Page 2 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
During their time on the Continent, his valet had grown accustomed to moving from place to place quite often. The man could pack a trunk in only a few minutes. After a few hours of sleep, Preston would depart for the family pile.
“Goodbye, London,” he said aloud, “and good riddance.”
* * * * *
The carriage ride to Lancashire was a long three day journey.
The trip consisted of overnight stays at coaching inns in Northampton and Brassington and, on the last day, nearly nine hours in the coach.
The day was still sunny, the curtains of his traveling coach drawn back, when Preston reached the edge of his estate. Several minutes later, he was appalled to see overgrown hedges lining the weed-choked mile-long track leading from the main road to Barton Hall.
He hadn’t sent word ahead of his arrival. Preston had written to the housekeeper and butler upon his return to England to advise them he would stay in London for several weeks. He hadn’t counted on being pursued by so many zealous mamas on the marriage mart.
After the carriage halted in the hall’s courtyard, he watched a young groom run to the coach from the stable block.
“His Grace has returned to Barton Hall,” he heard his driver call out to the boy.
Soon after, the door to the coach opened, and a footman dropped the steps. “Your Grace.”
Preston nodded a reply once his boots hit the unraked gravel of the courtyard. Looking up at the three-storied house before him, it felt as if he’d never left. Built of local stone, wood from Mytton and Read, and lime from Clitheroe, Barton Hall was an awe-inspiring structure.
His butler, Winston, looked relieved to see his employer when he opened the great oak door. “Your Grace. It is good to have you home again.”
He heard loud hammering somewhere nearby. “What is that racket?”
“Your steward advised me he is checking the bones of the house,” Winston replied with raised brows.
He frowned. “For what, pray tell?”
“We recently noticed water damage to the ceilings on the second floor.” The elderly butler added with a labored sigh, “Mr. Sparks has taken it upon himself to inspect the house thoroughly and is currently in the dining room on the ground floor.”
Preston walked through the entrance hall to the family doorway to the dining room. When he entered the chamber, it was to find his steward with a small piece of oak paneling in his hand.
“Mr. Sparks.”
The man jumped and dropped the piece of wood. Sparks turned, his face reddening when he saw his employer.
“Your Grace. We had no idea you were returning to Barton Hall.” Mr. Sparks bent to pick up the paneling. “I’m looking for rot.”
The steward retrieved the paneling from the floor beneath him, straightened, and stood awkwardly, not meeting his employer’s gaze.
Preston thought it rather odd that the man was inspecting the house. “You never let on that there was a problem with rot in the hall in your last letter to me in London.”
“It isn’t extensive, and I didn’t want to worry you,” the steward replied quickly.
“I will hire someone to inspect the house and make necessary repairs,” he said in gruff tones, wondering if the man had caused damage to other rooms.
He stared at his steward until Mr. Sparks nodded and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Please bring the estate account books to the library at once. I would like to see the accrued expenditures while I’ve been away.” The condition of the grounds had given him pause. What had his steward been up to these last three years?
Preston exited the dining room and returned to the entrance hall. The housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, was there to greet him. “Your rooms are ready, Your Grace.”
“Very good. After I review the accounts with Mr. Sparks, we can discuss events here while I’ve been gone.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Preston proceeded to the library at the back left corner of the house. The curtains in the room were open, allowing him to enjoy the golden hour as the sun slipped under the horizon.
