Page 5 of The Beast of Beswick
Thane had wanted to live out his remaining days in solitude. Instead he’d returned to a coronet. To duty. To unwanted responsibility.
To acres and acres of fucking porcelain.
“Very well, then, donate the lot.”
“A-Allof it?” Fletcher spluttered. “We would need an inventory at least.”
“Hire someone.” The suggestion curled his gut, and the thought of having someone new in his domain made him feel slightly ill. Most of his staff were trusted servants who had known him as a boy before the ravaged war hero. He did not take well to strangers. Or staring. The latter almost certainly went with the former.
“In Southend? Finding a credible historian with a knowledge of antique Chinese porcelain would be like finding a needle in a haystack. I’d have to send for someone in London, and that could take weeks.”
“Fletcher,” he growled. “I do not care. It was your suggestion. Handle it.”
The valet bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Thane left the gallery and strode toward his study. He’d forgone his daily exercises this morning in favor of some extra sleep. Insomnia kept him awake most nights, along with the recurring nightmares of being cut to ribbons. Sometimes, the dreams were so real that he swore he could feel the blades tearing into his flesh and the hot burn of his separating skin as bayonets punctured and cleaved through it like parchment. He’d saved four of his men in his unit from the ambush, but nearly triple that number had died. All because of one man…one craven turncoat who had abandoned his post.
Thane could still hear their screams.
He stopped to swivel his body, stretching slowly. His entire upper half felt stiff and sore. He was paying the price for not doing his usual exercises, the stitched, cauterized patchwork of skin on his back tight and painful. Perhaps a swim would be in order before dinner. He’d converted one of the unused wings in the manse into a recovery and training facility of sorts, which included an entire room devoted to a heated bathing pool, inspired by the Roman and Turkish baths and some of the extraordinary architecture he’d seen while traveling the Continent.
But for now, he needed a stiff drink.
“Culbert,” he said, passing his faithful butler en route to his destination. “Instruct one of the footmen to fire the hearths in the bathing room. I want it good and warm. And I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Finally, he arrived at the study. He loved the solitude of Beswick Park, but the abbey was labyrinthine. After spending so many months in a one-room barrack, he’d needed a map to relearn his way around his childhood home. His study was dominated by a large desk, several comfortable armchairs, and it was dark with heavy velvet drapes covering the mullioned windows. Plush carpeting muted his footfalls as he walked over and sat in the chair behind the desk and poured himself two fingers of fine French brandy. The liquor spread like a warm glow through his muscles.
Thane studied the low fire burning in the grate. He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. Shiny, unsightly scar tissue traversed the entire length of it. Most of his body had suffered the same fate, including his back, his legs, and three-quarters of his face. He kept his hair long, but the length did little to hide the stitched filigree of his skin. A beard might have helped, but not when it only grew on the lower, unmarred right side of his face.
Eight years ago, he’d had his choice of women. Now, he’d be lucky to pay someone to even look at him. Not that he was remotely interested in pursuing dalliances with the opposite sex. Or finding a wife. No, Fletcher had rocks in his brain if he thoughtthatwould ever happen.
Thane pulled the stack of ledgers toward him and glanced over the numbers for the estates. He hadn’t visited his tenants in years, though Fletcher said the land was turning a profit despite the handful of farmers who had left. Their departure was probably due to his black reputation, most of it deserved. He’d been a harsh man before the war, and now he was a hundred times worse. Ruthless to a fault. Hard. Intractable. Unforgiving. The list went on.
The rumors of the Beast of Beswick abounded, including the one that he’d committed patricide. And possible fratricide. It was true that his ailing father had died of a heart attack upon his return when he’d laid eyes upon his son’s gruesome visage. So, in actuality, hemighthave killed the man. A few unfortunate months later, his brother had died in a fall during a fox hunt. Once more blamed on Thane, though he’d been nowhere in close proximity to him at the time.
Leo had been engaged to a mutual childhood friend whose father had suggested aligning his daughter with the new Duke of Beswick. Lady Sarah Bolton had taken one look at him and walked out of the room. Contracts had been voided. Virgins un-sacrificed.
That’d been four years ago.
No wonder Fletcher was in a snit about him being unwed.
Tossing back the remaining brandy, Thane rose and limped to the bathing room. As he’d commanded, the massive fireplaces on either end of the chamber had been stoked and lit. A long rectangular bath lay at the center of the space, beneath which metal plumbing conducted heat from the hearths to the water and to the surrounding slate flooring. He’d designed it himself, and it had cost a bloody fortune. Then again, what was the use of being a rich nob if he couldn’t spend his hard-inherited money?
Thane wasted no time in divesting himself of all his clothing and wading in, feeling the warm water soothing his aching muscles. He twisted and stretched until his body felt loose, and then he simply floated, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that spanned the length of one wall. Stars twinkled in the distance, swatches of the twilight sky blocked by darker bands of cloud cover. Sometimes, when the moon was full and riding high, it was a truly spectacular view. This was another of his favorite rooms at the abbey.
A commotion outside the door made him jolt out of his relaxation.
“No, no,” Culbert was practically screeching. “His Grace is not at home to callers, Fletcher. Good gracious, you imbecile, what on earth are you doing? He doesn’t want to be disturbed, I tell you. He’s…working.”
Thane wondered who it could be. The Marquess of Roth had developed an annoying habit of turning up in Southend to escape his fractious father. However, Winter hadn’t visited in some time, and Culbert wouldn’t be in a lather about him.
“You’re the imbecile because she followedyou,” he heard Fletcher shoot back. “I told her to wait in the foyer.”
Thane blinked.She?
“Is the duke in there? I won’t be a minute.” The voice was decidedly feminine, sultry, and unfamiliar. Thane’s lower abdomen clenched at the sound.
