Gayle Buck Read Free Page A

leaking roof.
    The last time he had come, he had also discovered that several window casings were no longer properly sealed and damp rot had invaded the long gallery and some of the other rooms. He had had a blazing row with the duke over the state of the manor, which had only ended when he had slammed out of the house and returned to London.
    He had put off returning to the ducal estate as long as possible. There was, after all, no love lost between himself and the duke. The gentlemen were opposites in many respects, having differing opinions on politics, religion, and what constituted physical comforts. But their strongest disagreement had always been about the condition of the estate holdings and the duke’s total indifference to the fact that all was falling into complete disarray and disrepair.
    The aged butler took Lord St. John’s driving coat, beaver, and gloves, informing his lordship where the duke could be found. As Lord St. John strode toward the front parlor, he recalled quite distinctly what the duke had said on the occasion of their last blazing row.
    “The running of the estate is my business. If I choose to bleed it dry before I die, it is my right to do so,” the duke had said coldly. “Aye, you may look as murderous as you please, Weemswood, but I shan’t oblige you just yet. No doubt you have wished my death these last ten years so that you could get your hands on the income that I have saved and made into a fortune, and gamble it away just like your father frittered away his own inheritance! That is the real reason you counsel prudence and economy.”
    “If I counsel you, your grace, it is for the sake of the tenants. They live in hovels. They do not have the means to work the land properly, either for themselves or for the estate. This income you speak of is in danger of disappearing altogether. What then of your fortune? Even you must agree that there is only so far that one may economize,” Lord St. John had returned bitingly, casting a glance at the poorly lit dining room and the ill-prepared fare on the table.
    He had gestured at the woman sitting beside the duke. Her slender throat and arms had been adorned with glittering emeralds and diamonds. “Those pretty baubles would be the first to go.”
    The woman had not paid attention to the argument, but at the viscount’s observation she had narrowed her eyes, then turned her face to the duke. She had placed her fingers on the duke’s arm. “Your grace, perhaps his lordship has a point after all. It certainly is not right that he should question your decisions, of course, but perhaps a word with your steward might be in order. Those lazy tenants must be made to work.”
    The duke patted her clinging hand. “Never you mind, my lovely. I shall see that you have all that you could ever wish. As for you, Weemswood, your gall is the height of insult. Look at your own estate—mortgaged to the hilt and has been for years. At least my poor management has not gotten me into the claws of those bloodsucking merchant bankers!”
    It was an unanswerable argument, though an unfair one. The duke knew perfectly well that when Lord St. John had come into the viscountcy, his inheritance had consisted of a pile of debts and an already mortgaged estate. The viscount’s late father had been an improvident man in all respects, as well as being very unlucky at cards and at betting the races. It was generally agreedin society that it had been something of a relief when the gentleman had broken his neck trying to jump a horse over a too-high wall, or otherwise there would have been nothing at all for his only offspring to inherit.
    Of course, Lord St. John’s own style had never been parsimonious. He had lived just as wildly as his father, perhaps because he had never had anything remotely bordering on a steadying influence in his life. His mother had died when he was a small boy and his upbringing had been left to a succession of pretty nurses whose main