Page 17 of Destined to be a Duchess
Anthony peered up at the land agent from the other side of his father’s desk. He gripped the edges of the desk with both hands, head hung partially in boredom—or was that defeat? Simon Acaster had been employed by the estate longer than Anthony had been alive. Having first worked under his grandfather as a young man, Mr Acaster knew everything about Moorhaven Manor, its tenants, and, more importantly, its issues.
It would have been wiser to do many things quickly, like calling Mr Acaster to Moorhaven Manor when Anthony arrived, instead of that afternoon after breakfast with the rest of them in the garden.
Frankly, he wasn’t surewhyit had taken him so long to send that rider down to Norwich to fetch him, yet the disapproving glint in Mr Acaster’s eye made Anthony wish he had waited even longer. He had dreamed of dedicating the last years of his twenties to art, not spending them nose-down in account books.
“Duty is duty,” Anthony said under his breath. He hummed, turning around one of the ledgers Mr Acaster had depositedon his desk. He pinched his nose, thinking fruitlessly. The office smelled partially like dust and partially like his father, distracting him from the task at hand. “You have been at the helm of this ship much longer than I have, Acaster. Simply tell me what needs to be done, and I will do it.”
The agent seemed genuinely surprised that Anthony had needed to ask, as though he was supposed to have been born with all the knowledge to manage a duchy just because he had been born with the right name. Of course, Anthony had spent no small number of hours sitting opposite his father while he had replied to letters and written speeches, but Edward had never tried to teach him anything.
Because he had always imagined there would be more time,Anthony thought.
“The bulk of the administrative and financial duties of the manor can and franklyshouldbe delegated to myself and the other Westden managers. Your tenants will seek to entreat you directly for changes to rent or renovations.” Mr Acaster shook his head, his thick head of white hair shining brightly in the light from the nearby windows. “His Grace should not engage with them. It would set a poor precedent.”
His weathered finger tapped a line in the ledger as he ignored Anthony’s scowl. On the Continent, Anthony had broken bread with every type of person, regardless of their rank. Now that he had returned, he would treat his tenants with some dignity and respect, regardless of what Mr Acaster advised.
“There is one concern for which your presence maybe required,” the agent continued.
“Your father sold a property in Great Yarmouth a month before his passing—the Colline dower house. While the sale has gone through unimpeded by the circumstances, the man who purchased the house was a peer. A visit to Great Yarmouth would be advisable. However, the task is merely social in its nature, one could say ceremonial, as will be the greater part of your duties, Your Grace.”
The revelation gave Anthony pause. He stared down at the ledger as memories of the dower house flowed unbidden into his mind. It had been a large property, built under the Tudors, having belonged to the Colline family long before Queen Elizabeth died. As a child, he had spent Christmastide there alongside Granny Colline every year without fail.
“Why would Father have sold the dower house?” he asked. “Grandmother lived there for nigh on forty years. The place meant as much to him as it did to the rest of us.”
“I was not made privy to His Grace’s motivations.” Mr Acaster shrugged, his chin crinkling with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps he wished to create a new dower house for your mother elsewhere. But certainly, it is not my place to hypothesize.”
Fleetingly, Anthony wondered where the money from the sale had gone. He felt too embarrassed to ask and looked down into the ledger. No one had entered a sum that large into their account yet.
Had his father wanted to ensure Anthony inherited the duchy under the best possible circumstances and had put the money elsewhere? That could not have been possible—his father had had no idea that he was not long for the world when the sale had happened. Or so Anthony had been led to believe.
Anthony glanced around the stately office, decorated with the Westden colours of red and purple, trying to picture his father, a traditionalist to the core, signing away a piece of their history without consulting his heir first.
“All right,” Anthony agreed tentatively. “I will visit Great Yarmouth and introduce myself to the new buyer. Are there any other surprises I should look for in the meantime?”
“None that come immediately to mind, Your Grace.” Mr Acaster paused to take a long sip of lemonade. “Though I cannot say for certain what you would or would not consider surprising. In the final months of your father’s life, he made some decisions which—if I may speak frankly—I personally would not have expected of him.”
Anthony raised a brow. “Such as?”
“Surely you have noticed the Velásquez painting gone from the dining room? The missing first edition Chaucer’s in the library?”
He pursed his lips, and Anthony encouraged him to continue. He hadn’t noticed anything missing, having been too distracted by his own melancholy thoughts to care.
“His Grace rightly never motivated his intentions to me, though what with his declining health, one has to imagine—”
“Declining health?” Anthony held up a hand, thunderstruck. “I was told that my father had been in perfect physical condition leading up to the race, or at the very least, that he had shown no obvious signs of illness.”
Mr Acaster, who was usually so implacable, let his mouth hang open. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Your father assured us that he had told you.”
“Told me what?” When the agent hesitated, Anthony repeated emphatically: “Told mewhat,Acaster?”
“Really, I thought you knew …”
Joining his hands in front of him, Mr Acaster hung his head in shame.
“In the two months before your father’s passing, he suffered from …” He glanced up, confused. “In all honesty, the physician failed to grant him a conclusive diagnosis. At first, His Grace felt lethargic and would retire from his duties much earlier than usual.
He accredited this change to his age, of course. One cannot remain five-and-twenty forever. With his fatigue soon came headaches and shortness of breath. At times, His Grace grew confused over things that once he never would have forgotten.” He paused. “It is not outside the realm of possibility that he thought he had written to you but had, in fact, not.”
Anthony’s eyes widened. The news felt like a punch in the gut. Anthony wanted to believe that Mr Acaster was lying, but the man had no reason to try and deceive him. His father, for whatever reason, had hidden his illness from Anthony. And if he had only known, Edward’s death at Newmarket might have been prevented.
