Gayle Buck Read Free

groom with a large stable. He had yet to see any other gentlemen who could handle horses the way his present master did. The viscount had also a healthy understanding of what it took to keep a decent stable and his lordship begrudged no expense when it was a matter to do with his horses. It was very pleasant employment, for all of his lordship’s sudden moods, the groom thought contentedly.
    Lord St. John maneuvered his phaeton deftly, almost by second nature, through the congested streets, putting the carriage through such fine judgments of space that, to the casual onlooker, it seemed that he must come to grief. However, the phaeton invariably whisked past other carriages and the draft wagons unscathed.
    The valet, however, was not witness to these miraculous escapes as he preferred to either keep his eyes squeezed tightly closed or else would fix his desperate gaze to the viscount’s wide back so that he could not see the disasters coming.
    It was a relief to Lord St. John to come out of the London traffic, leaving behind the raucous shouts of street vendors, disputing tradespeople, and the striking of hooves against the cobbles. Entering into the less-traveled roads, Lord St. John put the horses to a swifter pace. The resultant rush of air cooled his face and abated his headache to a degree.
    Lord St. John made very good time and turned in the gates to the Duke of Alton’s country estate in time for tea.
    The valet was exceedingly glad to have arrived. He was never a good traveler and the viscount’s way of putting his horses invariably upset his digestion. He heaved a profound sigh of relief and loosened his rigid hold on the seat railing.
    Lord St. John had always liked the ducal estate. The lands surrounding the old manor house and grounds were pleasing to the eye. For all his careless manners and seeming indifference, the viscount was appreciative of the beauty inherent in the stately setting.
    But as the phaeton bounded over the potholed gravel carriageway, Lord St. John felt a sense of disgust. He ran an assessing eye over the grounds surrounding the manor, before turning his critical gaze on the manor itself. As long as he could remember, the twining vines of ivy had covered the windows and two walls of the house, giving an impression that it was slowly being swallowed whole. Roof tiles were missing in places and coping stones had fallen. From past visits, Lord St. John knew that the garden was so overgrown and choked with weeds and undergrowth that it had become practically nonexistent.
    As for the remainder of the estate, he knew if he rode over it he would find other such blatant signs of neglect, particularly with the tenant buildings. The duke’s tenants had a miserable lot and little hope of improvement.
    Pulling up at the front steps, Lord St. John stepped down from the phaeton, leaving his groom to take care of it and the horses. The groom was already grumbling under his breath about the conditions he was likely to find in the tumbledown stables, but Lord St. John paid no heed. A footman had come down the manor steps to get the luggage and the whey-faced valet revived instantly at the opportunity to issue orders to a lowly manservant.
    Lord St. John did not wait for guidance or invitation, but strode swiftly up the steps and entered through the open door. At once he was struck by the gloom that no number of candles could have penetrated, even if the duke had been willing to put out for the expense, and the strong smell of must, mildew, and mothballs that pervaded the house. His jaw worked.
    He detested these visits, which he was obligated to make out of family duty. He was heir presumptive to all that he surveyed on these infrequent visits, but it was of little pleasure to him to see the worsening condition of the estate. He knew that the majority of the rooms of the manor were shut up, with the furniture under dust cloths and that it was unlikely that anything had been done about the damage done by a