It was the day of the funeral, and the household was a hive of activity. The chambermaids were preparing rooms for the guests who were coming down from London and would be staying overnight after the funeral. The kitchen was busy preparing food for the reception and the evening’s dinner, and Stevens and the footmen were setting up the ballroom for the post-service reception.

Two footmen were already welcoming the locals who came to pay their respects and directing them to the rotunda for the viewing. The rotunda was a large cold room, two stories high, with a domed skylight that admitted the pale winter light to allow dim viewing. The casket was on a velvet covered bier. Tall candle-stands with lit candles stood at the four corners of the open casket. Her Grace, the daughters, and Lucy were seated by the casket ready to receive the viewers.

Stevens appeared at the main entrance, ready to usher those guests who would be attending the funeral to the drawing room to wait for the service that would take place at eleven.

George entered in the drawing room to visit with the notable guests who had come down from London.

“Your Grace,” a distinguished gentleman greeted. “Her Majesty sends her very deepest condolences and wishes you to know that if she could be here today, she would be, but, alas she was unable to attend.”

“I quite understand. But I am grateful that you, Sir Charles, were able to be here to represent her.”

“And Your Grace, now that you have ascended to the Dukedom, I should like to discuss with you your responsibilities at the House of Lords. We do look forward to your attendance.”

“I have not given that any thought as of yet,” George answered. “As you can imagine, I have been caught up in my responsibilities to the estate and my family.”

“I quite understand. But before I leave, perhaps you could afford me a few moments to go over the details with you.”

“Most certainly. Let us speak during the reception following the service.”

“I would be happy to do that,” Sir Charles answered.

At that point, the Vicar arrived and pulled George aside to go over the details of the service.

Harold stood close by, ready to assist as he was needed. After conferring with the Vicar, George came over and asked him, “How are we with transportation for the guests to the cemetery?”

“I have Joshua speaking with the drivers as they arrive with guests. He is making certain they are standing by to take the guests when the service in the rotunda had concluded and we are ready to transport the casket.”

George reached over and patted Harold on the shoulder. “I am so grateful to have you with us today. It has been very trying.”

“I am certain it has been. But any way I can help just call on me.”

George nodded.

Before long, the scheduled viewing for local visitors was concluded, and it was time for the service. George led the way, accompanied by the Vicar, Sir Charles, and followed by the guests from the drawing room.

Lucy was standing behind the Duchess who was seated next to the daughters before the casket, and she caught George’s gaze as he came in and looked her way. He nodded briefly.

George had arranged for a string quartet to play some of his father’s favorite hymns during the service. The Vicar was most eloquent if somewhat long-winded, as he extolled the late Duke’s many virtues and accomplishments.

George spoke, Ann spoke, and Betsy spoke for the family, and when the service was concluded, the pallbearers assembled to take the coffin to the hearse for the ride to the cemetery.

The burial was simple, dignified, and tears were shed. On the ride back to the Manor, the Duchess and Lucy were in the carriage with George and Harold.

Lucy was still agitated by her recent exchange with Ann that hinted at Ann’s knowledge of some sort of an engagement. Whether it was George or Beaumont Ann had referred to, Lucy still did not know. She cast several glances at George, hoping to catch his attention, but George was deep in his own thoughts—as he rightfully should be at this sad time.

Lucy attempted to calm her own thoughts and decided she needed to give George his proper space to grieve and assume his new responsibilities as the new Duke of Sutherland. She would need, once again, to try and master her tendency for impatience.

* * *

There were at least five and seventy guests in the ballroom mingling with the family after the burial service. Each member of the family was receiving, what seemed to be, endless amounts of sympathy and condolence. Her Grace was just too overcome with grief to stand and was seated, surrounded by her daughters, with Lucy at her side as mourners filed by with their personal messages of sorrow at the Duke’s untimely passing.

His Grace was conferring with Sir Charles about his responsibilities at Lords after speaking with a number of nobles who had come down from London to pay their respects.

George noticed, even while he was speaking with the Queen’s emissary, that Harold had gone over to speak with Betsy and was casually holding her hand. This was the first time he understood that Harold had been actively courting his sister. He was happy for Betsy. He had worried about her after her heartfelt declaration of love for Harold in his studio. But she was beaming and obviously very happy.

When Sir Charles finished with his instruction, George suggested he might wish some refreshment and had Stevens direct him to a table where he could be served.

George took a breath. The line of mourners had diminished, when a gentleman he did not know, came up to him. He was a portly, well-dressed gentleman with an air of authority.

“Your Grace, let me introduce myself. I am Sir Cuthbert Honeyfield,” he said nodding. “I knew your father well, and I must say it was a great shock when I learned of his accident.”

“Thank you, Sir. He will certainly be missed. And what was your connection to my father?” George asked, remembering that he needed to be more engaged in the family business and would be required to know all of his father’s contacts.

“I am the director of the London Wool Exchange, and he and I crossed paths frequently. We often supped together when he was up to London on business.”

“I am most grateful that you came all this way to pay your respects. I expect our paths shall cross again as I take over the responsibilities of the estate.”

Sir Cuthbert took a step closer and asked in almost a whisper, “If you do not mind me asking, Your Grace, who is the gentleman standing over there by the Duchess?”

George looked toward his mother and saw that Harold was the only gentleman standing nearby.

“That is my estate manager, Mr. Harold Brighton. Do you know him?”

Sir Cuthbert looked troubled. “I might. Do you happen to know if he was in any way connected to the late Charles and Elizabeth Bartlett?”

George was surprised that he would know that. “He was their ward. He lived with them for many years after he was discovered as an orphan by the Bartletts when he was only eight or ten years old. In point of fact, it is his sister, Lucy, who is at this moment speaking with the Duchess, who drew him to us. He came to Grayson manner looking for her after all these years. They believed each other lost in the fire that made them orphans.”

“Tragic story, to be sure. But how much do you know about that young man—other than what he has told you?”

George detected a note of censure in the man’s voice and turned to him. “Sir? You surprise me by your line of questioning. Do you have anything to say against the gentleman? He has exhibited nothing but exemplary behavior to me and the family. And he has been a most able and trustworthy manager in the time he has been with us.”

“Your Grace, if I might…” Sir Cuthbert nodded, indicating he wished to speak more privately, and they walked aside where they could not be overheard.

“What do you wish to tell me?” George asked.

Sir Cuthbert kept his eye on Harold across the room as he asked, “What has he told you of his background?”

“That he was raised by the Bartletts. That he attended Eaton and Cambridge and started as an apprentice in the family wool business. He said he worked his way up to a senior position and when Charles Bartlett died, Harold was left the business, which he subsequently sold. He has decided to settle here in Dorset with his sister—as this is where they are from. And currently, he has worked most satisfactorily for my father these past few months.”

Sir Cuthbert rubbed his chin and appeared troubled.

“Do you have any facts to contradict his story?” George asked.

“Your Grace, I am afraid I do. And this is not just my story but can be verified by stories published in past issues of The Times.”

George became very grave. “Please, Sir Cuthbert, I should like to hear what you have to say about these matters. But not here. Please, if you do not mind, I should like us to go to my study. But first, I must take a moment or two to care for my guests.”

He nodded. “Your Grace, I am at your service.” Then he stepped away.

George was gravely upset. If there was a problem with Harold, might there also be a problem with Lucy? But that was absurd, for Harold and his sister had not been in touch since the fire, and she had no knowledge that her brother was even alive. Also, George thought, he and Lucy had grown up together, and he believed he knew her intimately—they were like brother and sister.

George went first to check on his mother.

“Mother, how are you holding up? Has the day been a terrible strain on you?”

She picked up Princess and squeezed her to her breast. The puppy wiggled to free herself, but the Duchess put her down again in her lap.

“It has been a horror of a day, but I am faring well enough, under the circumstances. However, I shall be greatly relieved when it is over. And please do not expect me at dinner this evening.”

“But Mother, we have many distinguished guests from London who have come to pay their respects to Father and will be staying the night. How will it look if you are not in attendance at dinner? You must consider how rude that will appear to them after they have come all this way in Father’s honor.”

His mother pursed her lips, took up her fan and fanned herself, before saying, “Very well, but I shall excuse myself at breakfast. You may tell them that my grief is just too great.”

George smiled. “Yes, Mother. I feel certain that will be acceptable.

George cast a quick glance at Harold before he went to check with Stevens that all was well in hand, instructing him to take care of the guests, as he needed to excuse himself for a short while.

George found Sir Cuthbert and they headed to his study.

“Cigar?” George offered, holding open the humidor.

“No thank you, Your Grace. My wife insists I cut back.”

Sir Cuthbert sat where George indicated, as George leaned back against the edge of the desk.

“Now, Sir. I should like to hear your side of Harold’s story.”

The gentleman adjusted himself in the chair, seeming to be a little nervous to speak, but he finally began by saying, “Most of what the young gentleman told you is true. He was found and raised by the Bartletts, and he did attend Eaton and Cambridge. However, it was reliably reported that he never graduated and was sent down after a disgraceful incident where he was accused of stealing another student’s valuable gold pocket watch. The watch was never found, but the young Harold was seen flush with cash and standing drinks all around at a rather seedy pub.”

“But it was never proven?” George asked.

“Not conclusively, that is true, but it is believed there were other incidents, as well, and that the university felt warranted in sending him down.”

“Is there more?”

“There is.”

“Proceed please.”

“It is also true that Harold was taken on as an apprentice in the family business, but he never reached a management position. First, the wife and then Mr. Bartlett died. Contrary to what Harold seems to have told you they did not leave the house or the business to the young man. And when he learned of what he considered to be a major slight, he ransacked the house, stole everything valuable he could get his hands on and disappeared.”

“How long ago did this happen?” George asked, tapping the edge of the desk with his fingers.

“I would say about six months ago. The Times reported there was an investigation, but it led nowhere. There is no getting around the fact that the young man is clever and crafty. He must have disposed of what he stole, turned it into cash, laid low for a time and, it seems, turned up here.”

“And you say these claims can be verified?”

“I do, Your Grace. I would be happy to have the relevant Times articles sent to you.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you.” George considered this startling new information and then said, “I would appreciate it, Sir Cuthbert, if you would keep this conversation strictly between just the two of us. I do not wish to alert Mr. Brighton to my discoveries until I have verified what you tell me, and I can devise a plan on how to deal with this devastating information. I do not want him to become panicked and cause us any harm.”

“I understand and will comply. And if I might suggest, I think I shall not stay the night as your guest but shall return immediately to London so that I may gather the verifiable proof you require. I also think it prudent, as I do not want to risk being recognized by Mr. Brighton. We met once or twice, but only briefly. However, he might associate me with Mr. Bartlett, and that might alarm him.”

“Most generous of you, Sir Cuthbert.”