Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 53

Could a man care for a heritage such as Wyndham if he had not been born to it? Thomas held it in reverence, but then again, he’d had a lifetime to develop his love for and knowledge of the land. Audley had arrived last week. Could he possibly understand what it all meant? Or was it something bred in the blood?
Had he stepped foot into Belgrave and thought— Aha, this is home.
Unlikely. Not with their grandmother there to greet him.
Thomas rubbed his temples. It was worrisome. It could all fall apart. Not immediately; he had run the estate far too well for that. But given time, Audley could rip through the whole thing without even intending to.
“It won’t be my problem,” Thomas said aloud. He wouldn’t be the duke. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even stay in Lincolnshire. Wasn’t there some sort of dispensation in his grandfather’s will? Some sort of small house near Leeds he’d bought to parcel off to his younger son. He did not want to remain at hand to watch Audley assume his role. He’d take the other property and be done with them all.
He took a sip of the brandy on his desk—he was almost through with the bottle, which gave him some satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy to obtain it, and he didn’t particularly wish to leave it behind. But it did serve as a reminder of certain bodily functions, and so he pushed his chair back and stood. There was a chamber pot in the corner, but he’d recently refurbished this section of Belgrave with the latest in toileting tech-nologies. He’d be damned if he was going to forgo the pleasure before getting shipped off to Leeds.
Off he went, moving down the hall. It was late; the house was settled and quiet. He took care of his business, pausing to admire the marvels of modern invention, then headed back to his study, where he fully intended to spend the night, or at least remain until he finished the brandy.
But on his way back he heard another person stirring about. He stopped and peered into the rose salon. A lighted candelabra sat on a table, illuminating the room with a flickering glow. Grace was in the far corner, shuffling about at the escritoire, opening and shutting drawers, a frustrated expression on her face.
He told himself he should apologize to her. His behavior that afternoon had been abominable. They had shared far too many years of friendship to allow it to end like this.
He said her name from the doorway, and she looked up, startled.
“Thomas,” she said, “I did not realize you were still awake.”
“It’s not so late,” he said.
She gave him a small smile. “No, I suppose not. The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.”
“Your work is never done, is it?” he asked, entering the room.
“No,” she said, with a resigned shrug. He’d seen her make that motion countless times. And the expression that went along with it—a bit rueful, a bit wry. Truly, he did not know how she bore his grandmother. He put up with her because he had to.
Well, he supposed she had to put up with her, too.
Employment opportunities for gently bred young ladies of little to no fortune were not exactly thick on the ground.
“I ran out of writing paper upstairs,” she explained.
“For correspondence?”
“Your grandmother’s,” she affirmed. “I have no one with whom to correspond. I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away . . . ” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I shall miss her.”
“Yes,” he murmured, remembering what Amelia had told him. “You are good friends, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then looked up at him with a grimace. “I must go write your grandmother’s letters now.”
“She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.
“She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”
He chuckled at that. Grace was such a good egg. He wondered why she’d never married. Were the gentlemen too intimidated by her position at Belgrave? Probably. He supposed he was at fault, too, so desperate to keep her on as his grandmother’s companion that he
had not done as he ought and provided her with a small dowry so she might rise from employment and find a husband.
“I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.
“For this afternoon? No, please, don’t be silly. It’s a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for—”
“For many things,” he cut in. He should have given her the opportunity to find a husband. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have been here when Audley had arrived.
“Please,” she said, her face twisting into a miserable smile. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”
“Thank you,” he said. He supposed he felt better for that, but not much. And then, because one could always find refuge in the obvious, he said, “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”
She nodded slowly. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave.”
He thought about that. Not really. He’d spent the last four days under the assumption that he’d return to England with nothing, so he’d worked himself into a frenzy, making sure every last corner of the Wyndham estates was as it should be. He would not have anyone saying he’d sabotaged the new duke.
But he’d finished it all. There was a grain order to review, and his own personal packing to supervise, but other than that . . .