“Well, well, I see we must accustom ourselves to calling you ‘your grace’ now,” he said, taking the hand Theodore offered and pumping it vigorously. “I was sorry to read in the Times of your father’s passing. Still, I have no doubt you will fill his shoes admirably. Now, how may I be of service to you?”
Theodore told him, and the ingratiating smile faded.
“Dear me, your grace,” he said fretfully, “I wish I could oblige you, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Dash it, Dorry, you knew my father,” Theodore reminded him. “You’ve seen me come in here with him since I was in leading strings!” This was an exaggeration, for the duke had never taken the slightest interest in babes in arms, even when the babes were his own. Still, the banker readily conceded the point.
“I have indeed, and you may be sure we have always valued the patronage of the Dukes of Reddington. You know, I daresay, that one of your ancestors signed the bank’s original charter. For that reason alone, I wish I could provide you with the advance you seek. Unfortunately, there are laws about these things—the shareholders, you know—”
Alas, none of Theodore’s arguments—and he put forth many—could move the bank’s governor from this stance. Eventually he was forced to take his leave, feeling very much like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. He returned to his flat, where his valet greeted him with the unwelcome news that the early post had been delivered—unwelcome because among the letters that had been forwarded to him from his father’s—no, his—estate in Devon were several requests for payment from various tradesmen in both London and Exeter. When Theodore cast these aside and picked up the Times, he discovered the reason for the inundation: there amongst the advertisements was a notice inviting all to whom the late Duke of Reddington had owed remuneration to submit their requests in writing within the next ninety days. It was signed, “Sir Ethan Brundy, executor.”
“Are you trying to bankrupt me before I even get my hands on the money?” Theodore grumbled under his breath. “Dash it, Ethan!”
Ethan . . . at the sight of the name printed in bold black type, a new plan began to take form in Theodore’s brain. Ethan, his sister’s husband and his own brother by marriage, who had towed his father out of the River Tick more than once during the past four years, and who was now executor of the duke’s will . . . Ethan, who was standing for Parliament, and who would be returning to London very soon for just that purpose . . .
Theodore discovered he could now face the more pressing of his obligations in a state resembling equilibrium. He left his flat and betook himself to the Reddington town house, where he made arrangements for taking up residence, the foremost of these being to send for the butler, the cook, and certain other servants from the country estate. Even the pile of bills that awaited him on a small table in the foyer had no more power to trouble him, for he had formed a plan, and as soon as his brother-in-law returned to his own town house in nearby Grosvenor Square, he would put this plan into action.
That night he enjoyed no better luck at White’s than he had the night before. Still, he slept soundly for the first time since the night his father died, convinced that his troubles would soon be at an end.
HIS SISTER, BY CONTRAST, was not of so sanguine a frame of mind. Seated with her husband at the breakfast table of their home in Lancashire, Lady Helen frowned thoughtfully at the letter in her hand.
“Bad news, love?” asked Sir Ethan, who had looked up from his newspaper to make some remark to his wife and noted her puckered brow.
“I don’t know,” she confessed without looking up from her reading. “To be sure, some of it is very good news indeed. And yet—darling, when you reach London, will you oblige me by looking in on Teddy?”
“Aye, but I’d ’ave done so in any case. What’s troubling you?”
In answer, she handed him the single sheet of foolscap bearing the wax seal (now broken) of the Marquess of Cutliffe. “It seems he and that dreadful female they call La Fantasia are quite exploded.”
“I’d ’ave thought you’d be glad of that,” he remarked as he scanned the letter.
“Yes, but it appears there’s more. Evidently their break was quite—quite public, and since then the woman has been seen at the theatre sporting a shockingly vulgar necklace which she claims was a parting gift from the Duke of Reddington. Meanwhile, rumor has it that Teddy has been dipping rather deep at White’s. Ethan, you don’t suppose he’s reached point non plus already, do you?”
“Don’t fret yourself, love. When a single young man in’erits a dukedom, ’e’s bound to be the object of a certain amount of interest. I doubt it’s as serious as all that.”
“Yes, but this comes from Emily—Lady Cutliffe, you know,” she insisted. “It’s not just idle gossip.”
“I didn’t know there was any other kind,” he remarked, setting down his coffee cup and pushing back his chair.
“If you ask me,” said Lady Helen with some asperity, “what Teddy needs is a woman!”
“I thought ’e ’ad one,” pointed out her spouse. “In fact, I thought that was ’alf the trouble.”
She gave him a reproachful look. “I don’t mean that dreadful creature he’s had in keeping for the past two months—‘La Fantasia,’ indeed! No, I mean Teddy needs a wife. Not a schoolroom miss, mind you, but a sensible woman his own age. When I join you in London, I might introduce him to one or two likely candidates who might serve the purpose. It is a pity that our being in mourning will put a damper on our engagements—no dancing, certainly, even if there are any balls being hosted
