The desk was mahogany, vast, covered in the organized chaos of a man who had apparently believed that important documents left in visible piles were the same as important documents addressed. The chair behind it was upholstered in leather, dark with age, shaped by decades of a different man’s posture.
James sat in it anyway, because there was no other chair in the room large enough to hold the scale of what needed doing, and because at some point in the past two weeks, he had run out of the energy required to feel like an intruder in his own house.
My own house.
He looked at the desk.
He reached for the nearest stack of correspondence and read the first line of the top letter for the third time.
Regarding the matter of the eastern tenancy agreements and the outstanding question of…
He set it down.
There were, at last count, forty-seven letters requiring his response. And upstairs, there was a baby girl of twelve months who did not know him, did not trust him, and had spent the better part of a week making her feelings about the situation known.
She knows I’m afraid of getting it wrong.
He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.
Isadora had said it kindly, which had somehow made it worse. He had spent all his years cultivating the very specific skill of not appearing afraid of anything, and a woman who had known him since she was old enough to form opinions had looked at him across a disordered nursery and taken the whole performance apart with one sentence.
He had not wanted this. That was the truth of it, the one he had not said aloud to anyone and did not intend to, because it served no purpose and changed nothing.
He had not wanted the duchy or the study or the desk or the portrait of his predecessor that hung above the fireplace, regarding him with what he felt was a faint and posthumous skepticism.
He had not wanted to be anyone’s closest male heir. He had been perfectly content as a marquess, with a solvent estate, manageable responsibilities, and the freedom to live as he chose.
But now…
He looked around the study. The portrait looked back.
“I did not ask for any of this,” he muttered.
The late Duke said nothing, which was about as useful as everything else he had left behind.
Another knock sounded at the door.
James straightened, resuming the appearance of productivity. “Come in.”
The door opened to reveal a man he had not seen before. He was small and neat, with sparse hair. He carried a leather bag in one hand and a sheaf of papers under his arm.
James recognized the type before he had crossed half the room.
He was a solicitor. Someone who had come this evening for a specific purpose. James could already sense that something was very wrong.
“Your Grace.” He bowed deeply. “Forgive the hour. My name is Calder. I act on behalf of several Ashbourne family interests—the wider family, I should say. Not the estate directly.” He paused. “I wrote to request a meeting. I’m not certain the letter arrived, given the current state of the correspondence.”
James looked at the stack of forty-seven letters.
“It may have,” he said. “Sit down, Mr. Calder.”
The solicitor sat, setting his bag with the practiced efficiency of a man accustomed to delivering news in other people’s studies. He folded his hands over the papers in his lap.
“I will be direct, Your Grace, as I think you would prefer it.”
“I would.”
“There is talk.”
