you will be Highburton, and then you are not only who you are. So you counsel restraint, do you? Pitt told me there are others saying that. Even Penthurst, who can be a hard man when it is warranted. You must be influencing him, and not to the good.”
Yates did not influence the Duke of Penthurst at all these days, not that he thought he ever had. His father did not know about the rift that had formed between him and that friend. Other than a few formal conversations on strictly official matters, he had not spoken to Penthurst since last March.
“No doubt you know his trial is next month,” his father added. “I told Pitt that it was nonsense, that he had been challenged by Lakewood and the duel was a point of honor and everyone knew it. Important that there be no special treatment, he said, so the lords will take it up.” He made a face of disapproval, but it dissolved, and he shrugged. “There is no danger, so you are not to worry for him. Gentlemen understand these things, but the people must have their shows.”
The effort at reassurance touched him, even as he reacted badly to the assumptions his father made about another friend. But then the earl had never liked the man who had died in that duel for which Penthurst would answer to his fellow peers.
This was how their arguments started in years past. He swallowed his reaction so one would not start now.
His father seemed to drift off. Yates was beginning to ease out of the chair when the earl’s eyes opened again. His pale hand gestured to the papers. “What questions?”
How minor these details seemed now. Hairpins, his mother had called them.
“There is this property on the coast. I have not been there yet. However, it is apparent from the records that no rents have come from it in years, if ever. Prebles cannot account for it. I thought perhaps you can.”
The earl held out an unsteady hand. He took the deed. Angling the vellum so the window light washed it, he squinted.
“Ah, this one.” He nodded, as if remembering an old puzzle. “There is said to be another deed that challenges this one.”
“Have you seen the other deed?”
He shook his head. “The tenants send rents to him who holds it, however. Not much income from there. Half of the land is swamp.”
“I should tell Prebles to address it. So you know what is what.”
An exhausted sigh issued from his father. Yet his eyes appeared less filmed and distant for a moment, even as that sound hung in the air. The mind was being engaged, and the sight of it raised Yates’s spirits.
While he watched his father consider the question and had a glimpse of the man he had once battled and defied, a profound emotion filled his heart. He wished there were a pact with the Creator that the current Earl of Highburton would not die until every tiny question were answered, and that there would be years of questions to settle.
“It would cost thousands to claim this property,” his father said, handing the vellum back. “Not worth it. I left it be. When you inherit, you can reconsider, but I think you will decide as I did.”
It was an odd response from a man who did not favor ambiguity on any matter, least of all the honor of Highburton. A measured one, and probably financially sound, but it disheartened Yates anyway. He had rather hoped settling the challenge to this property would become a crusade. They would spend hours plotting strategy, and he would see alertness and life in those eyes again and again.
“Open the window a little, Yates. Damned physicians worry that a fever will kill me. That is a joke. They have no idea how feeling the sun and the breeze—it is a comfort and a treasure. Perhaps it is also a preparation. A way of calling one home.”
Yates opened the window so the breeze could enter. His father turned his face to it and smiled with private pleasure.
“Have you learned anything about those jewels?” he asked in a voice half asleep.
“A little. Not how they left their
Yates did not influence the Duke of Penthurst at all these days, not that he thought he ever had. His father did not know about the rift that had formed between him and that friend. Other than a few formal conversations on strictly official matters, he had not spoken to Penthurst since last March.
“No doubt you know his trial is next month,” his father added. “I told Pitt that it was nonsense, that he had been challenged by Lakewood and the duel was a point of honor and everyone knew it. Important that there be no special treatment, he said, so the lords will take it up.” He made a face of disapproval, but it dissolved, and he shrugged. “There is no danger, so you are not to worry for him. Gentlemen understand these things, but the people must have their shows.”
The effort at reassurance touched him, even as he reacted badly to the assumptions his father made about another friend. But then the earl had never liked the man who had died in that duel for which Penthurst would answer to his fellow peers.
This was how their arguments started in years past. He swallowed his reaction so one would not start now.
His father seemed to drift off. Yates was beginning to ease out of the chair when the earl’s eyes opened again. His pale hand gestured to the papers. “What questions?”
How minor these details seemed now. Hairpins, his mother had called them.
“There is this property on the coast. I have not been there yet. However, it is apparent from the records that no rents have come from it in years, if ever. Prebles cannot account for it. I thought perhaps you can.”
The earl held out an unsteady hand. He took the deed. Angling the vellum so the window light washed it, he squinted.
“Ah, this one.” He nodded, as if remembering an old puzzle. “There is said to be another deed that challenges this one.”
“Have you seen the other deed?”
He shook his head. “The tenants send rents to him who holds it, however. Not much income from there. Half of the land is swamp.”
“I should tell Prebles to address it. So you know what is what.”
An exhausted sigh issued from his father. Yet his eyes appeared less filmed and distant for a moment, even as that sound hung in the air. The mind was being engaged, and the sight of it raised Yates’s spirits.
While he watched his father consider the question and had a glimpse of the man he had once battled and defied, a profound emotion filled his heart. He wished there were a pact with the Creator that the current Earl of Highburton would not die until every tiny question were answered, and that there would be years of questions to settle.
“It would cost thousands to claim this property,” his father said, handing the vellum back. “Not worth it. I left it be. When you inherit, you can reconsider, but I think you will decide as I did.”
It was an odd response from a man who did not favor ambiguity on any matter, least of all the honor of Highburton. A measured one, and probably financially sound, but it disheartened Yates anyway. He had rather hoped settling the challenge to this property would become a crusade. They would spend hours plotting strategy, and he would see alertness and life in those eyes again and again.
“Open the window a little, Yates. Damned physicians worry that a fever will kill me. That is a joke. They have no idea how feeling the sun and the breeze—it is a comfort and a treasure. Perhaps it is also a preparation. A way of calling one home.”
Yates opened the window so the breeze could enter. His father turned his face to it and smiled with private pleasure.
“Have you learned anything about those jewels?” he asked in a voice half asleep.
“A little. Not how they left their
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