Page 7 of He's the One

He went into the hall through one of the private entrances, avoiding coming into contact with the general public because he couldn’t risk getting caught up in a conversation and being late.

When he reached his father’s study, he checked his watch.Don’t fiddle with the strap.It was already fraying.

Four minutes to go. The room was guarded by two 18thcentury Chippendale side tables, a blend of Rococo, Chinese and Gothic elements, with ball and claw feet. The first style of furniture in England named after a cabinetmaker rather than a monarch and—Stop it! Don’t fidget either.

He could hear voices inside the study. His father, Ludovic Wetherby, the Marquess of Farnstall, and Darnley, his father’s estate manager, land agent, and supreme-pain-in-Theo’s-arse were talking and if Theo hadn’t been worried about being caught listening, he’d have pressed his ear to the door. Darnley was sneaky and manipulative, hence his nickname of Dick Dastardly. He even looked like the cartoon character with his curly pencil moustache and slicked-back dark hair.

Dastardly had worked at Asquith for almost two years since the retirement of Henry Jenson, whom Theo had got on well with. Theo did not get on well with Dastardly who was responsible for supervising and managing the day-to-day operation of Asquith, liaising with trustees, overseeing the maintenance of the buildings and grounds, managing staff apart from the gardeners, coordinating events and putting Theo firmly in his place as often as he could. He was almost as good as Theo’s parents at that. Particularly his mother, for whom Theo could do no right, and his grandmother, who seemed to despise everything about him from his hairstyle to the way he sat on a chair.

As far as Theo was concerned, he had to spend too much of his time glued to Dastardly, half-heartedly learning how to do his job. Not that Theo would ever have to actually do the job, but when his father died—please don’t let that happen for ages— Theo would become Marquess of Farnstall, and be in charge of whoever was estate manager at that time, meaning he’d need to know if the job was being done properly.

Dastardly made no secret of the fact that he thought Theo was a waste of space. It was as if he’d taken the cue from Theo’s mother and grandmother and run with it. No point feeling resentful, it was what it was. The arsehole had told Theo togo and find something else to doso many times when Theo hadn’t even been irritating him, that he’d begun to wonder if there was more to Dastardly’s attitude than there might seem, that the guy’s exasperation and irritation with him were masking something.

At nine thirty on the dot, Theo knocked. Once. Firmly but not too hard. Who else’s mother and grandmother made a child practise that? Knocking on the door. Sitting down without scraping your chair on the floor. How to shake hands. The way to walk across a room. The entire twenty-one years of Theo’s existence had been dedicated to learning the rules, then working how to break them.

He pulled down his cuffs, straightened his jacket, shifted his fringe again and swallowed at the lump in his throat. Then coughed to try and clear it. When he caught sight of his shoes, he chewed his lip. Were they shiny enough?Probably not.

“Come!” his father called.

His father didn’t like hesitation. Head up.Be brave.

Please, please, please, please, please like what I’m going to say.Theo opened the door and went in. Dick Dastardly stood by the window with a supercilious smirk on his smarmy face. Theo’s father sat behind his desk, and his mother was in the chair by the fireplace.Oh God. I’m doomed before I’ve opened my mouth.

Would his father test him?What about? The fireplace? No, the desk.Made by Henry Roentgen in the eighteenth century, the desk had secret drawers and mechanical fittings and was opened by turning a key in a specific way that—

“Well?” his father asked.

Theo’s heart lurched. Had his father said something? Theo had practised describing every item in the house, but he still made mistakes. He’d just made the basic error of not paying attention. The questions usually came when Theo was least expecting them. Bit like his Latin teacher’s technique of staring at one boy the whole of the time he talked, only to fire his horribly hard question at someone else entirely.

“I’m waiting,” his father said.

Oh God.“Good morn—” Theo began.

“For goodness sakes!” His mother rolled her eyes so hard Theo imagined them falling out and tumbling onto the floor. “Your father asked you about the Girandole!”

Theo glanced at the wall clock behind him, then turned back to his father. “An original Lemuel Curtis eight-day movement. Made in America. A style sometimes called a banjo clock because of its shape. The brass movement is weight driven. The…”Fuck! I hesitated.

“Why are they so sought after?” his father asked.

“High quality workmanship along with the maker’s close attention to detail. This clock is signed on the dial. The reverse painting on the convex glass shows Captain Wetherby’s victory at Plattsburg, though the battle was ultimately won by the American naval force.” Theo always wondered how much of a victory it really was if the English lost.

“Well done,” said his father.

“And Captain Wetherby’s relationship to you?” his mother asked.

Oh God. I don’t know.“Great great great great…” How many moregreats?Throw in another.“…great grandfather.”

“No. Look it up. It’s the sort of thing you might get asked,” she said.

Theo nodded. He never had been but…

His mother huffed. “Now get on with it.”

Theo counted to three. “As you know, I’ve been looking for ways to increase the number of visitors coming to Asquith Hall. I’ve made a list of suggestions. I’ve costed everything out in as much detail as I could…” With no help from Dastardly who was undoubtedly hoping he’d fuck up. “…and—”

She made a dismissive sound. “Just tell us.”

His father had his gaze fixed on Theo’s shoes and he had to fight not to rub them on the back of his calves. Knowing his innate clumsiness, he’d probably go the way of an inebriated flamingo. He opened his folder only to jump at his mother’s cry of exasperation.

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