Number three—face all the official nonsense. He had to petition the lord chancellor to be confirmed in the title for one. He wondered if he could avoid going to town for official functions for a year or so, but doubted it. He’d likely be forced down to London when Parliament went into session. In the midst of that, he would have to deflect Eckelston’s encroaching demands. They would keep.
Number four—the damned rose competition. If it had been vague in his mind earlier, memories had flooded back. As a boy he’d attended the fair in York with its annual flower show at which Grandpapa’s roses frequently took first place. It had been the pride of the valley now that he thought about it, and he would dismiss it at his peril. “Meet with Amos Jones and get the lay of the land,” he wrote. The sooner he learned the details, the sooner he could delegate it to someone else.
Number five—Aunt Blanche. “Toss out in the snow…” did not sound appropriate. He didn’t see how he could live with the woman trying to order his house and his life, however. He wrote, “Pension off Aunt Blanche and find her a comfortable cottage of her own.” Givens would probably help him do it or at least cheer him on.
He reread that last point. Someone needed to manage the household, however, so perhaps he shouldn’t rush. He had to find someone else. Someone loyal to Henry himself. A partner. He sighed.
He picked up the pen and wrote, “Number six—find a wife.”
Satisfied with his list, he wandered back to the fire. Mountains were climbed one step at a time. Henry would grow into the dukedom the same way. One step at a time. Heat flowed down with his toddy.Problem number six may be my biggest challenge, but tomorrow I’ll tackle number one. He smiled to himself as he dozed off.
Chapter Two
Henry rose atdawn, tempted to shake off the cobwebs with a ride. Duty flooded in, however, and he recalled his list. He would dress and find his newly acquired study. As soon as his feet hit the floor and he fumbled about for water to soothe his throat, Carter, the stern and upright valet who had served his grandfather, appeared to assist in his every need. The man had a weary air, one Henry suspected owed much to both age and grief. Another problem needing attention but not yet.
On his way to his study, he passed Givens, carrying a pile of serviettes to the breakfast room. The old retainer blinked away a startled expression. “Breakfast can be served soon, Your Grace. Shall I fetch coffee or tea for you?”
“Do not rush the meal on my account, Givens. I will be in my study. Do alert me when Bishop Bowyer, my sister, or Viscount Eckelston appears,” Henry said. He suspected that would be a while. “Coffee would be welcome, however.”
The glow of walnut paneling and the smells of beeswax and old leather engulfed Henry when he shut the door behind him. Under all of it, his grandfather’s affection and wisdom flowed through him.
“You are a Bradley, Henry. You will make a fine duke,” the old man had rasped toward the end. “Be patient. You’ll grow into it.” There had been no other advice than that.
Be patient.“I’ll try, Grandpapa,” he whispered. “If they let me.”
The massive walnut desk had been placed at right angles to bank the mullioned windows set in one wall. Some long-ago ancestor had built bookshelves into the walls on either side of the entrance. A glass-fronted unit lay behind the desk to the right of a door. That door led to a storage closet with a honeycomb of document niches above and drawers below. A quick check showed him that the wide drawers contained maps and the short ones, supplies.
Across from the desk, a large painting of Grandpapa and his two sons, one of them Henry’s father, hovered above two leather chairs separated by a small side table. A door next to the chairs, directly across from the one to the closet, opened onto the magnificent Roseleigh library with its two-story windows, resplendent with sunlight flowing through them. Evenly spaced panels of stained glass added jewel tones to the beams. He shut the library door; that would be a pleasure for another day.
Just then Givens arrived with coffee service on a silver tray. He put it on the table and poured with great ceremony.
“Thank you, Givens. That will do. Alert me when the others come for breakfast,” he said.
Givens bowed out with rather more obeisance than Henry found comfortable. Henry took his place behind the desk, studied the portrait for a long while, and stiffened his resolve. He began to sort through the drawers on either side. To his immense relief, his grandfather had been a careful man with organized habits.
On his left the top drawer had correspondence, much of it from family, both close and distant. Henry suspected they waited for answers that never came.
The lower left-hand drawer appeared to be dedicated to the old duke’s work in Parliament. Folders were labeled with topics of great interest to his grandfather: the Corn Laws, civil disorder, the Catholic question, and so on. The one labeled Ottoman Empire intrigued Henry, but he had no time for it. The most urgent lay on top of the others; Petition for Inheritance, it read. He took that one out and glanced through it. “Thank you, Grandpapa,” he whispered. The old man had known the day would come soon, and he’d outlined instructions for confirming Henry in his title.That will ease my way through problem number three, all the official nonsense associated with my accession.
He set that one on the corner of the desk, sipped his coffee, and turned to the right. The lower drawer was dedicated to estate business. It had the current ledgers, and folders marked Jones, George, and Roses. The three of them covered problems two and four. He took out George, which as he assumed referred to George Bradley, his steward, problem number two, and closed the drawer.
The top, right drawer, less organized than the rest, held a mixed pile of things such as bills, missives from solicitors, investment opportunities, and notes. He suspected that drawer held things pending action on the duke’s part. He went through them carefully. Among the motley collection, he found a summons from a solicitor in London on behalf of Baron Wolfton, the contentious neighbor. He put it on top of the folder of issues to discuss with his steward.
He also found a letter from the Earl of Edgecote, groaned, and put it unopened into the file labeled Jones. He would get to his head gardener and the matter of roses in due time but not today.
He rose to pour himself another cup of coffee. When a servant scratched on the door, he almost suspected Givens had assigned someone to hover out there lest the Duke of Roseleigh commit the great misstep of pouring his own coffee. Two months ago, he’d brewed his own in the cozy little kitchen of his bachelor establishment.
“Enter,” he said. It was not Givens.
Howard Morton bowed and greeted him formally. “I wished to alert you that I have arrived. I see you are already at work. I assume you will need me, but Givens asked me to inform you that breakfast has been laid out in the family breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Morton. I think I will meet with the steward first. Perhaps this afternoon?”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Morton bowed out backward as if Henry were some sort of medieval princeling. Henry tried to control his irritation, and set out for breakfast, hoping to find George.
Eckelston rose and inclined his head. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said.
“Stubble it, Martin. I was Henry when I saw you a month ago,” Henry said.
