Page 45 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Singleton could not be seventy. Not possibly. The image of a tall, fit, white-haired man came to mind. Cravat always spotless and neatly tied, despite mud and worse on his boots. Sat his horse with more dignity than Wellington on the eve of battle and had a way with animals that defied science.
To think of Singleton’s powers withering… Dover’s cliffs should fall into the sea first.
Cam tried for a casual sip of his brandy. “Miss Singleton is still in the area?”
“She is.”
Damn St. Didier’s reticence. “I don’t suppose her husband could take over as steward?”
“She hasn’t one of those, that I know of.”
Why on God’s green and gorgeous earth would Alice Singleton remain unmarried? Had Yorkshire’s bachelors lost their wits? She was smart, confident, robust, and she also…
Cam’s business instincts tapped him on the figurative shoulder. Alice likely had no dowry. Her grandfather was in his dotage and would leave her little save a collection of pipes, and she, while kind, had no patience with fools.
Cam had always respected that about Alice. “Stewards are two a penny these days,” he said. “Singleton will have left the estate in good trim, and I’m sure he’ll be on hand long enough to acquaint a successor with the basics.”
St. Didier finished his drink and took his empty glass to the sideboard.
“An estate is not like a shipping business, my lord. In your counting house, you can hire and sack clerks by the week, and the new fellow will add up his sums as competently as the tippler he replaced. A steward, butler, or housekeeper is more like… you . They stand at the helm of an enterprise that produces measurable results. Prosperous acreage or a comfortable abode for family, guests, and staff. If you treat replacing these senior retainers casually, the whole estate will suffer for it.”
That came close to an accusation of shirking.
“I cannot leave my business, St. Didier. It does not run itself, and while I have good managers, they are managers only. If a ship is two weeks late, then the decisions to be made belong to me alone. If one of the managers expires of food poisoning, I alone can step in and take over his responsibilities.”
“One of your managers died of food poisoning?”
“Another ran afoul of a rusty nail. Another came down with a serious case of religious zeal and decided he must impose his gospel on the otherwise perfectly contented denizens of some far-flung wilderness. I was sorry to lose him. He was honest to a fault and always smiling.”
Cam stopped himself from recounting other dramas, of which there were many. Affairs of the heart, embezzling, rivals attempting to plant spies, spying on rivals… The simple business of exporting goods in demand made Drury Lane look staid by comparison.
“Then,” St. Didier countered, “you understand what your people at Lorne Hall are facing. Their managers are all mustering out and the rank and file have no lord of the manor to keep order while the guard changes. They will be grateful to see you, and take direction from you willingly. Leave them to flounder and bicker and argue for another three months, and you will not receive half so genial a welcome.”
“You should have been a barrister.”
“You are a baron, whether you like it or not.”
The St. Didier title had fallen into escheat—no legitimate male heir, assets reverted to the crown—and thus St. Didier’s observation landed like the reproach it was meant to be.
“I am in trade.” I am in trouble would have been the more accurate admission.
“I have no use for Lorne Hall or its acreage.” Other than to sell it.
“And the Hall isn’t the family seat, technically speaking.
Lorne Hall was originally a dower property, though the dower house was built on a far grander scale than the original baronial abode.
Wealthy brides will insist on these measures.
The historical family seat is Loarnoch, a small manor ten miles north of the Hall. ”
St. Didier’s brows drew down. “I was not aware of this.”
Cam glanced out the window to the twilight that passed for a summer evening in London.
“The sky remains in its assigned location, despite troubling evidence that you have limitations. Loarnoch is pleasant enough for a mere manor with a couple thousand acres fit mostly for sheep. It’s also still entailed.
The twentieth baron and his son broke the entail on the Hall and few other properties, some of which have been sold. ”
A spare was brought up to know this arcana, but not to have a use for it.
“What has been done with the older property?” St. Didier asked. “Rented out? I don’t recall the solicitors mentioning it.”
“When did you have occasion to speak with my late brother’s pet weasels?” Cam had dealt with them by correspondence. Always better to have a written record when lawyers were involved. More of the wisdom of the shop.
“You really do need to have a look at your inheritance,” St. Didier replied, which was, for him, an awkward prevarication. “Your brother might well have sold this other place and one wants to know where the proceeds went.”
“He could not sell Loarnoch. The entail hasn’t been broken. My consent would have been necessary and I was never asked for it.”
St. Didier scowled at the fire. “Signatures can be forged, meaning no disrespect to the late baron.”
Who had been unwell for some time prior to his death.
You should go. Something might be amiss. You have the authority to put it right. The voice belonged to Alice Singleton. Practical, forthright, unmarried Alice. Why hadn’t she found a husband?
Cam finished his drink. “I’ll need a week’s preparation at least, and I can’t be gone for more than a fortnight. You are welcome to join me.” Welcome being an overstatement. One wanted St. Didier where one could keep an eye on him.
“You shall have three days to prepare for the journey, and considering that Yorkshire is nigh 200 miles distant, you should plan to be gone a month.”
“Three weeks, including travel.”
“We leave in three days. When you return—if you return—is up to you. Send your pigeons with the baggage coach, and be prepared to move fast.”
Cam rose and bid St. Didier a cordial goodnight, though he had the sense he’d just struck a bad bargain with familial duty.
In Cam’s experience, family duty was unparalleled at creating drama and misery, the only greater sources of same being Atlantic hurricanes and—in the young and callow—unrequited love.