the marquess’s hereditary apartments, Leonard sorted through Hart’s luggage. After the valet’s effusive welcome, Hart requested a bath, which sent Leonard swiftly off to arrange.
Hart read long into the night by candlelight, finding it difficult to sleep. So much importance rested on his shoulders. He had treated life lightly, but could do so no longer. Finally, he snuffed out the candles and sleep claimed him.
After breakfast the next morning, Hart, dressed for the city due to the ministrations of his meticulous valet, squared his shoulders and stepped out onto the street to hire a hackney to go to his bank.
A crowd had gathered, and a constable stood in the street outside, the doors still closed. Inside was in an uproar, the staff in a huddle, talking in hushed voices.
Hart turned to the constable. “What has happened here?”
“The bank was robbed, sir,” the constable said.
“Robbed? When was this?”
“This morning. As soon as the bank opened. In broad daylight, sir,” the constable said, outraged. “A gang of robbers muscled their way in armed with pistols. Demanded all the money and shot the man who’d just arrived. Got the lot, apparently, and they were clean away before the alarm went up.”
“Brazen of them,” Hart said. “The man they shot. How is his condition?”
“Deader than last week’s mutton, sir. The bank manager, it was.”
Hart swore under his breath. Graves was a decent fellow, always with an earnest expression behind the glasses perched on his nose. “Why the devil did they shoot him? Unnecessary, surely.”
The constable shrugged. “As a warning, I suppose. Such devils have no conscience.”
It would be days, if not weeks, before they would find a replacement for Graves. Hart could do nothing other than return to Montford Court. He hoped for some good company tonight.
At home, he sent a footman around to the Broadstairs residence, belatedly accepting their invitation to their spring ball.
At eight that evening, Hart’s closest friend, Tarleton Fanshawe, Duke of Lindsey, strode into The Running Horse inn in Mayfair where they had arranged to dine.
The inn was busy, the air filled with tasty aromas, causing Hart’s empty stomach to protest. Tate shook Hart’s hand. “Good to see you.”
“And I you. Marriage agrees with you.” Hart had been Tate’s best man at he and Ianthe’s wedding. “Is Ianthe with you in London?”
“No. She’s at home in Cloudhill. Spends most of her days working with the horses, setting up a breeding program. I am here on business for a few days, but eager to return home. We’re in the process of building a glasshouse.”
Their life sounded idyllic. Hart suffered a twinge of envy. “You intend to grow exotic plants?”
Tate nodded. “Fruits and vegetables from different climes. We’ll have cucumbers all year round.” He laughed. “I’ll send you some pineapple when we have a crop.” His expression changed to one of concern, and he leaned closer. “But what of you? Have matters improved since your father died?”
“Father let Pembury run down, and his finances are in a muddle.” Hart shrugged. “Nothing that can’t be resolved, but here’s the rub…” He explained about his Uncle William’s will.
Tate looked concerned. Then a wry smile lifted his lips. “So, you are to join Ianthe and me in wedded bliss?”
Hart rubbed his chin. “I hope for wedded bliss. It will have to be a rushed affair.”
“You have a lady in mind?”
