Chapter One
Lancashire, December 1818
Wrapped in aheavy greatcoat and swathed with scarves against the cold, Henry Bradley, sixth of that name, attended his grandfather’s funeral with a leaden heart. The chapel, tucked into the curve of a hill overlooking a river valley and surrounded in the spring by masses of brier roses, had served the Dukes of Roseleigh as a family chapel for generations. Today snow blanketed the roses, the hill, and the valley beyond.
Sitting in the front pew as was expected, he grieved the old man’s passing, grateful at least that the suffering of the past few months had come to an end. Henry had no doubt the Almighty welcomed the old duke with affection, good man that he had been. Grandpapa had enjoyed a long and happy life marred only by the passing of his beloved wife and the premature deaths of two sons and his oldest grandson.
The latter three deaths were the reason Henry sat in the front pew where his cousin Harry should be, daunted by the weight of Roseleigh and its dependents.The duke is dead; long live the duke.Power and fortune had fallen on Henry Bradley, sometime rakehell, former soldier, more recently impecunious physician to a small village in Yorkshire. He could only hope it didn’t flatten him.
The bishop, who had been invited up from Chester, the Episcopal seat for Lancashire, finished his chanting, and Henry rose to follow the casket to the crypt. Turning, he saw the mass of people filling the chapel, every one of them with some claim to his attention, assistance, finances, and care, and almost bolted.
The crypt, oddly, felt a bit less cold. Henry peered around at the tombs of his ancestors, landing on that of his great-grandfather. The family arms had been carved into one side of the marble slab covering it. A single carved rose adorned the other side. In the middle lay the proud name, Henry Bradley, 7th Duke of Roseleigh. Someday, he thought morosely, they would lay him here as well. Henry would be the ninth duke but the sixth Henry, there being a few Richards sprinkled in. He shook off the thought as the bishop droned on and bearers lifted the casket into the niche prepared for it. Grandpapa would need a slab to cover his tomb, and Henry would see to it.
Moments later the grand Roseleigh carriage pulled away with Henry and his Aunt Blanche, the senior member of the Bradley family. The lane to Roseleigh Hall had been cleared, and the journey was short but not, in Henry’s opinion, short enough. Blanche had faced the loss of her father-in-law, her husband, and her son—taking with them her dreams of a duchess’s coronet—in a few years. Disappointment had left her bitter. He suspected she had been born overbearing. Neither of her personal traits made for a pleasant ride.
“Whatever you do, see to the glasshouse! The roses will not sustain so cold a winter without care,” Blanche proclaimed, putting that demand right above her demand to keep her grand suite with its view of the valley, the necessity of sacking the impertinent butler, the importance of redecorating the blue drawing room before spring, and numerous other directives.
Henry nodded vaguely, sighing with relief at the sight of the Hall. Relief was short-lived. Other carriages followed on, and soon the throng from the chapel trailed Henry inside the crepe-draped door.
Givens, Aunt Blanche’s impertinent butler, efficiently greeted one and all and directed them inside. Henry’s sister, Mary, fretful in late pregnancy, leaned on the arm of her husband, Martin Scolish, Viscount Eckelston, who watched Henry avidly, eager to reap the benefits of the dukedom now that Henry had succeeded. George Bradley, a distant cousin and Roseleigh’s autocratic steward, moved to a corner with Howard Morton, Roseleigh’s secretary, and Amos Jones, the head gardener, all three casting speculative eyes at Henry. Baron Wolfton, a neighbor with whom Grandpapa had a boundary dispute, glared from across the room. Various tenants, servants, and hangers-on all eager to speak to the new duke milled around. It was all too much. Even Bishop Bowyer, who would spend the night, deserved Henry’s attention.
Roseleigh’s inner core, a remnant of the medieval castle it once was, boasted a central hall with stone walls two stories high. A roaring fire gave off more light than heat in the massive hearth, the light reflecting off the miscellany of weapons that had been hung from the stone walls. A simple meal had been set up along one of them. Footmen took hats and bonnets, but no one seemed in a hurry to remove their outer garments. They milled about uncertain, waiting for someone to take leadership.
Henry looked around and realized, with a start, that that someone was him. He climbed two steps up the worn stone staircase that emptied into the hall, and a hush immediately fell. “Thank you, all of you, for coming to honor my grandfather. If Bishop Bowyer would be so kind as to say a blessing, please join us in a light repast.”
The bishop raised his voice in a blessedly brief prayer, but still no one moved. Givens hovered by the food, shooting him pained glances. Henry sighed and advanced, allowing servants to pile pastries, ones he probably would not eat, on a plate. A footman approached with a hot toddy in a mug.Praise God!
Givens gestured toward the formal drawing room that opened to the left, and Henry followed, aware—not for the first time—that he might have the title but he wouldn’t always give the orders. His sense of his own place in the universe was further confirmed at the sight of Aunt Blanche already seated in a plush chair near the fireplace, sipping a warm drink, a heavily laden plate beside her. She pinned him with her gaze, and the temptation to take a seat at the opposite end of the room faded.
“I ordered the blue suite for the bishop, it being the finest available. Mary and Eckelston will have to make do with the lily room but can move over when he leaves,” Blanche said.
Henry waited for her to assign his quarters, but of course, she already had. His valise had been moved to the duke’s quarters as soon as Grandpapa’s remains had been removed. He couldn’t even sleep the first night.
“The kitchen will provide a late supper for those who remain once the rabble clears out,” his aunt went on. “I meet with the cook daily to approve menus.”
The new duke had begun to mentally list things needing immediate attention. “Dislodge my aunt” moved to task number one. Or at least, “Gain control of my own household.”
“You will focus on the estate, of course, and on the roses. It may be winter, but they take careful tending if we’re to put the Earl of Edgecote in his place in June.” Blanche ordered him around with no shame, as if he were one of her minions.
“The honor of Roseleigh lies in your hands,” she sniffed, certain, no doubt, that he was unworthy. “Jones will have to bring you up to snuff quickly.”
Of course she believed him unworthy. Her son, his cousin Harry, had been raised as the eventual duke. Henry had been allowed to fiddle away his early twenties before he settled on medicine. He was never expected to inherit. She never expected to be dependent on a nephew.
“Edgecote?” he murmured, trying to recall something about a competition.
Blanche’s glare turned to ice. “The fool’s rose was judged finest last year at the York Rose Show. We cannot let him win two years in a row. That honor is ours and has been most of the past twenty years. Your grandfather saw to it,” she said.
People began to filter in; others stayed in the hall or, he suspected, wandered into the dining room. Henry drank down his toddy, letting the heat warm his insides and the alcohol steel his nerves.
“If you’ll excuse me, Aunt, I should greet our guests,” he said, turning to a couple that appeared to be farmers, tenants no doubt, who were gazing about the room in wonder.
“They come to you. You do not go to them.” Blanche sniffed.
Henry ignored her and approached the couple. “Thank you for paying your respects to my grandfather,” he said.
The woman cast her eyes to her feet and pinked up. The husband said, “O’ course. Our duty. I’m wondering, Yer Grace, since we’re talking. The winter being fierce this year, if you’ve had a chance to speak to Mr. Bradley about the allotment of wood. An increase would be a blessing. If you’ve had time to think on it.”
“I’ll speak with him,” Henry murmured and moved on.
