Page 32 of Dukes Do It Better
He’d have to do something about that. Address the farming methods. Renovate the landholdings. How the hell he was going to do it all from sea, he didn’t know. More than likely, it would default to his mother to oversee everything.
Which didn’t sit as easily with him as it had a month ago, or even a few hours before, when grief had swamped him in the study. Maybe it was the mischievous little boy in him balking at the idea of handing his mother control of all of his assets.
Mr. Hartfield had an office in an older but clean building close to the heart of the government buildings in London. He’d been in the office for decades, as had his father before him. Mr. Hartfield greeted Malachi formally and offered tea, which he declined. Taking a seat in the office, Malachi withdrew the leather-bound diary he’d found in George’s desk.
“What can I do for you today, Your Grace?”
“I’m hoping you can shed some light on something I found in my brother’s things.”
“I can certainly try. And again, although I’ve shared my condolences in writing, I’d like to extend them once more in person. Your brother was a good man. He will be deeply missed.”
Malachi cleared his throat of the emotion rising there. He’d heard those words dozens of times by this point. One would think he would be used to responding. And yet, every now and then the reality of the loss made it hard to breathe. “Thank you. I appreciate it more than you know. My question comes from a note he made in his business diary. He recorded his last appointment with you when he modified his will. And then, there’s this additional line: Father’s secrets die with me. What did he mean?” Malachi glanced up at Mr. Hartfield.
The solicitor leaned back in his chair and sighed, while the wood squeaked beneath him. “I see. The last duke’s unique burial wish was intended to stay between us, Your Grace.”
Malachi’s eyebrows knit together as a sinking feeling in his gut made itself known. “You mean it’s literal? Something was actually buried with him?”
The solicitor’s lips tightened, and frustration replaced the sinking feeling.
Malachi bit out, “Need I remind you, my brother is no longer here? While I appreciate the sentiment, as the current Duke of Trenton, I am the one who requires your loyalty and pays your salary.”
Mr. Hartfield’s lips were white until he sighed out a gusty breath and color returned to them. “I wasn’t told the contents. Your brother dropped off a leather satchel to be kept in our safe, with instructions to bury it with him upon his death. I followed his request to the letter and honored his wishes.”
Bloody George had actually done it. Malachi pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to find the most pressing question amid his spinning thoughts. “Who else knows about the satchel?”
“Myself, your brother, of course, and the undertaker.”
Malachi looked up. “The undertaker prepared the body?”
“Your mother was overcome. Women usually handle these things, but Lady Trenton was beside herself with grief. We hired an undertaker to prepare your brother for the funeral and arrange transport to the family tomb.”
Mother didn’t realize the bank book was gone. Assuming the book was in the satchel. Malachi sat back, staring at nothing in particular outside the window. Every childhood memory of his parents indicated a partnership between them. Father might have been the one technically in the diplomatic service, but Mother had known what was going on. Perhaps she had enough information to hold over the right people’s heads, with no more than the threat of the book’s contents. Wielding the right bits of intelligence, one wouldn’t actually have to produce documents. Only bluff convincingly.
Which left him to produce the book so Mother wouldn’t have proof to carry out whatever threats she’d made. With the powers that be aware of its existence, Malachi didn’t expect them to rest until someone produced the book. Either Mother to carry out her blackmail or Malachi to secure orders to return to his men.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hartfield.”
“Your Grace, there is one other order of business, since you’re here.” Hartfield lifted a stack of papers, then set them down again before opening two desk drawers and returning to a different stack of papers. “Here it is. I received a letter from your property manager. There’s been an offer of purchase on one of your minor holdings. It’s in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t have a farm or profitable enterprise attached to it. In my professional opinion, you should consider the sale. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.”
Malachi reached for the offered paper. “How many properties does the estate have, exactly?”
“About a dozen, give or take.”
A choked sound escaped his throat as a cough. “A dozen? What the bloody hell do we need with a dozen houses?”
“You own several properties like this one, Your Grace. Leasing a house without the worry of crops or extensive property is easy money. Less responsibility to the estate, higher profits. Our property manager handles the rents and business ends of things. With your father so often an absentee landlord, he molded the estate to be profitable with a different business model than the usual farms and tenants. Items like this do come up occasionally, but overall, we function quite well. Your brother enjoyed the hunt for appropriate properties and expanded on the family holdings. If you wish to pick up where he left off, you need only say so.”
“Where’s the property?” Malachi asked, skimming the paper. Two familiar words jumped out at him. “Olread Cove? I have a house in Olread Cove?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s one of my favorite places to visit. Nice village, friendly people. Where is the house exactly?” The cave with his stored retirement plan was in Olread Cove, tucked along the beach where he’d found Emma’s journal. A fanciful part of his brain marveled at the many treasures that beach held for him. Emma’s thoughts, written in black and white, in addition to treasures gathered from all those years at sea.
If the house was even remotely close to the coastline, it would be a fortuitously convenient location for a residence. Close to his cave and a quiet village he already liked. If it happened to put him close to a certain widow, then even better. Having a place near Emma for his brief times ashore would be perfect.
Of course, should the worst possible scenario happen and his mother prevailed with the Admiralty—he suppressed a wave of cold fear at the thought of never returning to sea—nothing said he had to live in London. The estates could be handled from anywhere. Emma wouldn’t appreciate being a consolation prize in his thoughts, but a small part of him couldn’t help entertaining a scenario in which he and Emma lived near enough to have a legitimate relationship. Leading where, he wasn’t sure. But the idea of seeing her on a regular basis took away some of the dread associated with staying in England.
Which, frankly, should terrify him in itself. What they were doing was short term. There was no way of knowing she would even want to keep seeing him back in the Cove if he was to stick around.
