Chapter 10
In the end, the next fortnight dragged along interminably slowly for James. He had almost written to Charlotte in between visits to feel he had some other contact with her but judged he had been a little too forward at their last meeting and should give her time to adjust.
James was sure he had made his growing feelings for her clear, but he also knew that such things could not be rushed, at least not with an intelligent, confident young woman like Charlotte Cunningham.
If he went in at full speed, she would no doubt suspect him of some game or other and back away. They had both wondered at the other’s intentions before now, and he knew it was because of their frank teasing and lively conversations.
But James could not regret those conversations for a moment, for it was their very banter which had drawn them together and made each of them interesting to the other.
The competition had made Charlotte cautious, though, and James knew he would have to show her more of himself in the future, the man beneath the charm and amusement.
“Good morning, My Lord.” Charles Holt, his father’s attorney, seemed to appear from nowhere.
James had been making his way from the drawing room to the entrance hall, intent upon taking out his finest horse for a morning ride. He had not seen where Holt had come from and had the same creeping sensation of mistrust he always had in the dreadful man’s company.
“Good Morning, Holt,
” James said crisply and thought that he had not seen the attorney since he had been forced to look over the list of eligible young ladies in his father’s study.
James eyed him curiously for a moment and wondered if Holt was back at Sandford in connection with that same quest today. And if Charles Holt had been a better man, one he could trust, James would have asked the question outright.
But the attorney was not a man James had ever trusted. He always gave James the impression of a man who both hated and admired his employer at the same time, something he instantly equated with envy.
Of all the people who worked in and around the great hall, Charles Holt was the one James liked the least. He had never had any sort of sympathy with the man and had never fallen into comfortable conversation as he generally did with the household staff.
There was something in the man’s eyes which always seemed dead, like a landed fish. James could describe it in no better way. And he thought that a man with no light in his eyes whatsoever was a man who could never be relied upon. Holt had always struck James as a man who would switch allegiances at the drop of a hat if it suited him.
Perhaps he had an innate ruthlessness that the Duke recognized. The man and his fish-eyed stare had worked at Sandford since before James was born, and a darker nature would certainly explain why James’ father had retained the man for so many years.
James did not linger as he would have done with just about anybody else. He would always stop for long enough to enquire after a maid or footman’s well-being or at least comment upon the weather. Anything to let them know that he did notice them, that he paid them a consideration that their master, the Duke, never did.
But he could not stand and pass time with Charles Holt. He just had nothing to say to the man, and so he walked on, striding out through the main entrance and away into the pleasantly warm morning.
Charles Holt stood in the Duke of Sandford’s study with his hands clasped lightly behind his back as was his custom.
Charles had always thought it a particularly good stance, showing neither nerves nor over-confidence, setting just the right tone for any and all meetings with the man who provided the larger part of his very healthy income.
He had been the attorney to the Duchy of Sandford for most of his career, and Charles was entirely loyal to the Duke. His loyalty was, however, the sycophantic kind which was, by its very nature, tinged with envy and hatred.
The truth of the matter was that Charles Holt’s loyalty was largely towards himself and his aspirations to be the wealthiest attorney in the whole county. His status was already somewhat elevated given his most prestigious client, but Charles wanted more; Charles always wanted more.
“And so, you see, Holt, I have an ever-growing suspicion with regard to my son’s activities,” the Duke continued to talk.
He had made himself entirely comfortable in his broad chair, leaning forward over his growing belly to lean his elbows on the mahogany desk. He peered at his attorney through keen blue eyes, searching for any sign of a wandering attention.
“I see, Your Grace,” Charles said with a voice dripping reverence, all the while his annoyance at standing whilst his master sat growing.
Charles was a complicated man, torn between duty and self-enhancement, and he often surveyed the master he would do anything to please with a silent, secret loathing.
The Duke was growing fatter by the day, and his hair, that dreadful thinning pale straw, was over-long, making him look more like a beggar than a Duke at times.
“He thinks he can divert my attention with his attempts at amiability, but I am nobody’s fool, Holt,” the Duke rumbled on.
“Quite so, Your Grace.”
“He pretends to study our list, Holt. He makes pleasing little noises about this lady or that lady. But I know him to be playing me false. He is prevaricating, and he thinks himself very clever with it. I think it is time I showed the milk-sop a lesson.”
Charles Holt never ceased to be amazed by the animosity which always rose when the Duke talked of his only son. It was true to say, of course, that the Duke was a man who was always angry about something or other.
So much so that his rough and blotchy skin, the complexion of a man who ate and drank too much for his own health’s sake, was often so deep red with fury it was almost purple.
Charles wondered that the man had not keeled over with a seizure or something worse before now and knew it was something which could not be ruled out in the future.
Still, Charles Holt could only hope it was the very distant future. He did not rate his chances of retaining his position within the Duchy very highly if and when James Harrington took his father’s place.
If there was someone on God’s earth he despised more than the Duke, it was his son. Just the thought of the young man brought a light sneer to the attorney’s face. The Duke approved, of course. He liked people to agree with him, if only regarding their physical countenance.
“How so, Your Grace? Is there something I can help you with?” Charles’ practiced tones were as second nature to him.
If he could do anything at all to upend James Harrington, he would do it with gusto. He had always despised the young Duke-in-waiting, even when he had been nothing but a boy.
Charles had seen how the child followed in his mother’s footsteps instead of his father’s, as ought to have been natural. He was a learned child who had carried the practice on into adulthood, but it was the sort of learning that thought itself reasonable and clever, always glib and flippant when he should have been serious.
But Charles thought that it was often the case that young men who were intended for greatness by dint of their birth rarely took their responsibilities seriously. Charles, on the other hand, would have made a much better Duke. If he had been born higher up in the world, he would have made the very most of it.
“I am convinced that my son has some romantic intrigue or other over in the east of the county. That is why he continually visits that pointless young man, Hector Hanover.”
“Yes, Your Grace; I am familiar with the Hanover family,” Charles said dismissively, letting his master know that he thought as little of them as he did.
Charles would, of course, have thought highly of the Hanovers if that was the Duke’s leaning. He would bend in whichever direction his master did as if he had no will of his own.
“I can find no other explanation for it all. For one thing, as I have already mentioned, he is travelling east with increasing regularity of late. For another, his little games here at Sandford have excited my suspicions greatly.” The Duke looked bilious, and it was clear his mood was deteriorating.
Father and son could not have been more different, and Charles knew that it was that more than anything else which lay at the root of the Duke’s determination to rein James in.
James Harrington was clever, or at least he thought he was, in just the way his mother had been. The Duchess had been a constant source of irritation to Charles, largely because she was one of the few people who saw right through him to the very heart of what he truly was; a self-serving little sycophant.
James Harrington could see it too, and Charles had always recognized that same look in the eyes of the Duke’s son. Likely that was why he despised him so much, however many other slants and angles he might come at the whole question from.
“Games, Your Grace?” Charles was starting to feel a little bilious himself; a mental image of the shrewd green eyes of James Harrington always had a detrimental effect on his humour.
“Yes, Holt, games.” The Duke looked pleased to be drawn out a little on the subject, for he was a man who was extraordinarily fond of airing his views and theories on any subject at all. “For instance, take Lady Penelope Colchester,” the Duke went on.
“Yes, the daughter of the Earl of Paynton,” Charles supplied pointlessly.
“Yes. Well, my son gave me to understand that he had something of an interest in her. He went to some lengths to have me slowly put off old Whittingham and his daughter, Lady Felicia, in favour of Lady Penelope.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Said he thought he might prefer her to Lady Felica, and so I arranged a string of events with Lord Paynton and his daughter.”
“It did not go well, Your Grace?”
“It did not go well at all,” the Duke said, and Charles could not help thinking that the Duke was every bit the fool he had claimed not to be only minutes before.
In the same circumstances, Charles knew that he himself would have seen right through the little charade. He would have suspected James Harrington before the dreadful young man had opened his mouth. That his own father had not seen to the truth of the matter sooner was just grist to the mill of Charles Holt’s bitterness and envy; why had he not been born to be Duke? He would have done a much better job. He was so much more intelligent.
“The young lady is precisely what the Duchy needs too.” The Duke seemed a little more subdued now that he was musing. “Really. Pretty face, quiet, agreeable. Perfect qualities in a wife.” He was almost mumbling to himself, and Charles wondered if the old Duke was wishing he had chosen so well, given that the late Duchess had been far too clever for her own good, even if she had been a beauty.
“And her father is one of the wealthiest men in the county. Not to mention the fact that he is of the sort who will pay a King’s ransom to have his own status elevated by his daughter’s marriage. Nothing could be better.” The Duke coughed loudly without covering his mouth. Charles winced at the idea of breathing in the foul breath from deep within his master’s lungs. “And Whittingham is the same! Felicia is a little annoying with her priggish manor, but that could easily be crushed when the match is made.”
Charles had heard all of this before; the virtues and fortunes of the young ladies in question. He had helped the Duke to compile the list of young ladies suitable to marry his son, after all, and had seen to it himself that the two aforementioned women were at the top of that list.
Of course, Charles had put them there for financial reasons only. He could not have cared less what sort of wife James Harrington found himself tied to in the end. In fact, the more disagreeable, the better. It would serve the smart-talking young man right, after all.
“But with Lady Penelope, it was obvious. He has no interest in the woman at all, and I could see it on the first of the engagements I had arranged. There was no regard there. In fact, I think he quietly mocked her although the lady herself likely did not notice. She is not terribly sharp at such things, which I think is yet further evidence of her eminent suitability as future Duchess.” He coughed again, and Charles held his own breath for some moments until he thought the danger of breathing in the murk had passed.
“No, he is playing with me now, dragging the thing out and placating me as best he can. I should have realized immediately that he spoke so falsely. James never agrees with me if he can help it, and even when he does, he is always careful to be flippant and sarcastic.”
“I see, Your Grace,” Charles said with restraint when he had wanted to agree wholeheartedly.
Still, he was just the attorney and, despite the Duke’s own grievances towards his son, Charles would never get away with open agreement. It was not his place to comment upon his betters.
His betters! In talking of James Harrington, Charles almost ground his teeth at the notion of that young man being his better in any respect.
“So, we shall play him at his own little game, Holt.” The Duke brightened considerably now that they were getting to the planning stage of the conversation.
“Your Grace?” Charles’ legs were beginning to ache from standing so rigidly for so long, and he wished his master would simply get on with it.
“Yes, I want you to follow him to Hanover Hall this time. He is to return before he has even been back here a fortnight. This time he claims to be committed to some ball or other. Lord Morley is said to be putting it on.”
“I see, Your Grace.”
“I want you to take up a post somewhere close by. Be sure you are not seen, but do what you can to follow James whenever he leaves the hall.” The Duke’s tone had lowered in volume and become something far more conspiratorial. “Find out where he spends his time and with whom. If there is a lady at the centre of this, you must root her out, Holt.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Charles had to stop himself smiling.
He rather liked the sound of the task the Duke had handed to him, and he knew he would relish the opportunity to be instrumental in upending James Harrington. After all, he knew the man would never keep him on when it came his turn to be the Duke of Sandford so, as far as Charles was concerned, he had nothing to lose.
He truly hoped that Lord Harrington had a woman he loved over in the east and, what was more, he hoped he could be the one to wield the shovel and dig a hole under the self-satisfied man.
It would do Charles no end of good to succeed in this. It would make his master all the more generous, and it would give Charles the personal satisfaction of ruining things for James.
“And if you do find a young lady, you must not come back here until you have made enough enquiries to identify her. That is all I shall need from you for now. I daresay I might care to employ your services further in this business, but at present, just a few facts will do.” The Duke looked almost as if he had the news he was looking for already.
He was clearly convinced that his suspicions surrounding his son’s behaviour were right. “I need to know if there is a woman and, if so, who she is. Once I have that vital information, I shall decide upon my next objective.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Charles gave a light tip of his head.
“Be very careful not to be seen, Holt. Not only by my son, but by that valet of his, Samuel Jones. He is irritatingly loyal to my son, and he would, of course, easily recognize you. You must have a care and employ only the most trustworthy driver to take you to the east. It must not be anybody connected with this household.”
“Quite so, Your Grace.” Charles could easily see the sense in his master’s words.
The household staff at Sandford, given the opportunity, would turn their coats inside-out and forsake their master in favour of his son.
They were all weak-willed in Charles’ opinion, choosing to throw their admiration upon a younger man who would be unlikely to work them as tirelessly as their current master did.
No, Charles did not trust any of them. In fact, Charles did not trust anybody. But money always did the trick, as far as he was concerned, and so he would hire his driver well.
“So, my son is due to return to the east by the end of the week for this ball. Does that give you time enough to make all the necessary arrangements?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I shall start preparing today.”
“Good,” the Duke said firmly. “Then I shall see you again when you have made some progress.” He looked away from Charles, dismissing him in the bluff and arrogant manner he always chose to dismiss his staff with.
But Charles was not staff. Charles was a clever, resourceful, loyal attorney, and the Duke would soon know exactly how valuable a man Charles Holt really was.