doors leading to the patio were shut, but offered a glimpse of vast lawns, the hedgerow maze, the gardens, and the Thames in the distance. There was a fire slowly burning, and his father sat on the leather couch before it. Devon took a deep breath and strolled into the room.
“Hello, Father, how are you?”
“Eh? Phillip?” The duke squinted his eyes at his son. “Thought you were in London,” he muttered.
“It’s me. Devon. Your second son.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, when, really, he ought to be used to it by now. But somehow just stepping into this old house made him feel like a child again—awkward and eager to please, but not sure how. Devon settled into a leather chair facing the couch and looked closely at his father. The tower of terror he once was had vanished; he was now naught but an old man, faded and worn, like the house itself.
“It’s good to have you back,” the duke said, staring into the fire. “Phillip, you spend far too much time in London. A proper gentleman does not neglect his estate . . .” His voice trailed off.
And for a moment there, Devon had thought his father had been pleased to see him. He caught himself on the verge of sighing, of letting go of the hope that things would be a little bit different, maybe even a little bit better. He left the library without another word and then climbed the stairs to the third floor, hoping to find his old bedchamber.
It was still there and clearly forgotten. The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, and the air was dank and musty. There was a layer of dust upon every surface and the furniture had been covered in old sheets. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t spent a night in this house since he had been sent off to Eton. He, and Phillip, too, had quickly learned that it was far preferable to spend school holidays with friends.
Devon turned, hearing Marksmith clear his throat behind him. They had just prepared a room for him on the third floor. A guest chamber.
As the afternoon sun was setting, Devon found himself with the odd sensation of having nothing to do. He had toured the house, noticing the paint chipping off the walls in the ballroom, while other rooms had been shut off completely. Inside, the furniture had been draped in white covers. It was depressing.
He walked out to the stables, which were, like the house, slightly tattered around the edges. The horses within, however, were superb specimens of their breed and clearly well cared for. But that was Phillip for you. The stables themselves wouldn’t win Ascot, but the horses might. Coming in first was all that mattered.
Devon saddled up a black stallion and took off at a full gallop down the drive, the horse’s hooves kicking up pebbles behind him. He didn’t look back at the house.
Riding over the grounds, he noticed they were nothing like they had been in his youth. A few paths were somewhat maintained, but most were so choked with branches and foliage one could barely pass through. The pastures were nearly empty, save for a few lazy animals. Had there been a market for the weeds that overran the fields, they would have been growing a fortune.
Later, after being informed that his father was resting, Devon tracked down the estate manager, seeking an explanation for the disintegrating condition of the house and grounds. His father had always ruled his estate with an iron fist, overseeing even the smallest detail. His pride and joy had been showing off his wealth. Clearly, his father was in worse health than he had thought. Devon dismissed the nagging thought that perhaps he should have returned home sooner.
“Well, you know how His Grace is,” the manager began. He was a small, porky fellow, clearly nervous by Devon’s inquiries. “And the state of his health, of late . . . I don’t think, if I may say, that His Grace felt up to the task of managing the estate. The problem isn’t me , you understand. In fact, I had suggested that His Grace delegate some
“Hello, Father, how are you?”
“Eh? Phillip?” The duke squinted his eyes at his son. “Thought you were in London,” he muttered.
“It’s me. Devon. Your second son.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, when, really, he ought to be used to it by now. But somehow just stepping into this old house made him feel like a child again—awkward and eager to please, but not sure how. Devon settled into a leather chair facing the couch and looked closely at his father. The tower of terror he once was had vanished; he was now naught but an old man, faded and worn, like the house itself.
“It’s good to have you back,” the duke said, staring into the fire. “Phillip, you spend far too much time in London. A proper gentleman does not neglect his estate . . .” His voice trailed off.
And for a moment there, Devon had thought his father had been pleased to see him. He caught himself on the verge of sighing, of letting go of the hope that things would be a little bit different, maybe even a little bit better. He left the library without another word and then climbed the stairs to the third floor, hoping to find his old bedchamber.
It was still there and clearly forgotten. The curtains were drawn, the room was dark, and the air was dank and musty. There was a layer of dust upon every surface and the furniture had been covered in old sheets. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t spent a night in this house since he had been sent off to Eton. He, and Phillip, too, had quickly learned that it was far preferable to spend school holidays with friends.
Devon turned, hearing Marksmith clear his throat behind him. They had just prepared a room for him on the third floor. A guest chamber.
As the afternoon sun was setting, Devon found himself with the odd sensation of having nothing to do. He had toured the house, noticing the paint chipping off the walls in the ballroom, while other rooms had been shut off completely. Inside, the furniture had been draped in white covers. It was depressing.
He walked out to the stables, which were, like the house, slightly tattered around the edges. The horses within, however, were superb specimens of their breed and clearly well cared for. But that was Phillip for you. The stables themselves wouldn’t win Ascot, but the horses might. Coming in first was all that mattered.
Devon saddled up a black stallion and took off at a full gallop down the drive, the horse’s hooves kicking up pebbles behind him. He didn’t look back at the house.
Riding over the grounds, he noticed they were nothing like they had been in his youth. A few paths were somewhat maintained, but most were so choked with branches and foliage one could barely pass through. The pastures were nearly empty, save for a few lazy animals. Had there been a market for the weeds that overran the fields, they would have been growing a fortune.
Later, after being informed that his father was resting, Devon tracked down the estate manager, seeking an explanation for the disintegrating condition of the house and grounds. His father had always ruled his estate with an iron fist, overseeing even the smallest detail. His pride and joy had been showing off his wealth. Clearly, his father was in worse health than he had thought. Devon dismissed the nagging thought that perhaps he should have returned home sooner.
“Well, you know how His Grace is,” the manager began. He was a small, porky fellow, clearly nervous by Devon’s inquiries. “And the state of his health, of late . . . I don’t think, if I may say, that His Grace felt up to the task of managing the estate. The problem isn’t me , you understand. In fact, I had suggested that His Grace delegate some
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