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Authors: Maya Rodale
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responsibility to Lord Huntley.”
“And?” Devon prompted.
“It was two months ago. Your father seemed to have forgotten who Lord Huntley was.”
“And you have not contacted my brother at all?”
“I did take the liberty of sending him a letter, in the hopes that he would speak to His Grace. It is Lord Huntley’s inheritance after all . . .” the manager said.
“Indeed it is,” Devon said dryly, wondering why he was even having this conversation.
“Without direction, I was unable to make any decisions regarding the estate.”
“Of course. And being in my father’s employ for . . .”
“Ten years.”
“Ten years. You are surely aware that he values this estate more than anything.”
“Of course.”
“So that is why you have allowed all the buildings to fall into disrepair, and why our flocks have dwindled down to nothing, and why, essentially, there has been virtually no income from the lands to support my father and brother.”
“Yes, well, there is an income. Smaller than what they may be accustomed to, but it is certainly enough to live on,” the man said haughtily.
“I see,” Devon said. “Leave the books with me.”
“But I can only take direction from His Grace.”
“Of course. If you keep that up, there will be no estate for you to manage.”
The man, in all his ineptness, took the hint, leaving the books and a mountain of reading.
At least it was something to do.
Arthur Phillip Archibald William Kensington, Duke of Buckingham, remained in the library, utterly confused. He was always confused these days. One of his sons had returned, of that he was certain. Which one, he could not be sure.
Had it been Phillip, playing a cruel joke, pretending to be his twin? They were always pretending to be the other, the duke thought. No wonder he could never keep them straight.
Or had Devon returned? Or was he dead? The duke had known once, but could not remember now. But if he had come home, alive, then that changed everything. That much he remembered.
Chapter 6
Phillip awoke with a throbbing headache and a strong urge to cast up his accounts. Dear God, what had he done last night? He groaned. If he felt like this, he must have had a smashing time indeed. He rang for his valet, who appeared but a moment later.
“What did I do last night?” he asked groggily, with shuttered eyes.
“I believe you and Parkhurst spent the better portion of the evening at a gaming hall,” Jeffries answered.
“Did I win anything?”
“I cannot know, my lord. But you did come home at dawn with a female companion.” Phillip rolled over and noticed the bed was empty.
“Where is she now?”
“She left, my lord.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Mrs. Roth, an actress. She is performing this evening in Twelfth Night at the Rose Theater. Shall I send her a note on your behalf?”
“No. But send a note to Miss Highhart. See if she wants to go to that play tonight.”
“Of course.”
“And some tea. With brandy.”
“I shall return in a moment,” the valet said, closing the door softly behind him.
“What a dreary day,” Emilia muttered. She was sitting by the window, staring outside more often than at the book open in her lap. She had already read it, twice, during the crossing, but she hadn’t any new books. And the new Darcy Darlington story wouldn’t be published until tomorrow. And so she kept watch in case Phillip decided to brave the weather. Even after the tea-spilling incident a few days ago, he had called on her two other times. He brought flowers and boxes of chocolates, making her want to fly at him and shout, “Kiss me, you fool!” Of course, she could not with her aunt present. Besides, he was charming and pleasant and talkative, and seemed to have overcome his fascination with his fingernails. He just didn’t affect her as he had done those few other times.
But he had not attended the Misses Alcourt’s poetry reading, which perhaps was just as well. Not only had
“And?” Devon prompted.
“It was two months ago. Your father seemed to have forgotten who Lord Huntley was.”
“And you have not contacted my brother at all?”
“I did take the liberty of sending him a letter, in the hopes that he would speak to His Grace. It is Lord Huntley’s inheritance after all . . .” the manager said.
“Indeed it is,” Devon said dryly, wondering why he was even having this conversation.
“Without direction, I was unable to make any decisions regarding the estate.”
“Of course. And being in my father’s employ for . . .”
“Ten years.”
“Ten years. You are surely aware that he values this estate more than anything.”
“Of course.”
“So that is why you have allowed all the buildings to fall into disrepair, and why our flocks have dwindled down to nothing, and why, essentially, there has been virtually no income from the lands to support my father and brother.”
“Yes, well, there is an income. Smaller than what they may be accustomed to, but it is certainly enough to live on,” the man said haughtily.
“I see,” Devon said. “Leave the books with me.”
“But I can only take direction from His Grace.”
“Of course. If you keep that up, there will be no estate for you to manage.”
The man, in all his ineptness, took the hint, leaving the books and a mountain of reading.
At least it was something to do.
Arthur Phillip Archibald William Kensington, Duke of Buckingham, remained in the library, utterly confused. He was always confused these days. One of his sons had returned, of that he was certain. Which one, he could not be sure.
Had it been Phillip, playing a cruel joke, pretending to be his twin? They were always pretending to be the other, the duke thought. No wonder he could never keep them straight.
Or had Devon returned? Or was he dead? The duke had known once, but could not remember now. But if he had come home, alive, then that changed everything. That much he remembered.
Chapter 6
Phillip awoke with a throbbing headache and a strong urge to cast up his accounts. Dear God, what had he done last night? He groaned. If he felt like this, he must have had a smashing time indeed. He rang for his valet, who appeared but a moment later.
“What did I do last night?” he asked groggily, with shuttered eyes.
“I believe you and Parkhurst spent the better portion of the evening at a gaming hall,” Jeffries answered.
“Did I win anything?”
“I cannot know, my lord. But you did come home at dawn with a female companion.” Phillip rolled over and noticed the bed was empty.
“Where is she now?”
“She left, my lord.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Mrs. Roth, an actress. She is performing this evening in Twelfth Night at the Rose Theater. Shall I send her a note on your behalf?”
“No. But send a note to Miss Highhart. See if she wants to go to that play tonight.”
“Of course.”
“And some tea. With brandy.”
“I shall return in a moment,” the valet said, closing the door softly behind him.
“What a dreary day,” Emilia muttered. She was sitting by the window, staring outside more often than at the book open in her lap. She had already read it, twice, during the crossing, but she hadn’t any new books. And the new Darcy Darlington story wouldn’t be published until tomorrow. And so she kept watch in case Phillip decided to brave the weather. Even after the tea-spilling incident a few days ago, he had called on her two other times. He brought flowers and boxes of chocolates, making her want to fly at him and shout, “Kiss me, you fool!” Of course, she could not with her aunt present. Besides, he was charming and pleasant and talkative, and seemed to have overcome his fascination with his fingernails. He just didn’t affect her as he had done those few other times.
But he had not attended the Misses Alcourt’s poetry reading, which perhaps was just as well. Not only had
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