Page 10 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke (The Marlow Family Secrets #6)

John steered his chestnut thoroughbreds through the gates of the courtyard, leading into the stables of Pembroke Place.

He had taken Katherine to her front door, there had been no invite to go inside.

But he had not spoken to her during the drive as bitter thoughts had bounced about his head.

It had been wrong to kiss her. But he did not regret it.

She made him remember what it was like to be warm-blooded and to feel.

He wanted to feel the heat of desire with her.

His blood still boiled with a heady mix of desire and anger.

She had admitted she wanted to kiss him but nevertheless she had accused him of arrogance and being changed.

She was right, of course.

The grooms hurried to free the horses and put away the carriage.

His heart thumped as he set the carriage’s brake. He felt better for having had that kiss. It had been the way she had pressed so innocently against him, with tenderness, not with the greedy lust he had previously experienced when women had seduced him.

John strode towards the servants’ entrance to the house. There was something he needed to do. He had put it off long enough.

The flagstone-floored hall was busy with numerous maids and footmen scurrying through it as they went about their duties.

One of the young maids jumped when she saw him and dropped an armful of linen.

When she bent to pick it up others began noticing his presence.

It swept along the hall like a wave as they dropped into curtsies or bowed.

He was invading their territory and making them feel uncomfortable – appearing the arrogant Duke.

Well, he had not been arrogant abroad, he had laboured with his men in Egypt and he would go wherever he wished in his own home.

‘Your Grace?’ Finch appeared from a doorway a little ahead of John and bowed.

‘Is Wareham somewhere, Finch?’ John heard the maids and footmen shifting back into movement behind him.

‘He is in his rooms, I believe, Your Grace.’

‘Then send for him. Have him come to his office. I shall wait there.’

‘Your Grace.’ Finch bowed again then disappeared.

The estate manager’s office was at the end of the hall, away from the main thoroughfare.

The door was shut and when John tried the handle, he discovered it locked.

‘Does someone have the key?’ he asked, looking back along the busy hall.

One of the footmen stopped and bowed. ‘Mr Wareham keeps it on his person, Your Grace, but there is a copy of every key in Mrs East’s office. Shall I fetch it?’

‘Please do.’

The young footman bowed and rushed off to the housekeeper’s room. A moment later he was running back with the key.

John took it, and thanked him, remembering that his grandfather had never said thank you to a soul.

John felt the tug of war inside him pull.

This was an instant of the old John, his mother’s child, but these instants were getting rarer.

Kate was right, he had changed, and he would likely change even more.

When John unlocked the door he felt a cold shiver grip him.

This was another room brim-full of bad memories. The whitewashed walls and flagstone floor made it feel cold despite the sun pouring through the windows on two sides.

Shelves full of ledgers lined the other walls, while the middle of the room was dominated by Wareham’s large oak desk.

John had spent numerous hours sitting at it as a child, learning the art of book-keeping.

The old duke had schooled John to manage the estates from the age of thirteen.

John had spent hours studying such things, to learn how to achieve profit, when to take risks and when to be prudent. Mr Wareham had explained it all.

He crossed to the shelves and scanned the dates on the spines of the ledgers. Wareham began a new one each year and recorded every expenditure and income for the house and the tenancies in these books.

Finding the book for the current year, John slid it off the shelf and carried it to the desk.

He sat and opened the record book.

Columns of transactions ran down each page, all totalled at the bottom.

If Wareham is fleecing me, he was fleecing the old man.

Wareham had worked here for years; like many of his grandfather’s staff. The old Duke had trusted Wareham implicitly, and people who earned his trust were kept. If Phillip had not mentioned it the other night, John would never have considered doubting Wareham.

John’s index finger followed lines of figures on the first page. There was nothing abnormal listed, no unusual purchases or amounts.

Remembering the date of the loan Phillip had queried, John rose to find last year’s ledger.

He pulled it from the shelf and then, at the desk, began flicking through the pages searching for the date.

There were no unexpected sums. Nothing was recorded which would suggest the reason for giving out a loan.

‘Your Grace?’

John looked up.

Wareham was standing in the doorway, his fingers on the handle of the open door.

John smiled the smile he had taught himself in London in the last few weeks, the one which screened out all other expression, his grandfather’s smile, and straightened but did not stand.

There was an insolent, seemingly angry glint in Wareham’s light blue-grey eyes. He neither bowed nor nodded his head, showing no deference to his noble employer.

The old man’s monster roared to life inside John as he waited, imparting the cold condemning glare he had also learned from his grandfather. Silence stretched across the room as Wareham stared back.

‘Your Grace.’ Wareham finally relented, nodding slightly and showing more defiance than deference.

The bastard. What is this?

John wished to make him do it over, but that would be churlish.

It was far better to let it pass. Wareham must surely realise his days were numbered if he continued to behave this way.

He must know John would not be lenient or soft.

Sentimentality had been thrashed out of him as a child, and Wareham had watched.

‘Is there something I may help you with?’ Wareham closed the door, his whole demeanour challenging John’s presence in the room.

John was furious. He was entirely his grandfather’s monster now.

‘Take a seat.’ John indicated the chair on the far side, refusing to vacate Wareham’s. John owned this house, this office and the money passing through these ledgers – let Wareham remember that.

When Wareham sat, John held every muscle in his face steady. Thank God he had learned how easily his emotions could be read when he had been in London and mastered that. Now, he wore a mask of indifference.

‘I would have thought if you wished to view the ledgers, you would have asked me to bring them to you?’ Wareham’s tone was tipped with steel.

You? It was an unforgivable insult not to use John’s title. You! No one called a duke you.

‘Who owns the estates you manage, Mr Wareham?’ John felt as though a sandstorm had swept over him, his vision blurred with a red mist and his skin prickled with anger.

‘You do, Your Grace.’

Even when Wareham used John’s title it sounded offensive.

‘And please tell me then, Wareham, therefore, who owns this office and these ledgers?’

A flicker of confusion crossed the man’s face, but then he stated, ‘Your Grace,’ the challenge slipping away from his voice.

‘And who employs you?’

‘Your Grace.’ There was a darkness at the heart of Wareham’s eyes. A darkness that said this would not be the last of this conversation.

John smiled his grandfather’s vicious smile. ‘We have that straight then. Let us move on.’

John decided not to mention the loan just yet. He did not wish to give Wareham any chance to cover his tracks.

‘I have decided to review every aspect of my estate. I shall take these accounts now to help me do so and I wish to see all the supporting receipts and invoices. You may begin a new ledger.’

Wareham’s eyebrows lifted.

He had not anticipated John’s direct interference, and that meant, hopefully, the reason for the loan was still hidden somewhere in these books.

The older man’s icy gaze held John’s.

When John had sat at this desk with him as a boy the man had been brash, intolerant and rude. John had thought it a lack of patience for a youth. Now he presumed it was more. Wareham had never acted this way with his grandfather.

John did not move.

‘Now, Your Grace?’ The man finally understood.

‘I am here, am I not, Mr Wareham? So yes, now would be a good time.’

‘But…’

‘I shall begin reading these ledgers here, while you find everything out.’ Of course Wareham would wish for more time if he needed to hide evidence, but he would have no chance if John remained in the room.

John looked down at the ledgers.

A few minutes later, Wareham set two thick leather pouches tied with string and stuffed with papers on the desk. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Everything is here?’ John asked, rising, ignoring the subtle insult in Wareham’s voice. ‘All I need to review these two years?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Any omissions I may assume errors on your part then?’

Wareham’s jaw set and a muscle flickered in his cheek. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Call a footman to carry them up.’ John could have shouted himself, but he did not, to remind Wareham of his place.

Ten minutes later, the ledgers and packets of receipts and papers were all secured in John’s personal safe, in his rooms.