Page 8 of Taming of the Rake
“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath as he stared up at what had once been one of the finest homes in Lancashire.
He cringed when the front door creaked and groaned like an old man’s bones as it was pushed open, revealing Caruthers—who had been serving as the butler since David was in leading strings. He’d grown thin, and his gait was slower than David remembered. What hair remaining on his head had turned a snowy white, offering a stark contrast to his somber black attire.
“Welcome home, sir,” the butler said with a stiff bow. “Mrs. Graham had begun to worry at the delay.”
“There was trouble with the carriage and we had to stop for repairs,” he said, peering past the butler and into the entrance hall. Dark, dusty, and uninviting, it loomed like the maw of some hellish nightmare. There was an odor wafting from within—that of death and decay. “Where is she?”
“In the blue salon with your sisters.”
“Very good.” He had nearly made it inside before a sudden thought had him turning back to Caruthers. “Wedostill have footmen, do we not? No one’s come to see to my things.”
“A few, sir. I will send for one right away.”
Well, that was a good sign, he supposed. If they could still afford to pay servants, they might not be as bad off as he had first supposed.
Yet again, his optimism was overshadowed by even more evidence that the Graham estate and house grounds were on the brink of complete ruin. Exhaustion made it difficult to manage a blank expression as he took it all in. With the housekeeper sweeping into a curtsy and watching him with an anxious expression, he studied every detail. Faded wallpaper and dull wood wainscoting. A checkered pattern of black and white tiles that could use a good polish. Tarnished brass sconces hanging askew, and the tell-tale patches on the walls showing where paintings had once hung.
Craning his neck, he took stock of the skylight, which ought to allow in a great deal of natural light, even on a dreary day such as this. However, a thick coat of grime obscured the panes—which was probably for the best. More light would only better display the disgraceful state of the space. He was loath to take a step beyond the entrance hall, but the welcoming smile of the housekeeper bolstered him a bit.
“Welcome home Master David!” gushed Mrs. Moffat. She was as much a fixture in this house as Caruthers, having served the family for as long as David had been living. “Oh, but it’s so difficult to remember that you aren’t a mischievous little boy anymore. Forgive me,Mr.Graham.”
Plump and ruddy-cheeked, she had to gaze up to look him in the eye. Her endearing face and kindly brown eyes offered a modicum of succor as David took hold of her shoulders.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” he teased. “Mr. Graham sounds far too serious, and we both know I’m as much a mischievous boy as I ever was.”
She giggled like a woman half her age, reaching up to cup his cheek with one doughy hand. “Still as incorrigible as ever, I see. Master David, it is.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Mrs. Moffat’s cheerful expression gave way to a pitying one, and she darted a look down the corridor. “I’m so glad you’re home. Your poor mother has been inconsolable, and your sisters … they need you.”
He patted the housekeeper’s back as she began to blubber and sniffle. “I’m here now. I will take care of them.”
Someone had to. He had done his part, thinking that the people he loved were secure because of his efforts and thoughtfulness. Now, it seemed that wasn’t the case. He would get to the bottom of the condition of the estate and what had been done with his money; but not before he had comforted his mother and sister.
Clearing her throat, Mrs. Moffat inclined her head toward the door across the entrance hall, leading into the drawing room meant for receiving visitors. Its doors were fastened tight.
“Mr. Graham is within, if you wish to see him.”
David flinched, his gorge rising as he envisioned a shriveled corpse on the other side of the closed doors. Now he realized what that nostril-singeing smell was. “You mean to say he hasn’t been buried yet?”
“Mrs. Graham wouldn’t allow it until you had arrived. Besides, as the man of the house, it falls to you to represent the family at the funeral since none of them can attend.”
He grimaced at the reminder that he had now stepped into his father’s shoes, something he hadn’t anticipated doing for another decade or more.
“You needn’t worry, Master David … we’ve taken pains to preserve him as best we can with ice. And, well … flowers help.”
Mentally counting the days that had passed since his father’s demise, Wren’s journey to London, and David’s delayed return, he cringed. While he was certain Mrs. Moffat and the staff had done the best they could, he had no desire to set foot inside that room.
“I’ll see to Mother first.”
“Of course, of course. Dinner will be ready soon, but I suppose after such a long journey you must be hungry. Can I send for refreshment?”
“I can wait for dinner.”
He headed for the drawing room then, avoiding another glance in the direction of the chamber holding his father’s corpse. It was another matter he must attend to, and quickly, but his remaining family required his attention. The darkened corridor held the odor of mildew, which meant there was a leak nearby. The floor runner was bare and worn, and his boots echoed on the boards beneath, rendering it all but useless.
The door hung open a crack, and when he pushed it wide he found three women shrouded in black and clustered on a sofa.
