Page 92 of False God

My suit jacket gets tossed on the armoire in the corner of the room.

There’s a knock on the door as I’m unpacking clean clothes.

“Come in,” I call out.

Conrad appears a few seconds later. Gray-haired and stoic, he’s lived at Newcastle Hall longer than I have. Along with his wife, Martha, who’s the cook. Two more people relying on me to keep everything afloat.

“Was it a good trip, sir?”

I gave up on getting Conrad to call me Charles years ago. It’s Your Grace, Mr. Marlborough, or sir. He’s known me my entire life. Even before we moved here full-time, we’d spend summers here.

I’m the third Duke of Manchester Conrad has served.

“It was fine,” I answer.

Conrad nods briskly. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m all set. Is Blythe here?”

“Lady Marlborough is at the London residence, I believe.”

“Did she say for how long?”

“She did not, sir.”

Typical. Blythe is technically an adult, but she still feels like my responsibility. She was supposed to return from Saint-Tropez yesterday, but she rarely sticks to a predictable schedule.

Conrad picks up the laundry bag from the hotel. “I’ll take this to be laundered.”

“Thank you.”

“This too?” He reaches for the jacket.

“No. Leave that.”

It’s another memento.

Conrad nods, then disappears back into the hallway, shutting the door with a softsnick.

After I finish unpacking, I change into riding clothes, then send a quick text to Blythe, checking in. There are several newmessages from Ellis and a photo of him on a boat with a blonde woman, the Statue of Liberty visible in the background.

My leather boots thud as I descend the main staircase and cross the tiled floor of the front hall. It’s overcast out, but warm, the air heavy and sticky.

I follow the left path, in the opposite direction of the gardens surrounding the right wing, toward the stables. It’s a large stone structure, close to the pond Blythe and I used to swim in when we were younger. The entrance to the barn is curved brick, which echoes my steps louder than the stairs did. I stop to snap a photo, then send it to Ellis, along with a short response to his messages.

Only two stalls in the stable are occupied. I sold Churchill, my father’s prized stallion, shortly after he died. The fox hunter was only three years old, too boisterous and virile for the limited attention I had to give him.

My black gelding is almost twenty, happy to graze all day and amenable to the occasional canter. He came with the name Kensington—after the palace in London,notthe family—and this is the first time I wish I’d changed it. Reminders of Lili are not what I need right now.

Blythe’s horse came with the name Windsor, but she changed it to Gilbert for some reason.

I feed Gilbert an apple, then start saddling Kensington. He bloats his belly when I tighten the girth—a trick he’s done since my father bought him as a yearling. He’s only fooled me twice—and not in more than a decade.

A flock of sparrows startles from the branches of the huge oak that shades half of the pond as we start off at a slow amble. Kensington snorts once, his gait remaining even and steady.

Churchill would have been halfway to the property line by now. Selling the stallion was in his best interest. But it was the first item on a long list of changes that followed my father’sdeath. I keep losing more and more, it feels like. And that would be a lot easier to accept if I knew an end to it was approaching.

I let Kensington walk with little direction from me, content to inhale deep lungfuls of fresh air and enjoy the peaceful quiet. Watery sunshine peeks out occasionally, warming my face.

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