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Dear Mr. Jay,
Tenant A, whom we will call Mr. James, claims that he was promised Tenant B, whom we will call Mr. Butler’s, property upon his death. Last week, Mr. Butler died accidentally. No one can find any will for the land, and Mr. Butler has no family remaining to fight Mr. James’ claim. I am inclined to allow Mr. James the land, especially since it’s neither near water, nor good for grazing, but I thought it best to ask your advice on the matter first.
Lord Eastridge
Dear Lord Eastridge,
How much is Mr. James’ land currently worth and how much would it be worth if he also owned Mr. Butler’s land?
Jay
Dear Mr. Jay,
Mr. James’ land is worth 29 shillings. If he buys Mr. Butler’s, he will be at 41 shillings.
Lord Eastridge
Lord Eastridge,
I would advise you to proceed with caution, for, by giving Mr. James’ land worth the equivalent of 40 shillings or more, you have made him a voting citizen. What I mean, my lord, is that it could be that your ignorance of the county politics is being used against you. You are a soldier, so I would also advise you use the skills you already possess, and keep your eyes and ears open.
Jay
April, 1817
London, England
Reuben waited patiently as Prince Lucian, the Duke of Yall, took his time drafting a letter at his desk. More than half an hour had passed since Reuben entered the room, and neither had said anything other than a greeting, before Yall had bent his gray head and started working. Reuben had been left to stare at the walls, taking in the many medals and gifts the King’s cousin had received from various men of power and from far-off countries, before gazing out the window. He’d stood and walked the room and had then retaken his seat when Yall sealed his letter… only to watch the man begin yet another.
Had Yall been another man, or had he been called for any other reason, Reuben would have left, but the letter he’d received had said the matter was of great urgency, thus, he stayed.
Besides, he was sure Yall was making more than one point by delaying Reuben, as though the man had no other use, except to wait. It was no figment of Reuben’s imagination that Yall enjoyed testing him. The duke had been a general in the army and was known for his patience, precision, and even more, his attention to fine detail. This had gathered him respect around the realm, and Reuben’s as well, even though it came begrudgingly.
He didn’t bother to let his hopes rise again when Yall sealed his second letter. But then Yall’s dark brown gaze rose from the desk and found him. “Thank you for waiting.” He stood. “I’ve had much to do today. Not only does this government never sleep, but having vast property gives you great responsibility.” Yall now saw to all matters of international affairs, and, like Reuben, was a member of the Order of the Garter Star. Yall pulled his bell and looked at Reuben. “Though, I’m sure the latter is something you are learning. Property management, I mean.” He lifted a brow, waiting for confirmation.
Reuben nodded. “It is something I’m learning.” He’d spent hours poring over the property management books Rose had given him from the library, and the account books he’d been given concerning Eastridge. And then there were the letters he exchanged with a mysterious Mr. Jay. The letters had helped more than anything else.
Yet Yall was right. Properties did not run themselves, and Reuben told himself not to be bothered that the words had come from Yall, and not someone else.
The duke had made known his membership of the Blue Blood Coalition. He and a few other gentlemen saw Reuben and his sisters as beneath them. It didn’t matter what Reuben did, his blood would always speak louder than his actions. He was unworthy of his title, unworthy to look this man in the eye, and yet he did it, nonetheless.
Yall stood erect. He was a man some would say was of an intimidating height, but Reuben could easily meet his eyes while standing.
Yall placed a hand on the back of his chair. “A true lord would have learned what needed to be done with such a gift as Eastridge, while attending Eton, and then Oxford or Cambridge. How the king expected you to learn all this at your age goes beyond my understanding.”
Reuben said nothing, seeing the insult for what it was, and still unable to disagree. War, he understood. That particular game and all its players made sense. Strategy on a battlefield came with the ease of air, but Eastridge was new. Managing farmers and tenants was no easy feat. Between resources, rents, and land disputes, Reuben was out of his depth. It was likely why many lords hired an estate manager, but Reuben trusted very few when it came to these things. If Eastridge fell into disarray, the fault would rest on him and no one else.
“Well, I’m the viscount of Eastridge, now,” Reuben said with weak defense. Fighting Yall was yet another thing he had no clue how to do.
Yall narrowed his eyes and nodded. “So, it would seem, and while the public may think you earned it because of your bravery beyond England, you and I both know why you have a star in your possession.”
The Garter Star, with its red cross and blue and gold belt looping around the border, was one of Reuben’s most prized possessions. Not because it reminded him of what he’d achieved, but because it reminded him where he’d come from.
Yall crossed his arms. “You saved the king’s life, just as your caretaker Mary Elizabeth Best did, all those years ago.” Mary Elizabeth Best had owned the orphanage Reuben had grown up in. The incident Yall spoke of happened on August 2, 1786. Miss Best had stopped a crazed woman from stabbing the king, right in front of the palace gates. And then, two years ago, and nearly twenty years after Miss Best’s death, the church had commemorated her.
Yall fell back into his chair. “But since Miss Best did not accept her knighthood, the king gave it to you.” He flicked his brows. “How many times does a person’s life have to be saved before they give someone a title? It seems that number is two.”
Reuben didn’t feel like he’d done anything as heroic as Mary Best, when he’d saved the king’s life. All he’d done was unravel Napoleon’s final plot, and follow the trail to the assassin before he could even find his way into the palace.
But that deed was not known to the public, and Reuben suspected this meeting had something to do with it.
Yall revealed it was, in fact, the case. “There have been rumors of another assassination attempt underway, but this time, the man is said to be English.”
Reuben wasn’t surprised that an Englishman would betray his own country. Napoleon, even while being held captive, had many who were loyal to him. But Reuben didn’t understand why he was being called in for this. “Kings will always have enemies. Our king has guards. Many. Why the worry?”
Yall sighed. “Because, it is believed that the traitor is blue-blooded. An aristocrat. As you and I both know, the king has not been in great health, and my cousin, Prince George, has many debts that lords are tired of paying. Many think it time for a new family.” The debts he spoke of were not just many. They were legion. At last count, Prince George owed a sum that equaled more than the yearly expenses of two of London’s wealthiest men, combined.
An aristocrat.
A member of the beau monde.
Reuben was intrigued. “Surely, there are other men more suited for the job. The Beau Monde, as you know, tolerates me far more than they respect me.” Sure, there were a few lords who actually liked him, and others who thought his heroics worthy of a novel. Yet, still more turned their noses up at him. Women approached much more than the men did, wives and daughters alike. The rest simply treated him like some exotic animal they wished to show off to their friends. It irritated Reuben to no end, but he took it all in stride, praying that the novelty would eventually wear off and all that would be left was a simple viscount.
“I’ve a few other men looking for him, but I want you on this as well,” Yall said. “Take as many members of the king’s personal militia as you need. You found the last man with the speed of a foxhound. Let’s see if you’re capable of more than one trick.” Or, if he actually deserved anything he’d gained: his star, his title, his land.
Nothing he did would ever be good enough, but Reuben would not back down from this challenge. Besides, it wasn’t as though he would lose any of it, if he were to fail in some way. No, he’d remain the Viscount of Eastridge.
Yet, if he failed, Yall would know, and that was not an option.
Reuben accepted what he’d been asked to do, and left. He took a hansom and headed east.
Though the window, he glimpsed a woman with red hair, and he stilled.
He allowed his heart to slow, before leaning back in his seat and taking a cool breath. Not every woman with red hair was Rachel Lush.
Yet whenever Reuben saw that color, whether it be in hair; or on a building; or even in the cross of his Star, he thought of her. The way she looked at him, as though he spun gold with nothing more than his bare hands and air.
Many women found him attractive, yet none of them looked at him like that, as though he held the power to make the darkness go away and bring perpetual sunlight. For a year, it had been making him uneasy whenever he caught her staring at him from across a ballroom or party. She’d never had the courage to approach him, and for reasons he didn’t know, he’d avoided her, himself. He knew the adoration was born of nothing more than a shared history. He’d been kind to her and now she felt some connection that wasn’t there.
A connection that would never be there.
She didn’t know him. She’d never known him, really, and he hated to disappoint her, but it was better to do so now, than somewhere far down the road in life when she realized that who she saw, was clearly not the man she imagined him to be.
It was the reason he’d patted her head just as he’d always done when she’d been younger. Even at fifteen, it had angered her, but he’d done it anyway. When everyone had begun to see Rachel as a young woman, he’d only ever allowed himself to see a young girl.
Yet, nearly two months after his sister’s wedding, he still couldn’t get her words out of his mind, or the way she’d come to his defense when in fact it was he she was fighting, he and his thoughts and memories. They plagued him, even at thirty-two. He didn’t feel worthy of this title and yet...
None were as impressive as you.
How did Lady Rachel know that? What did she know?
Nothing. She was little more than a child. What had he, himself, known at twenty-two?
Many things, actually. But that was far from the point. He’d grown up in a world vastly different than hers, and had seen things he prayed she never would.
She was still a little girl at twenty-two, bright and gentle, as were most of the innocent daughters of Society.
He wanted nothing to do with any of them.
But her eyes remained in his mind even as he tried to purge the rest of her from his thoughts. They were an ever-changing hazel. Gold. Green. Blue. He often wanted to tell her to pick a color and stick with it.
What he would do was avoid them, though with Rose’s return, he knew that would be hard to do.
Rachel was twenty-two. Why had she yet to marry? He recalled when she and the young Lord Stacy had first begun their courtship. It had happened right before Reuben went off to war. He hadn’t been around much after that, and had only heard through the papers that Rachel’s fiancé had died. His heart had gone out to her, as he recalled just how happy she’d been with Stacy. He’d written the family his condolences, but nothing more after that.
But, even with mourning, it didn’t make sense that for six years, she’d never married again.
He’d called her ‘pretty’ at the wedding, but Rachel was beyond that, and he knew more than one lord had noticed it.
He’d heard whispers from the older gentlemen that she was beginning to look very much like her mother had. Lady Florentia Lush had been described as a goddess, a beauty so legendary that he’d heard a gentleman once say about a duke’s daughter, “Well, she’s no ‘Tia’, but she’ll do”. Lady Florentia had been a woman of grace, but also very bold in both dress and character, daring to laugh heartily and dance twice with any gentleman she pleased. With one look, she’d brought men to their knees. Her eyes, however, had been startling blue, which was only one of the many colors in Rachel’s.
If she wanted, Rachel could possess that sort of power, but compared to what he’d heard about Florentia, Rachel was an innocent, which her mother had never been described as, until she’d married Woodley. Marriage and motherhood had calmed her, but nothing had diminished her beauty.
Reuben had no clue what the woman had looked like, but if she’d looked anything like Rachel…
No. He couldn’t let his thoughts go there. She was pretty, but far too young. Having her around made him feel like the worst sort of predator. She was an innocent and he was fully entwined with ominous elements. It was better he turned to an older lady, perhaps a young widow, for his wife. Marrying well would help ease him into Society far better than anything else, but it was a plan he had no intentions of executing, until years from now.
He turned his mind to his next meeting, as the hack came to a stop before the Mary Elizabeth Best Home in Paddington. The Best Home was surrounded by businesses and some residences and parishes, making it quite busy in the morning hours. Many of the working men and women on the street had once lived in the Best Home.
Reuben recalled his first job as a footman, and how working for Lord Woodley had not been at all what he’d expected. Yes, the work had been hard, but there had been times when he’d felt part of the fold. He made sure to stay as formal as possible, but every once in a while, Rachel, with her curious hazel gaze, would force him to be otherwise.
He was walking up the stairs before he noticed another carriage parked along the side of the road. Woodley’s emblem was hard to ignore.
Rachel was here.
He let that knowledge settle over him, and inhaled deeply before moving to open the door. There was no butler at the Best Home, and Reuben, having grown up there and knowing the new caretaker well, never knocked.
The door was opened as though by magic, but then he noticed it had been opened by someone else, and that the only magic rested in the dancing hazel eyes that gazed up at him.
“Lord Eastridge.” Rachel’s smile felt like cool rain after a hot and stressful day under the beating sun.
And he knew he was in trouble.