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Chapter Six
Jackson gazed at the man sitting across from him, sighing heavily. It was Mr. Godwin, his late father’s man of affairs and now his own, who he had inherited along with everything else. The man looked pained, as if he had eaten something disagreeable for luncheon which had disturbed the delicate state of his digestion.
“I am sorry to say that there are many pressing issues, your Grace,” said the man, adjusting his spectacles. “Your late father was an ill man for a long time. There was only so much I could do to keep his affairs running smoothly…”
Jackson swore underneath his breath. It wasn’t as if the duchy was at risk. Far from it. The estate was vast and there was more money in the coffers than he would ever spend in a lifetime. It was just the fact that his father had made some investments that were questionable in the last months of his life, as well as racking up quite a large number of debts. A fact that Mr. Godwin put down to the frailty of the late Duke’s health and a mind often clouded by laudanum.
“Pay them all outright,” he said in disgust, sweeping the ledgers aside. “I cannot abide looking at them a minute longer. We shall start with a clean slate, Godwin. I want the duchy to be robust and healthy.”
“Very good, your Grace,” said the man, standing up and collecting the ledgers. He hesitated. “There is also the matter of Thornbury Manor. There have been reports of poachers upon your grounds, snaring pheasants. The local law does not seem to have done a great deal to find the offenders…”
“Hire a local man to look into it,” said Jackson crisply. “Anything else?”
“I think that should do for today, your Grace.” The man looked abashed, scuttling from the room.
Jackson sighed, leaning back in his chair. Every day, there seemed to be more to deal with. Old debts to pay. Household matters, in both London and Norfolk. No sooner would he believe he was starting to get on top of it than it all started piling up again.
Duty. Responsibility. It was much overrated.
He had thought he might be able to get away from London soon. Retreat to Thornbury Manor for some much-needed rest. His ancestral home was the only place where he felt like he could think clearly anymore. The only place he could put it all behind him for a little while. He smiled while thinking of his rides on Cassius through the woods and along the canopied path towards the blue ocean…
It is like a dream come true for me whenever I have the pleasure of visiting the ocean, your Grace. The sound of the waves lapping along the shoreline is spellbinding, wouldn’t you agree?
He stopped breathing for a moment. Her voice. It was as if she was suddenly within the room. The voice of Lady Patricia Hunter, her honey brown eyes shining, as she told him how much she loved the ocean.
He tapped his fingers distractedly on the desk as he thought about her. She had been popping into his mind at random times since their introduction at the charity event.
Suddenly, he stood up. Enough work for the day. He would spend the rest of it in the quiet confines of the club on Bond Street. And think about when he could finally make his escape back to Thornbury.
* * *
A thick fog of cigar smoke hung over the room as he entered, and he took a seat near one of the high windows overlooking Bond Street. He cast his eyes around. There weren’t many gentlemen in here yet, and most were absorbed in reading the newspapers, a quiet glass of port by their side.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He might not be disturbed. He could peruseThe Morning Postor theMorning Chronicleat leisure and perhaps have a quiet glass of port or two as well. It would fill the rest of the afternoon, at least, before he must return to St. James to get ready for a dinner engagement.
He had just opened the paper and taken the first sip of his port when he felt a presence behind him. Irritated, he glanced up.
It was Lord Cardigan, staring at him with a smug grin on his face.
“Mind if I sit down, Fisher?” said the man.
Jackson stared at him, gobsmacked.
Cardigan didn’t wait for a reply. He settled himself down in the upholstered armchair opposite him, gazing around with a complacent look on his face.
“Be my guest,” said Jackson sourly. “What do you want, Cardigan?”
“Oh, come now,” said the man, leaning forward. “Don’t be like that, old fellow. We were once brothers in arms, after all.”
“How could I forget,” hissed Jackson, his eyes narrowing. “It perplexes me why you are trying to maintain a charade that we are friends, Cardigan. It was one thing to approach me to offer condolences on the loss of my late father, but to seek me out again is strange.”
The man sighed. “Why can we not let bygones be bygones? It was many years ago, after all. A whole lifetime, really, and one must move on.” He paused. “You are the Duke of Merriweather now and shall have a seat in the House of Lords. As do I. We could become allies, of sorts.”
Jackson stared at him in distaste. It was as if a snake had suddenly sprung up onto the chair and nestled into it, baring its venomous fangs.
“I have no interest in being a political ally with you, Cardigan,” he said slowly. “None at all. You shall have to look further afield, I am afraid.”
The baron didn’t look bothered that he had spurned him in the least. In fact, he looked even more self-satisfied, rather like the cat that had just eaten the cream.
