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“What the hell is this?”

“The water closet?” Godfrey said.

“I see that.” He would have loved to summon up withering sarcasm, but he was too tired.

Godfrey leaned over and showing extreme bravery, peered down the hole. “Loathsome smell. I hate the water closets. The servants’ privy behind the kitchen gardens is much better.”

“So you’re telling me they’re all like this?”

“Yes. They’re always worse on damp days and it’s raining today. You should smell the house after ten days’ rain.”

“They’re not working,” Simeon said flatly. “Water closets are supposed to have water running through them. These need to be cleaned out.”

The concept had clearly never entered Godfrey’s mind. “I don’t think Honeydew would like one of the footmen to go down there,” he said. “They might never come back up. Do you know what we pay a footman?”

Simeon sighed. He knew precisely how much a footman should be paid for a year’s work—and the Cosway estate had been paying approximately half of that amount. “Footmen don’t do this sort of work. I believe iron-workers do.”

“Iron-workers?” Godfrey sounded puzzled, as well he might be. Clearly, no iron-worker had lifted a finger to the pipes in years.

“We need help.” He was going to have to postpone the wedding until the spring. Simeon raked his hand through his hair again. God knows what Isidore would make of that announcement. He could hardly tell her that his mother had become so tight-fisted that the water closets hadn’t been cleaned since the days of good Queen Bess.

“Do you suppose,” Godfrey said tentatively, “that we could possibly have a proper water closet? Do you remember the Oglethorpes in the next county? Rupert showed me their new water closet. It’s all marble. I mean, we couldn’t afford anything like that, but perhaps running water?”

Simeon backed out of the privy. “Godfrey, we can have the whole house kitted up in marble if you wish.”

Godfrey was at the stage where his legs were almost as long as the rest of him. He trotted along beside Simeon. “What do you mean?”

“We have a large, thriving estate,” he said, glancing at his little brother.

His eyes were round and his mouth was open. “Mother said we should never discuss the question of substance.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not proper.”

“It’s not proper to have a house stink like a pigsty in summer,” Simeon said witheringly. He couldn’t criticize his mother to her face, nor yet to her child’s. But he could point out the facts. “This is an extremely profitable estate. My wanderings resulted in a second fortune. We can have running water piped into every room, though I wouldn’t know why we’d want to.”

Godfrey stumbled and almost fell over.

Simeon stopped. “Why aren’t you at Eton?” he said, something finally clicking in his brain.

“We can’t afford it,” Godfrey said. “I’ve been teaching myself since mother dismissed my tutor.”

“Aw…shit!”

Having left Godfrey wide-eyed at the idea that he would be attending Eton in the fall, Simeon walked back into the study and sat down. In front of him was a letter from a Mr. Pegg, requesting to be paid for the work he did between 1775 and 1780. Mr. Pegg had shoed the duke’s horses, as well as kept the carriages in good repair. And while the Peggs had long served the Dukes of Cosway, he was afraid that he would no longer be able to…

Simeon picked up the letter and walked upstairs to his mother’s parlor. He went through all the elaborate rigmarole that prefaced a simple conversation with her: the bows, the kisses, the request to sit, etc.

“Your Grace,” he began.

But his mother raised a hand. “A lady initiates the subject of conversation, Cosway.”

He gritted his teeth.

“I want you to promise that you will be on your best behavior so that your wife is not frightened away by your oddness.”

“I shall do my best,” Simeon said woodenly. “I intend to travel to London tomorrow and beg her pardon; I’m afraid that our wedding celebration must be delayed.”