Page 35 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter twenty-four

Fixing It

“ B illings,” said Nigel, sleeves rolled up as he examined the ledgers in the Grimsbald study. “When was the last time we increased the rent for the tenant housing and farmland?”

The black-haired man crossed his arms. “Never, in my tenure.”

“Never?” asked Nigel in astonishment. His brother had no soft spot for the wellbeing of tenants, so it surprised Nigel that he had never raised the rent.

But then, perhaps his brother had paid as little attention to the Lincolnshire estate as he had, preferring to toss his steward’s letters in the fire too.

“No, your grace.” Billings cleared his throat. “You’ll recall I broached the matter in my introductory letter to you two years ago when you took the title—”

“No, I don’t recall,” said Nigel. He paused. “Although, it would probably be more truthful to say that I did not read your letter with the thoroughness it undoubtedly merited.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “And my neighbours have raised rents for their tenants?”

“Oh, more times than I can count,” said the steward with some chagrin.

“Would it be…unjust for me to raise the rents? I daresay no one is expecting it.”

“Not unjust at all. And especially not if you put the tenant houses to rights with a few repairs.”

Nigel leaned back in his chair. “Do we have the men for that?”

“We could if you paid them.”

“Ah, therein lies the trouble. You’re certainly aware that I’m short of ready cash at the moment.”

Billings grunted. Nigel hoped that the steward’s beetle-browed frown was more a sign of perpetual thought than a reflection of his opinion of his employer.

“I believe a swift infusion of cash could be contrived, if your grace is willing to cede some autonomy regarding the acres nearest the Wolds.”

Nigel stared.

“I am referring to the mining rights,” said Billings severely. “Which I mentioned in my initial report. But your grace may not have read that section either.”

Nigel had the grace to blush. “No, I confess I also missed that.”

“You have significant coal deposits on the acreage abutting the Wolds. There have been offers more than once from investors looking to acquire the rights to mine that land. You can doubtless see how present circumstances would make the benefits outweigh the detractions of such a plan. ”

“Ah,” said Nigel, never having considered mining rights at all, save as a feeble excuse to Miss Morrison for his presence in Derbyshire. “Could you perhaps outline those benefits for me?”

“A lump sum from an investor for mining rights on the land could be used immediately for tenant repairs and bettering the current growing season on the rest of your acreage. In my mind, it more than makes up for the loss of revenue if you mined those coal deposits yourself.”

Nigel could not dispute the wisdom of this. “How long would we cede the rights for?”

“Seven years.”

It seemed a long time, but then again, a short time to learn the ins and outs of managing his estate. God willing, in seven years he would have the means to reclaim his own mines and increase the profits by starting his own mining operation.

“Very well, you can see about contacting investors who have approached the estate in the past. Let them know that we have multiple irons in the fire. Perhaps they’ll bid higher because of it.

” He paused. “And besides the tenant housing and the spring planting, perhaps we can also use the money to increase our flock of sheep.”

Mr. Billings grimaced. “If you’ll let me speak plainly, your grace, sheep are a poor use of funds. We have a flock of a hundred or more, but the lambing season was dire. Too many stillborn creatures or feeble ones that lasted no more than a week.”

“Hmm,” said Nigel, tapping his fingers on the desk. “When do you breed them?”

“When do we—what do you mean, your grace?” Mr. Billings was clearly surprised by the question.

“When do you introduce the rams? Come, you must know what month. ”

“September, I think.”

“Then postpone it a little later. The end of October this year. And it will be warmer in Lincolnshire with a better chance of survival for the lambs. Or, at least, that’s the advice I received from a friend. A friend who is quite expert in these matters.”

“We can try it, your grace,” said Mr. Billings, his frown still expressing his doubt.

“Yes, we shall,” confirmed Nigel. He had no intention of dismissing Mr. Billings’ experience on any matters agricultural, but he also had no intention of ceding his own responsibility for the estate once again.

He would listen and learn and make his own decisions about each matter.

For now that he had taken the reins in hand, it was up to him to stay the course.

“Clarissa told me you were determined,” said Ned Haverstall as he helped Bel into the hackney.

“Indeed, I am,” said Bel. She had dressed herself in one of her dark mourning dresses with a black veil pinned over her dark bonnet.

“I must see Mr. Digby, and I thank you for accompanying me.” In her reticule was a roll of banknotes larger than she had ever seen.

It was good that she had such an imposingly muscular escort.

Mr. Haverstall gave the driver an address and then took a seat beside her in the hackney. “Digby’s been trying to buy his way into the ton for the last five years, but most won’t have anything to do with him.”

“Why is that? ”

“I would like to say it’s because they sense something criminal about him, but I’m afraid it’s more that they scent new money and deplore his disgusting manners.”

“I’ve met aristocrats whose manners leave much to be desired,” retorted Bel. In her mind was a picture of the tittering Lady Maltrousse.

“Yes, well, there’s something decidedly plebeian about Digby,” said Mr. Haverstall with a shrug. “I wonder that your friend did not take one look at him and run.”

Bel lifted an eyebrow. “I believe my friend was at Point Non Plus.”

Mr. Haverstall leaned forward in the hackney, his elbows resting on his thick thighs. “Am I right in thinking that this friend is a gentleman , not a lady, Miss Morrison?”

“You are right.” Bel looked out the window, hoping to avoid any further questions on the subject.

They soon arrived at Mr. Digby’s house in Leicester Square, and Bel was pleased to see that it was at least in a decent part of town.

From Nigel’s comments about Digby’s thugs, she was afraid that they would have to travel into Seven Dials or some such slum.

Apparently, Mr. Digby was eager to have a suitable address as he sought to buy his way into the ton.

Mr. Haverstall made an earnest appeal. “When we get inside, you had better let me pretend to be your brother, Miss Morrison. And let me do the talking to Digby.”

That opened a wound that Bel had thought fully closed by now. If Charlie had been here, would he have gone with her to Leicester Square? Or would he have forbidden her from doing any such thing?

She smiled wanly. “I suppose we are almost brother and sister now that your uncle is marrying my aunt. ”

“Just so,” said Mr. Haverstall, helping her down from the hackney and then turning about to pay the driver. The hackney wheels stayed firmly in place, so Mr. Haverstall must have also bid the driver wait in case they had to beat a hasty retreat.

The marble columns at the door of Solomon Digby’s house were wholly out of place with the rest of the architecture; Bel could only surmise that they were expensive and that Mr. Digby had installed them to add to his consequence.

A butler, pompous in the extreme, opened the door and waved them inside.

The entryway brimmed with red velvet, gold edging, elaborate moulding, and classical artefacts.

It was almost as if Mr. Digby fancied himself the Prince Regent.

Lounging against the wall were three burly fellows who looked at them curiously, one of them openly leering at Bel.

No doubt these were Mr. Digby’s associates, paid to bully a man into accepting an offer or punish him for reneging on a promise.

Bel was gladder than ever that Ned Haverstall had accompanied her.

“Mr. Digby will see you in his study,” said the butler, after checking to see if his master was at home.

Bel kept her veil over her face as she entered the study on Mr. Haverstall’s arm.

Her eyes darted from side to side as she took in the tall bookshelves with perfectly glossy spines.

It was clear Mr. Digby had bought his library all at once as a showpiece and that it was not a gradual accumulation of books he had read.

“Haverstall?” barked Mr. Digby as they came in. The butler had given him Ned’s card. “I don’t think we've ever exchanged more than three words before. What is it you want from me?”

Bel looked across the desk at a fat, balding man with a bright purple waistcoat.

So, this was the mighty Mr. Digby. He did look coarse and common.

He also looked like someone that even a non-Corinthian, non-prize fighter like Nigel Lymington could topple over with one blow to his flabby paunch—no wonder he hired so many brawny fellows to laze around his house.

“My sister and I have a friend indebted to you,” began Ned Haverstall. He paused and looked at Bel. She had never actually told him the name of the debtor, the one for whom they were going to all this trouble.

“His name is Nigel Lymington, the Duke of Warrenton,” said Bel firmly, “and he sent us to fulfil his obligation.”

She felt Ned Haverstall’s arm flinch as she gave the name. Apparently, he knew Nigel, at least by reputation.

“Warrenton!” said Digby. He stood up from his chair and swore vociferously.

At least, Bel assumed that he was swearing, for they were words she had never heard before in all her life in Derbyshire.

“He owes me two thousand pounds! And a thousand more for the humiliation of it all!” Digby’s fist pounded the desk.

“Did you know that she tied me up? That sharp-tongued niece of his. And then, when I determined to have my revenge, the other one, the Trafford girl, assaulted me with her boot.”

Bel lifted an eyebrow. “I’m certain his grace feels very badly about the whole situation.” She had no doubt that he regretted ever associating with Solomon Digby in the first place. She also had no doubt that Solomon Digby deserved to be tied up and battered with a lady’s boot.

But Digby was not done. “And then there’s Landsdowne—smooth as butter to the toffs and ugly as they come to anyone he thinks beneath him. He took the Trafford girl’s part and blackened both my eyes so I couldn’t show my face in London for a month. Urgh! Warrenton! ”

This was more than Bel could follow, but she gathered that Mr. Digby considered Nigel the root cause of all his calamity. “We would like to repay what the Duke of Warrenton owes you,” said Bel evenly. “If you would please name the amount.”

“Four thousand pounds,” said Mr. Digby promptly.

“Come now,” said Bel, “that is double what he owes you. Surely, the interest cannot have increased so mightily in less than a year.” She had let go of Mr. Haverstall’s arm and was beginning to enjoy herself.

This was not unlike haggling over sheep prices at a Derbyshire market.

Thankfully, Mr. Haverstall had realised that she knew what she was about and was willing to stand back and watch her work.

“Interest as well as a penalty for defaulting on his word,” growled Mr. Digby. “I won’t take a penny less than thirty-five hundred.”

“You must be aware that the duke has pockets to let,” said Bel dryly. “Two thousand is the utmost he can repay.”

“Three thousand,” snapped Mr. Digby. “It’s only just after what I’ve suffered.”

It was good that Bel’s flashing eyes and curling lips were still covered by a veil, for her opinion of Mr. Digby’s suffering was written quite clearly on her face.

“We are authorised to give you no more than twenty-two hundred pounds,” she said firmly.

“Twenty-five hundred pounds, and that’s my last offer!” Mr. Digby beat a pudgy fist against his desk.

“Done,” said Bel with alacrity. “And I shall require the original note and a signed receipt indicating that it is paid.” She opened her reticule and removed the twenty-five hundred pounds that she had withdrawn from Hoare’s the day before .

Muttering under his breath, Mr. Digby slid open a desk drawer and began rifling through a sheaf of papers. After a few moments, he found the required document, scrawled a note about receipt of funds, signed it, and shoved it in her general direction.

Bel lifted the receipt and placed it in her reticule. “I trust the Duke of Warrenton will not be troubled any further with your threats of reprisals.”

Mr. Digby continued to mutter.

“I happen to be well acquainted with Viscount Landsdowne,” interjected Mr. Haverstall, as if that were pertinent information.

“Cursed bully!” said Mr. Digby, standing up from his chair and uttering a few more unflattering opinions about this unknown viscount.

It was only after they had passed the lounging bravos in the entryway and the supercilious butler at the door that Bel stopped to ask a question. “Who is the Viscount Landsdowne, Mr. Haverstall? His name was as good as a talisman in there.”

Mr. Haverstall snorted as he handed her into the waiting hackney.

“A young friend of Kendall’s, but more of a Corinthian than most. Dashed handy with the blade and his fists, and not too nice to apply a bit persuasion when needed.

He rescued Penny from that Digby fellow when he kidnapped her this autumn and gave Digby a beating afterwards that he clearly has not yet forgotten. ”

“Ah,” said Bel, finally understanding the matter that Mrs. Haverstall had alluded to in the Half Moon Street drawing room. She was glad that they were to take tea with the Haverstalls the following day, for she was eager to meet this Penelope Trafford .

“Didn’t realise Warrenton was the fellow you were keen on saving from Digby’s clutches,” observed Mr. Haverstall, as the hackney rattled through the streets back to Bel’s temporary residence. A deep frown sat between Ned Haverstall’s brows.

“No, I thought it better not to mention it,” said Bel frankly, “for fear that you would not have come.”

“I wouldn’t have. The fellow’s a profligate fribble.”

Bel arched an eyebrow and kept her opinions quiet. Was a profligate fribble, she thought to herself, but not anymore. And as the carriage rolled to a stop, she said a little prayer that this thought would prove to be true.