Read Online Her Master and Commander by Karen Hawkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Hawkins
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to you but if you’d like—”
“Leave it there.”
“My lord?”
“Put it on the desk and then leave,” Tristan said, reaching for his cane and gaining his feet. “I don’t want you here.”
“B—but, my lord! I must explain the stipulations.”
“Stipulations?”
“Yes. You have inherited the title. However, to gain the fortune, the trustees must approve you as…” The solicitor glanced helplessly at Reeves.
The butler met Tristan’s gaze. “The late earl wished to make certain that the next occupant of Rochester House should be worthy of the name.”
Worthy? That bloody bastard never once bothered to own up to Tristan’s birthright, and then, on his deathbed, he had the gall to demand that Tristan be worthy ? “I don’t want the bloody fortune. Nor the damned title. And he can take his damned house to hell with him, too.”
Reeves sighed. “He would have, my lord, had he been able. Trust me on that.”
“I won’t take a pence from that empty, shriveled old man.”
Mr. Dunstead blinked, his eyes hideously large behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “Don’t—My lord! Do you realize—Do you know—It would be unheard of to—”
“What Mr. Dunstead is saying,” Reeves interjected smoothly, “is that it would be quite foolhardy to turn your back on twenty thousand pounds per annum.”
Tristan turned his head. “Did you say twenty?”
“Thousand.” Reeves raised his brows. “ And Rochester House as well as the Rochester Townhouse in London, both of which are masterful edifices and fully furnished in a most elegant style.’’
Dunstead nodded. “They come with trained staff, too. All you’d need to do is”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arm—“move in. Once, of course, you’ve garnered the approval of the trustees.”
Twenty thousand pounds. The things he could do with that sum. He could move away from the cottage—or better yet, build a number of them for the men. He could also hire a doctor just to stay here, and minister to them all. Then, when that was done, he could perhaps…What would he do? There were so many possibilities, so many things he had always wanted to accomplish that his mind would not settle on one.
Of course, that was if he gained the “approval” of the trustees. He glanced at the solicitor. “Who are these trustees?”
“Contemporaries of your father’s. Well versed in comportment, manners, dress—everything a gentleman should know.”
“Bloody hell, I am to become a popinjay and then let a group of warbling fools judge me?”
Dunstead pushed his glasses up on his nose, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Ah. Well. I suppose if you wish to look at it that way—”
“I will not do it!” It was inconceivable. Even from the grave, his father was trying to make Tristan feel like less. His jaw tightened. “No. I won’t have it. None of it. Now be gone, both of you.”
Dunstead huffed his astonishment and then began to collect his papers, but Reeves did not move. He merely sighed. “How sad. I suppose we shall just have to find Lord Westerville then.”
“Who is that?”
“Your brother, Christian.”
Tristan paused, his gaze riveted on the butler. “Christian?”
“If you fail to meet the criteria for the fortune, it goes to your brother, Viscount Westerville.”
Dunstead locked his satchel. “The will is on your desk, should you decide to read it.”
“You cannot find my brother,” Tristan said, ignoring the solicitor all together. “I’ve tried for years and have been unable to discover even a trace of him.”
“Perhaps you did not look in the right location.”
Tristan took a hasty step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Do you know where he is?”
Reeves smiled. “We found you, did we not?”
Dunstead pushed his spectacles back in place. “We must leave, Mr. Reeves. It’s getting dark and we have a long way to go.”
Reeves glanced at the terrace doors. “It’s already too late to take
“Leave it there.”
“My lord?”
“Put it on the desk and then leave,” Tristan said, reaching for his cane and gaining his feet. “I don’t want you here.”
“B—but, my lord! I must explain the stipulations.”
“Stipulations?”
“Yes. You have inherited the title. However, to gain the fortune, the trustees must approve you as…” The solicitor glanced helplessly at Reeves.
The butler met Tristan’s gaze. “The late earl wished to make certain that the next occupant of Rochester House should be worthy of the name.”
Worthy? That bloody bastard never once bothered to own up to Tristan’s birthright, and then, on his deathbed, he had the gall to demand that Tristan be worthy ? “I don’t want the bloody fortune. Nor the damned title. And he can take his damned house to hell with him, too.”
Reeves sighed. “He would have, my lord, had he been able. Trust me on that.”
“I won’t take a pence from that empty, shriveled old man.”
Mr. Dunstead blinked, his eyes hideously large behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “Don’t—My lord! Do you realize—Do you know—It would be unheard of to—”
“What Mr. Dunstead is saying,” Reeves interjected smoothly, “is that it would be quite foolhardy to turn your back on twenty thousand pounds per annum.”
Tristan turned his head. “Did you say twenty?”
“Thousand.” Reeves raised his brows. “ And Rochester House as well as the Rochester Townhouse in London, both of which are masterful edifices and fully furnished in a most elegant style.’’
Dunstead nodded. “They come with trained staff, too. All you’d need to do is”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arm—“move in. Once, of course, you’ve garnered the approval of the trustees.”
Twenty thousand pounds. The things he could do with that sum. He could move away from the cottage—or better yet, build a number of them for the men. He could also hire a doctor just to stay here, and minister to them all. Then, when that was done, he could perhaps…What would he do? There were so many possibilities, so many things he had always wanted to accomplish that his mind would not settle on one.
Of course, that was if he gained the “approval” of the trustees. He glanced at the solicitor. “Who are these trustees?”
“Contemporaries of your father’s. Well versed in comportment, manners, dress—everything a gentleman should know.”
“Bloody hell, I am to become a popinjay and then let a group of warbling fools judge me?”
Dunstead pushed his glasses up on his nose, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Ah. Well. I suppose if you wish to look at it that way—”
“I will not do it!” It was inconceivable. Even from the grave, his father was trying to make Tristan feel like less. His jaw tightened. “No. I won’t have it. None of it. Now be gone, both of you.”
Dunstead huffed his astonishment and then began to collect his papers, but Reeves did not move. He merely sighed. “How sad. I suppose we shall just have to find Lord Westerville then.”
“Who is that?”
“Your brother, Christian.”
Tristan paused, his gaze riveted on the butler. “Christian?”
“If you fail to meet the criteria for the fortune, it goes to your brother, Viscount Westerville.”
Dunstead locked his satchel. “The will is on your desk, should you decide to read it.”
“You cannot find my brother,” Tristan said, ignoring the solicitor all together. “I’ve tried for years and have been unable to discover even a trace of him.”
“Perhaps you did not look in the right location.”
Tristan took a hasty step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Do you know where he is?”
Reeves smiled. “We found you, did we not?”
Dunstead pushed his spectacles back in place. “We must leave, Mr. Reeves. It’s getting dark and we have a long way to go.”
Reeves glanced at the terrace doors. “It’s already too late to take