Page 16

“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”

—Seneca

T hough the title and lands had belonged to him since he was twenty-one years of age, Grenville’s murder had taught Peregrine the lesson his mother wanted him to hear clearly.

Anything he held, he held at her sufferance.

And her goodwill was entirely dependent upon whether or not her son remained biddable.

He made the only choice he could. To survive. But that… was complicated.

It began with good intentions. Behave, stay close, and be a restraining influence on the worst impulses. He reasoned away actions he found distasteful, if not sometimes abhorrent. Pretended to still love his mother as though his life depended on it, though real familial affection was impossible.

It wasn’t enough. Eventually, he found he was dying a wasting death like his father’s anyway. The only difference was that this rot wasn’t physical.

His future was grim, so marriage was out of the question. It wasn’t safe to let his mother imagine that she might lose his attention, much less his loyalty. He couldn’t sleep or relax his own vigilance when she was nearby. And she was always nearby.

Marian had not given up her rooms after his father’s death and Peregrine had not cared enough to attempt to displace her. Indeed, in his mind, the grand Fitzroy estate in London came to represent the seat of his mother’s black empire. It certainly could never be a home.

He acquired the Neal Street property to stay at when the fatigue and suspicion drove him to his lowest moments. When he sometimes wondered if perhaps he had made the wrong choice after all.

But the townhouse had been only a shelter, not a sanctuary. And now, that too was tainted with spilled blood.

With his mother and sister gone from England and unlikely to return, there was a need to take up the title and the velvet noose that came with it.

After all, there was no one else to do it now.

If he let the Fitzroy estate founder, he would lose what little there was left.

And though sometimes he had thought about abandoning it…

there was a part of him that did not want to yield the last few things that belonged to him.

Peregrine’s first order of business upon his return to England had been to dismiss the entire staff.

His second order of business was to seek out Mr Archer, Roland Percy’s butler.

The first reason had been because he did not dare use an agency to find new household staff.

The second reason had been because Mr Archer had a military background, and would know others of that persuasion.

Serving men who possessed a few extra skills and a stomach that could deal with the risk of violence.

This is how he had come to hire Quinn, his only current live- in domestic. The woman who both cooked and cleaned for Quinn, Hodges, and the stablemen was a charwoman.

Quinn was rather young for a butler, somewhere in his middling 30s, but there was something about his demeanour that had reminded Perry very much of Hodges. Quinn possessed that unflappable attitude of the sort that came from passing familiarity with situations that weren’t strictly within bounds.

The butler showed the same reaction to Peregrine’s pre-dawn arrival that he had when Peregrine had told him to leave the house closed up. Quinn displayed no outward reaction at all. Not beyond a swift calculation of what needed to be done to deal with such an unexpected development.

There had been no fire laid, of course, but the suite of rooms Quinn took him to had clearly been kept open and fresh for such contingencies. Peregrine only wished he had had the forethought to tell Quinn to make his rooms anywhere other than the family apartments.

Exhausted, Peregrine waved off assistance and comfort.

He had stripped himself and crawled into the cold bed, pushing aside the uneasy, goose-walking-on-his-grave sensation that came from sleeping in the room Robin Fitzroy had barely lived and died in.

And less than a handful of hours later, he jolted back to wakefulness.

Armed with assistance from Sammy and the charwoman, Quinn had managed creditable breakfast service on such short notice. Not that it would have mattered to him if all they had to serve was bread and cheese.

“Tell me while I eat,” Peregrine told his butler. “What is the barest number of people we would have to hire to adequately staff and guard this property?”

Quinn’s eyes went distant for a moment as he considered the question. “I assume you do not intend to entertain, and you find young Sammy and Hodges acceptable to stay on. ”

When Peregrine nodded, Quinn continued, “I would hire, at minimum, two footmen and a valet with… useful skills. A woman who can serve as both housekeeper and cook. Also a gardener and a maid, if you are trying to keep appearances. With the aid of Dawson, Hodges and Sammy, there should be sufficient hands to keep a watch day and night.”

Six new people in this house, including a cook who would have access to the many pretty and poisonous plants of the Fitzroy estate. What a lovely thought to entertain. “I do not suppose you have any likely prospects for any of them?”

“As a matter of fact, my lord,” Quinn said smoothly, “I do. The charwoman—Mrs Belinda Evers—will suit if you are in agreement. Hodges has already had her background investigated. She left full service as a cook when her husband died in a stable accident five years ago. No children, bad habits, or entanglements. Her references were impeccable, and so far she has been steady, minding the kitchen and her own business.”

“All right,” Peregrine conceded. “Any others?”

Quinn bit his lip, looking as though he was not certain how to discuss the next recommendation.

“If you are uncertain about him, then the answer is no,” Peregrine said bluntly.

“Not about the man himself, my lord,” Quinn admitted. “General Hill heard that you were rebuilding your staff, and he sent along an enquiry as to whether you might have a use for Mr Croft. The man who served as his batman during the campaign.”

“Ah.” Peregrine pushed his half-eaten plate aside, losing his appetite. There would be both tangible risks and benefits to employing Croft.

“If I may be so bold.” Quinn slid the plate back with one finger, lifting a scolding eyebrow as he raked his gaze down Peregrine’s thinning figure.

“He is not young and pretty, but we could make him a footman rather than a valet, if you like. No one would question his suitability, if they thought you were showing generosity to a veteran. Work is scarce.”

“Rather a step down for the man,” Peregrine picked up his fork again, but only to push food around on his plate. “I expect, though, you would not bother suggesting someone you did not believe we should hire.”

“I believe that General Hill’s notion of ‘spying’ consists of little more nefarious than ensuring that the people he considers ‘his’ are looked after. Officers and batmen alike. We can take steps to test Croft’s loyalty and discretion.”

And in the meantime, doing the general a favour, of course, would have significant perks.

“Fine. He can start as a valet, with minor duties. And no one is to access my bedchamber or study without your observation—not him, or any other.” Vaguely irked by the feeling that he was being stared at like a willful child, Peregrine took a bite of his cooling food.

“Very good. I have left the updates from your solicitor on your desk. I shall leave you to your breakfast, if you have no other business for me, my lord.”

It was different, so very different, to finally come back into this role as lord of the manor. But it was, after all, a necessary task if he did ever want to reclaim his position in society in full. It felt bizarre. So dull and mundane. And there was so very, very much paper.

Quinn had sorted his desk into neat piles based on the urgency of communication, and Peregrine steadily worked through petitions and documents, trying not to glance at the clock every five minutes. He was biding his time until Hodges returned anyway.

When the most urgent requests had been dealt with, Peregrine cleared a spot on the desk to review the report on the accounts from his new solicitor.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, and while he had taken the direct approach in looking for some of his mother’s resources, there was a second avenue of investigation that he had passed to the lawyer.

With Cameron’s help, Marian Fitzroy had disguised ill-gotten gains that were feeding the estate’s coffers by posing them as investments.

Over time, as their family’s wealth had compounded, many more accounts and investments were added—often perfectly legitimate ones.

Cameron, and perhaps whatever other ally he may have in London, had razed her smuggling and illicit shipping operations.

Or at least the part of it that Perry had known about.

The building that housed her gambling hell, The Scarlet Jack, had been sold some months after their departure from England. But money was still coming in.

There was a chance that something illicit was still feeding the estate’s accounts.

A trail he would be able to follow, perhaps to his mother’s solicitor, other agents, or another enterprise still working.

But unfortunately, the solicitor had no helpful news.

He had included a copy of the long list of corporations, marking which ones had been investigated and were legitimate.

The search would continue. But… it would take time.

Peregrine scoured the list himself, hoping to see something that might present a clue. And then checked it against the money coming in. But nothing stood out among the rest.