Page 73 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“It’s not just a house, Audley.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Something flashed in his eyes, something different and entirely new. It was fear, Thomas realized with a start. Audley was terrified of gaining the title.

As he damned well should be.

For the first time, Thomas began to feel a glimmer of respect for the other man. If he knew enough to be afraid…

Well, at the very least, it meant Audley wasn’t a complete fool.

“Excuse me,” Thomas said, because he no longer felt so steady. It was the brandy, yes, but also the encounter. No one was how they should be—not Grace, not Audley, and especially not himself.

He turned on his heel and left, shutting the door firmly behind him. He would still hear them if they spoke, but surely they would not be so foolish as to remain. They’d go somewhere else to laugh and flirt. Audley would try to kiss Grace, and maybe she would let him, and they would be happy, at least for this day.

Thomas sat in his chair, stared out the window, and wondered why he couldn’t cry.

Later that night Thomas was sitting in his study, ostensibly for the purpose of going over his affairs. In truth, he’d been seeking privacy. He did not much enjoy the company of others these days, especially when the only “others” to enjoy were his grandmother, his new cousin, and Grace.

Several ledgers were open on his desk, their myriad columns filled with neat numbers, each carefully inked onto the page in his own hand. Belgrave’s steward was paid to keep such records, of course, but Thomas liked to take care of his own set himself. Somehow the information felt different in his brain when it was he who had written the numbers down. He’d tried to give up the habit a few years back, since it seemed unnecessary to have two complete sets of records, but felt as if he couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

A duke had to see the forest. Wyndham was a huge responsibility, with holdings across Britain. Would Audley see that? Would he respect it, or would he shuffle off the decisions to a variety of stewards and secretaries, as Thomas had seen so many of his contemporaries do, usually with disastrous results.

Could a man care for a heritage such as Wyndham if he had not been born to it? Thomas held it in reverence, but then again, he’d had a lifetime to develop his love for and knowledge of the land. Audley had arrived last week. Could he possibly understand what it all meant? Or was it something bred in the blood? Had he stepped foot into Belgrave and thought—Aha, this is home.

Unlikely. Not with their grandmother there to greet him.

Thomas rubbed his temples. It was worrisome. It could all fall apart. Not immediately; he had run the estate far too well for that. But given time, Audley could rip through the whole thing without even intending to.

“It won’t be my problem,” Thomas said aloud. He wouldn’t be the duke. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even stay in Lincolnshire. Wasn’t there some sort of dispensation in his grandfather’s will? Some sort of small house near Leeds he’d bought to parcel off to his younger son. He did not want to remain at hand to watch Audley assume his role. He’d take the other property and be done with them all.

He took a sip of the brandy on his desk—he was almost through with the bottle, which gave him some satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy to obtain it, and he didn’t particularly wish to leave it behind. But it did serve as a reminder of certain bodily functions, and so he pushed his chair back and stood. There was a chamber pot in the corner, but he’d recently refurbished this section of Belgrave with the latest in toileting technologies. He’d be damned if he was going to forgo the pleasure before getting shipped off to Leeds.

Off he went, moving down the hall. It was late; the house was settled and quiet. He took care of his business, pausing to admire the marvels of modern invention, then headed back to his study, where he fully intended to spend the night, or at least remain until he finished the brandy.

But on his way back he heard another person stirring about. He stopped and peered into the rose salon. A lighted candelabra sat on a table, illuminating the room with a flickering glow. Grace was in the far corner, shuffling about at the escritoire, opening and shutting drawers, a frustrated expression on her face.

He told himself he should apologize to her. His behavior that afternoon had been abominable. They had shared far too many years of friendship to allow it to end like this.

He said her name from the doorway, and she looked up, startled.

“Thomas,” she said, “I did not realize you were still awake.”

“It’s not so late,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “No, I suppose not. The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.”

“Your work is never done, is it?” he asked, entering the room.

“No,” she said, with a resigned shrug. He’d seen her make that motion countless times. And the expression that went along with it—a bit rueful, a bit wry. Truly, he did not know how she bore his grandmother. He put up with her because he had to.

Well, he supposed she had to put up with her, too. Employment opportunities for gently bred young ladies of little to no fortune were not exactly thick on the ground.

“I ran out of writing paper upstairs,” she explained.

“For correspondence?”

“Your grandmother’s,” she affirmed. “I have no one with whom to correspond. I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away…” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I shall miss her.”

“Yes,” he murmured, remembering what Amelia had told him. “You are good friends, aren’t you?”

---