Page 44 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Chapter One
In the opinion of Camden Huxley, twenty-eighth Baron Lorne, attending the burial had been safe. Women did not usually participate in graveside services, and to his unseemly relief, Aunt Josephine had been absent.
But Leopold St. Didier had been on hand for the late baron’s final obsequies, and Cam had thus been put on notice. A minor delay would be tolerated, but outright shirking of inherited responsibilities was not an option.
Not that Camden Huxley had ever in his entire earthly sojourn shirked, despite all temptation to the contrary.
“You’ve waited three months,” St. Didier said, pouring two exactly equal servings of cognac.
“If you don’t see to the place now, soon it will be three years.
” Camden’s host held out a drink, the firelight giving mere potation flaming depths.
“To your health, my lord, and to the prosperity of Lorne Hall.”
“The two haven’t been related for some time.” Camden nosed his drink. Apples, a whiff of damask roses, a hint of nutmeg all trailing into citrus and cinnamon.
How did St. Didier afford such an indulgence and where did he procure it?
Camden drank sparingly. One wanted his wits about him in any encounter with St. Didier.
To look at, the fellow was unremarkable.
Tallish—not as tall as Cam’s six feet and three inches— dark-haired, neat about his habiliments, soft-spoken.
Wore his hair long in the old-fashioned style and wore his family’s downfall with an understated indifference Camden envied.
“Your reputation and the health of the barony are related now.” St. Didier settled into the opposite wingchair, both seats designed for sizeable, sturdy occupants. “Will you sell the business?”
No, Cam would not. “That seems to be the general assumption.” The business Cam had spent ten years building up from nothing.
The business that was thriving more robustly than ever now that the Continent was once again open to English trade.
The business that Cam had gambled on extending to the former colonies and with notable success.
The self same business that could in no wise be excused by Polite Society as a mere investment. Camden was in trade, and in that fraught and occasionally lucrative location, he intended to remain.
“When have you ever behaved in accordance with general assumptions?” St. Didier sipped with a sybarite’s focus. “I’ll accompany you to Yorkshire if you like.”
St. Didier was regarded as shrewd, intelligent, frighteningly well connected, and honorable. The conscience of reluctant peers, the silent minion of the College of Arms, and unnervingly self-contained.
Cam respected him as one respected the patronesses at Almack’s. To cross them was to court ruin, because they wielded immense power despite lacking any legal authority. Even a lowly tradesman understood that much.
Something about St. Didier’s casual offer smacked of a threat. “Why would you escort me to the Hall? I know the way there well enough if I choose to go.”
“I might accompany your lordship firstly because you are overdue for a repairing lease and cannot be depended upon to take one. You look closer to forty than thirty, you’re a good stone underweight, if not two.
You aren’t getting enough sleep and haven’t for some time.
I would attribute the insomnia to grief, except that it pre-dates the late baron’s passing by years. ”
“I sleep quite well.” Camdem did not sleep enough , though. Drifting off into an exhausted slumber while poring over the ledgers was a nightly ritual.
“You work to the point of daily collapse, a very different proposition. My second reason for offering to travel with you to your family seat is that your cousin Bernard has asked me to see that you look in on your inheritance.”
“Bernard never used to be a busybody.”
“He and his mother are worried about you.”
Well, of course. Aunt Josephine had turned selfless concern for others into a high and bothersome art.
“They are worried about his living at St. Wilfrid’s, which is secure. I can write him to that effect.” Another sip of heaven. Mention of sleep was having a soporific effect. Cam sat up and set the cognac aside. “I’ll pay a call at Lorne Hall later in the year.”
“Later in the year, you will conjure up some superficially compelling excuse,” St. Didier said gently.
“This being high summer, you are shipping goods in quantity all over creation before the autumn storms start. As autumn progresses, you will be planning for next year’s markets, dunning those who are slow to pay, and looking for new merchandise to add to your inventory.
In winter, travel is difficult. In spring, the ships go out again. ”
A perfect sketch of the commercial year, but without mention of the risks, rewards, and excitement that came with every single day spent piloting the enterprise.
“Lorne Hall can manage harvest quite well without me,” Camden said. “They’ve been doing so for generations.” I would just be in the way. Indisputably true, also close to whining.
“They’ve not had to manage harvest without any lord of the manor at all. Besides, your family seat is one of the most beautiful estates in all of Yorkshire. I’m in need of a respite myself, and Lorne Hall suits my plans.”
“Then go and enjoy yourself with my blessing.” The Hall was breathtaking, and its appeal as autumn approached was unparalleled.
Golden sun, peaceful bucolic vistas, sheep and cattle fat on summer grazing.
The Hall itself glowing with contented splendor.
“The twentieth baron designed the place, set it up so it aligns perfectly with the equinoxes. I was named for him.”
St. Didier’s eyes took on a gleam that in another man might have presaged a smile. He said nothing, merely sipped his drink and gazed at the fire crackling in the hearth.
Why not go? Why not get it over with? Let them all gawk at the prodigal returned. Let Bernard pontificate a bit and Aunt Josephine advise and admonish. Look in on the tenants as Papa used to, greet the neighbors in the church yard. Do the expected, just once, and be done with it.
“You should make the journey for another reason,” St. Didier said, peering into his drink.
“Now is the logical time to retire the old guard, promote from within the ranks, or bring in new talent. Your brother’s will made provisions for a few pensions and minor bequests, but the likes of Mrs. Shorer, Beaglemore, and Singleton won’t step down until they have your blessing to do so. ”
“Mrs. Shorer won’t step down unless God Almighty gives her leave, and then she’ll take her own good time doing it. I can send Beaglemore a glowing letter commending his decades of service, and Singleton is hardly of an age to retire.”
Housekeeper, butler, and land steward. They were the triumvirate that presided over the Hall’s workings, and they each excelled at the job assigned.
“Surely Mrs. Shorer has a replacement in mind?” Camden went on. “An under-housekeeper trained up for the past twenty years in the ways of cleanliness and domestic industry?”
Mrs. Shorer had been a force of nature in Cam’s youth. Never still unless addressing her employer, and then only for as long as necessary to report news or receive orders. She was the sworn enemy of dust and sloth, but had a soft heart when it came to restless little boys and moody adolescents.
“Mrs. Shorer’s preferred understudy ran off with the first footman last year.
Both parties doubtless reasoned that waiting for the end times to earn a promotion was beyond them.
They are employed in the same household down in Shropshire, last I heard.
Secretly married, if my sources are to be believed. ”
“How do you know these things?”
“I correspond with my friendly acquaintances. You should try it sometime. One learns the oddest, most useful things simply by putting pen to paper for social rather than commercial purposes.”
“And then, St. Didier, one is condemned to spend the livelong day burdening the king’s mail with platitudes and gossip, because one’s social letters result in replies, and the replies must result in same, until half the realm is wasting its days in tittle-tattle.
” What exactly was a friendly acquaintance anyway?
More than an acquaintance, less than a friend?
St. Didier rose, tossed a square of peat on the fire, and resumed his seat. “There speaks a man short of sleep.”
Oh, probably. “How is Beaglemore getting on?”
“Slowly. Poor old thing has the rheumatism. Not so bad in the warmer weather, but cold, rainy days try him sorely.”
Merry Olde had a surfeit of those in any season.
Beaglemore had been an institution for as long as Camden could remember.
Almost as a complement to Mrs. Shorer’s incessant bustling, Beaglemore never moved faster than a dignified strut, like a rooster patrolling his yard.
The old fellow ruled over the footmen and porters with an iron hand, but had a wry sense of humor too.
“Has Beagle suggested which puppy ought to replace him?”
“Lately, he’s had his nephew in mind for that honor, but the man was offered a post as under-butler in a ducal household. In all good conscience, Beaglemore had to support the change of employment.”
Our title is older. The familiar retort, heard since infancy, served no purpose. British dukedoms had first been created by Edward III in the 1300s while the oldest British royal baronies—Lorne among them—dated from the 1200s.
“Well, surely Singleton will be tending to the land for some time to come.”
“Singleton has seen his seventieth year,” St. Didier replied, “and his granddaughter claims he’s losing both sight and hearing. A steward must be out in all weather, all year long. The job is better suited to a younger man.”