Page 38 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
“There are issues. With the house. With the staff.”
She frowned. “Staff? Do you mean a maid for me? The woman Aunt Bernadine and I have been using came with the rented house. I knew I would have to make arrangements for a lady’s maid. Penelope and Julia have offered to help.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Oh?”
He shifted in his seat. “Well, it’s to do with my father, mostly.”
“Your father is in London?” she asked, surprised.
“No. No. He keeps to Broadcove in Devon almost exclusively.”
She waited.
“He and I don’t get on, you see.”
“Yes. You mentioned that your family is not close.”
“It’s worse than that between me and my father. We actively antagonize each other, I’m afraid.”
“That is . . . sad.”
“You’ll understand, if you ever have the misfortune to meet him. He’s insufferable. He plays at being king of his fiefdom at Broadcove. Head of the family. Landowner. Village leader. Magistrate. He has near absolute authority and power and he revels in it. He insists on perfection. No, worse, he insists on theappearanceof perfection, but he will not work at actually achieving it. It makes me insane.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He likes everything neat, polished, and shiny. His bride was beautiful and fashionable, no matter if she was miserable. His children must be well behaved, well educated, well mannered—but again, he could care less if they are happy. Broadcove must dazzle the eye, inspire envy, intimidate the unworthy, but it’s all on the surface. Yes, the marble glows and the art is spotlessly dusted and the brass shined, but the piping is in disrepair and the attic leaks and there is too much damp in the cellars—but he won’t go to the work and expense of fixing such issues because they cannot be seen.”
“Oh. Yes, that would be frustrating.”
“It’s infuriating.”
“But what does it have to do with the townhouse?”
“You’ll see.”
For a moment, he thought she would tease him for more answers, but she seemed to reconsider and just leaned back against the seat again. Folding his arms, he sat silently for the rest of the short journey.
They pulled into the square and the carriage stopped before the house. It lay dark and quiet. No one emerged to greet them.
With a sigh, Whiddon wrenched open the door himself. He helped Charlotte down and escorted her to the door. It remained closed—and locked, he found, when he tried to enter.
He sighed again and pounded on the door. He had to thump several times before he heard the lock turn and the door creaked open.
A lad, slim as a rail and apparently perched on the threshold of his own manhood, gaped at him. “Your lordship?” he croaked.
Whiddon didn’t recognize him. A stable lad, perhaps? One of the gardener’s boys? “Why are you answering the door?” he demanded.
Still gripping the door, the young man stepped back. He glanced aside. “Old Alf’s out . . . he’s under the weather.”
Whiddon stepped in, pulling Charlotte with him. A candle burned in the footman’s alcove just to the right. It clearly illuminated the empty stool and the substantial form lying stretched out along the base boards. She sucked in a breath and pressed close to Whiddon, shrinking away from the inert body. “Is he—dead?”
He bent over his prostrate footman. “Drunk,” he declared. Straightening, he glared at the boy. “Where is Hurley?”
“He’s . . . ah, with the rest of the staff, downstairs. They are all celebrating, sir.”
“Celebrating?”
