“Don’t call you that?” Anthony said. “There’s a duke in the family now! People will need to start bowing to you!”
“We always knew you had a bit of regality in you, but goodness gracious!” his sister, Penelope, added with a huff. “I’m glad we caught you before you set off.”
“I fully intend to make sure everything is sorted out. I won’t be a duke for much longer, if I can help it, at least.”
Anthony threw his sister a quizzical look. “I’m not sure one can hand an investiture back to His Majesty.”
“Oh, I’m certain there’s a very distant relative rubbing his hands together readily enough,” Justin replied. “The upper crust love having more titles foisted on them, I’m sure.”
“Well, apparently you’ve already caused a stir amongst the toffs,” Penelope said, a sly smile spreading across her lips.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading that trash again,” Anthony grumbled, leaning on a doorframe.
“What trash?” Justin asked, loosening his cravat.
“One man’s trash is another woman’s well-deserved pastime, no?” Penelope answered, thrusting a brochure at her brother. “Lady Prudence writes the society column for theTimes. Of course, no names are mentioned, but apparently the son of a blacksmith taking over the Rothesay Dukedom was enough to cause Lady Cordelia Nichols to faint.”
“You don’t say…” Anthony said, reaching forward to Justin’s outstretched hand, plucking the brochure out of it. He rifled through the paper himself.
“Lady Prudence said you were the first man she’s ever swooned over. Been through three London seasons with quite a few proposals and turned all of them down. Apparently she’s nicknamed Lady Icicle. Though it may have to do with pining over the Earl of Halton, who’s been engaged in a prolonged visit to France, most likely due—”
“Good lord, Ellie, with all of that knowledge, Scotland Yard should employ you as a spy,” Justin said, grimacing. “Have you been feeding them information about me?”
Penelope blushed. “Well, if nothing else, it will be good background information for you. I’m sure those ladies are coming up with schemes as we speak to dupe you out of your birthright.”
Justin felt a pit settle in his stomach at her words. It was bad enough having his partners at the firm regard the news with disbelief, but his family speaking openly about the inheritance was making it too real for him. Part of him was sure he would arrive at Hollyhead, after nearly thirty years of running away from it, only for someone to tell him it was a mistake. And if it wasn’t… well then, fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The news had turned his carefully crafted life upside down and it had not even been twenty-four hours. He’d taken a leave of absence from work and had to hide out at his adoptive mother’s house to escape reporters and nosy neighbors. Nowhe’d packed every piece of clothing, alongside his drafting tools and other architect’s instruments, into a traveling case. Who knew what kind of calamities awaited him in Hertfordshire? Hollyhead hadn’t been kind to him before, and he had an inkling it wouldn’t be any more accommodating now.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?” Alice asked in a measured voice, though the glaze of pity in her eyes betrayed her. After all these years, that look still managed to make him feel like the begging little urchin he once was, knocking on the kitchen door for scraps of food.
Finally, Justin heard the coach arrive in front of the townhouse.
“For the last time—” Justin said, though he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Picking up his traveling case, he moved into the foyer. “This is not my birthright, I am not a duke, and Cordelia Nichols will be happy to know that I will be selling Hollyhead as soon as possible.”
At that Anthony smiled broadly, his sister laughed, but his mother cast her eyes downward.
“Mark my words! I will be back before May Day with everything sorted out.”
*
“What’s going tobecome of us then?” Portia asked, her tongue dripping with acid. “He’ll throw us out on the street, surely.”
Cordelia pushed away the Lady Prudence section of theTimesto reach her cup of tea. “Portia, how many times do I have to tell you not to read the drivel they publish in that so-called newspaper?”
“It’s true! Well, most of it anyway. She even knew about your fainting spell after Will’s funeral. There must be a mole amongst our neighbors. How many were there that day anyway?”
Cordelia felt the beginnings of a headache throb in her temples. Closing her eyes, she fought the urge to rest her head in her poached eggs. She’d not had a moment’s respite since she fainted nearly a week ago. Cordelia spent her days organizing Hollyhead and her nights thinking about leaving it. It was as though she’d become stuck in an infinite time loop that Hermione spoke about after they attended a scientific lecture in London last season. The dark spots under her eyes, stretching out like deep blue puddles, were evidence enough that time was marching onward, not to mention Portia’s plans to retain control of Hollyhead, which seemed to be growing more diabolical each day.
She was trying her best, but the mask was close to falling off again.
“I think maybe thirty… no, forty?” she replied to her sister.
“Say that again, but face me,” Portia said.
Cordelia turned face to face with her sister, but instead, she shrugged her shoulders.
“Lia, this is important! If we find the mole maybe we can get in touch with Lady Prudence and ask her to issue a correction! It’s impossible that a blacksmith’s son would be one to take over the Rothesay title!” When Portia was excited, her speech tended to become more stilted. A footman glanced over at them curiously, but one reproving look from Cordelia had him snap his head back to face the window.
