Within the hour, the Duke of Embry, brushed, groomed, and buttoned to within an inch of his life, was officially in residence at his house in Mayfair, and judging by the stacks of invitations he’d seen on the mantelpiece in the foyer, just about everyone knew it, too.
Ignoring his valet’s long-suffering look, he tugged at the narrow band of his necktie knotted and held in place with a diamond stickpin. “Must it be so tight, Harlowe?”
Giving one last look in the mirror and barely recognizing himself, he peered at his brother’s old valet. Harlowe had come into his employ after Roland’s death. Rhystan hadn’t had the heart to dismiss the man after he’d been in service for so many decades to the Huntley family. He’d known the man as a boy, and his dedication to the family had never wavered. He’d been tasked with nothing but waiting for the new duke to return to London.
“It must, Your Grace.” Harlowe squinted. “Unless you prefer a bow.”
Rhystan scowled. “The stickpin will do.”
The valet bowed. “Might I say how good it is to see you again and to have you home at last. The years at sea have been kind. You…” His voice broke as he fought to compose himself, the breach in decorum quite abnormal for a valet of Harlowe’s competence. “You look so much like him.”
It took Rhystan a moment to realize that the valet meant his brother, though he might well have meant the former duke, since both brothers favored their father in looks. He and Roland had resembled each other with their tawny hair and blue eyes, while Richard and Ravenna had taken the auburn hair and fair coloring of their mother.
With a trimmed beard and short-clipped hair, he would have been his father’s mirror image. Hence the shave and the overlong mane. He’d much rather look like a dockworker with his sun-streaked hair than see the face of his dead father in the mirror. Not that he didn’t hear the man’s voice in his head, condemning his son’s chosen lifestyle on a daily basis. It was a simple enough act of defiance, he supposed, now that he was the Duke of Embry. The old tyrant had finally gotten his way—Rhystan was well and truly in the ducal fold.
“Where is Lady Sara?” he asked Harlowe.
“She is in the gold room in the north wing, Your Grace.”
Rhystan shot the valet a blank look. Was he supposed to know where or what that was? He assumed a bedchamber, but it’d been years since he’d spent any length of time at this residence. He’d bought the house years ago, once he’d had his first financial windfall in shipping, with the idea that he’d never have to set foot in Huntley House—his family’s London home—or be forced to deal with the duke’s everlasting displeasure.
Even now, he could feel the man’s disappointment from the grave. Roland had been the heir, Richard, the spare, and Rhystan, ever the duke’s despair. The rebellious son who would never fit the mold of what his father wanted, never abide by the rules of an aristocracy he deemed backward and insular.
“The lady’s companion is in the adjacent blue room, Your Grace,” Harlowe went on, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of Rhystan’s morning coat.
“Very good.”
For the sake of propriety—inasmuch as they could stretch the truth—Sarani’s lady’s maid would also serve as her companion. Despite their engagement, fake or otherwise, a woman could not remain in her fiancé’s residence overnight without a proper chaperone, and there was no way Rhystan was abandoning Sarani to the duchess at Huntley House. His mother, even on her rumored deathbed, would be ruthless.
He strode downstairs to his study and stared at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. Usually, he would receive a bundle of anything urgent at his château in France, but he hadn’t returned to the Continent in months, having chosen to stay in the Americas before the most recent and unexpected voyage back to India.
Roland’s man of business and longtime solicitor, Mr. Longacre, had done an excellent job of managing the various tenant estates. His reports were meticulous and detailed, and Rhystan had never had any reason to doubt the man’s abilities.
“Where is Longacre?” he asked over his shoulder, knowing his ever-efficient butler was hovering in the foyer. “I sent word to his offices that I wished to see him.”
Morton cleared his throat from the doorway. “He has just arrived, Your Grace.”
A tall, twitchy, bespectacled man entered the room, carrying a pile of ledger books in his arms. After dumping the books on the edge of the desk, he attempted a clumsy bow. “Your Grace, welcome home. I have sent you letter after letter with no response. The estates are in disrepair, and I’m at my wit’s end with the creditors.”
Rhystan frowned at the outburst, gesturing for the harried man to sit. Disrepair? Creditors? “Since when?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Embry assured me that you were aware of the situation.” He shuffled some papers in the pile and shoved one of the ledgers toward Rhystan, cracking it open to the last page. Rhystan was good with numbers, but even he had a hard time calculating the staggering losses accounted in one of the columns. He thumbed through the book, eyes scanning pages upon pages of meticulously itemized costs and sums in the negative.
His frown deepened as he reached for another ledger and flicked through the accounting. “How did this happen?”
“Lord Roland was in debt up to his ears, Your Grace. He and Lord Richard had several bad railroad investments go wrong when the railway company up and disappeared with their money. It was a secret that only came out after his death when his many creditors came calling. The dowager duchess ordered me to leverage the earnings of the ducal holdings and to increase tenant taxes. Many of the farmers have left, and the country staff has been culled significantly.” His face flamed with obvious embarrassment. “I, too, am owed several months of wages.”
Rhystan blinked in dumbfounded surprise—he’d known none of this. The duchess could have reached him at any time, but for whatever reason, she’d chosen to keep the state of their finances from him. Roland, the favored son, had thoroughly decimated the family coffers.
Why hadn’t he asked for help?
Pride, Rhystan supposed. Pride and stubbornness. No one wanted to ask the purported prodigal son of the family for a farthing, even if said son had enough fortune to share. The former duke, if he’d been aware of the misfortune, would have forbidden it for sure. His mother hadn’t let anything slip of the decline, and if it wasn’t for Longacre, Rhystan would never have been the wiser.
Was this behind her ploy of illness?
He released a breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Longacre. I have more than enough funds to cover the debts and pay any outstanding wages.” With another longer glance to the totals in the columns, he wrote out a check to his bank, Barclay & Co., in London for a significant amount of funds to be paid to the bearer. “There, that should cover it. If you need more, do not hesitate to return.”