James, Earl of Crofton

by Rebecca Cohen

  Remembrance busied himself picking up random items James had strewn about the room, trying to restore some order. “If you’d prefer, I could tell him to go away and come back later.”

  “No. I can’t hide in here all day.” No matter how much he would’ve liked to.

  Remembrance shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You’re the earl now. You can do what you like.”

  “And you are the manservant to the earl. You might want to start acting like it.” It came out brusquer than he’d intended.

  Remembrance flushed a colour usually reserved for the prettiest of girls. “Sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to be rude or overstep. I’d like to say I’m very honoured that you sent for me. You can ask anything of me and I will do it.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Now, how about you go and get me some breakfast while I wash and speak to the tailor.”

  Remembrance looked relieved, as he should have. Many other members of the nobility wouldn’t allow their servants to speak as he did. “Yes, my lord.” He was halfway out the door when he stopped and removed a letter from his pocket. “Mr Dowson asked if I would pass this on.”

  Remembrance left, and James read the message.

  Please forgive my intrusion at this time, but I wanted to offer you my most heartfelt sympathies. I, too, know what it is like to lose a father. My own passed some time ago now, but I still keenly miss him. I can only imagine, however, the weight you must feel at the passing down of the earldom. Unlike many of your fellow nobles, I could always see the sense of duty you carried with you, and although you would not deny that court brought you pleasure, I saw you had roles to play beyond those of others. But you are a strong man, a capable man, one any father would be proud of.

  If there is anything I can do to help, call on me at any point and I will be your most obliging servant. My help is offered freely and with a willingness to support.

  Your devoted friend, Adam

  James choked back a sob, heartened by Adam’s words. Carefully, he folded the paper and placed it in the drawer by his bedside, knowing he would read that letter time and time again.

  He washed away the tears and regret, the rough cloths scraping away a layer of grime and with it his insecurity. He would leave this room the type of man he intended to be: the earl, not the mouse.

  Chapter 9

  James hated wearing black. The colour leached the life from him, but he knew it would be seen as a lack of respect if he did not do so. He accepted the need for the funeral, his father buried in the Redbourn crypt at the local church along with other members of the family who had gone before him, but somehow it felt unfair he must endure the colour for several weeks. Wearing another colour would not belittle his grief or underplay how much his father meant to him, but in the eyes of the world he would be seen as uncaring. Neither could he escape it at bedtime; his nightshirt and cap were also suitably dour.

  The last week had been difficult, the visitors and condolences paid for the passing of his father were offered with one hand, congratulations on becoming the earl with the other. He noticed how people had changed in their attitude towards him. As viscount, he’d already commanded some respect, but now he was the earl the sycophants were out in force. James couldn’t blame them. Having the blessing of a noble could be the making of a man, but despite knowing this day would always come, dealing with the overbearing pleasantries was too much for now. However, there was something about the eyes of some of the local wealthy men, something that said they weren’t sure, that he was still a boy compared to them. Or was he reading his own insecurities into the features of others?

  In the little spare time he had, he’d been scouring the hall for his father’s diary. He’d recruited Remembrance for the task, but neither of them had much joy. Although, he had found several volumes of his grandfather’s journals, and they had quickly become his bedtime reading, delighting him with stories from the time of the war and the family’s life in France. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but it was the perfect distraction.

  He itched to return to London. The hall felt like a prison, especially as his mother had chosen not to rest on her laurels and had spent much of her time with local ladies of note. And then there was Francis. James had expected him to hightail it back to Cambridge as soon as the funeral had finished, but instead he had remained, the two of them playing a game of forced politeness as they both festered over their argument. James was not one to back down. Francis had overstepped the mark and needed to apologise.

  James really wanted that to happen, wanted to involve Francis in the business of the estate, bring him into his confidence over their father’s worries, because Francis would not be a student forever, and he was bright and capable, someone who could help James run the hall while James was in London.

  After another futile search, James needed some fresh air and to stretch his legs. At least the hall was quiet now. He would be returning to London in two days; he needed to present himself to the king and he had several appointments where he wanted to solidify the family’s investment. His first thoughts were to go for a ride, but his heart wasn’t in it, and with the weather pleasant and the ground dry underfoot, he decided a walk around the lake would suffice. He almost changed his mind when he saw Francis sitting under a mature chestnut tree, reading. His intention was to give a curt nod and continue with his walk. Francis had other ideas.

  “James, wait. Please.”

  He stopped and steeled himself for another diatribe about his incompetence. “Yes.”

  “Mother said you are leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  “That is so. Are you here to tell me how I am running away from my responsibilities?” To his own ear he sounded like a pompous arse.

  Francis didn’t back down; instead, his mouth was set in a firm line. “I was out of order. I let my grief cloud my words. I am truly sorry, James.”

  James grabbed him and pulled him into a firm embrace. “This is not the time to be fighting.”

  Francis let out a quiet sob, and James rubbed his back. They stood, brothers united in grief, for a few moments before Francis pulled away. “I also intend to leave. But I am worried about Mother.”

  “I would not worry; she has many friends. She has barely been alone since the funeral.” James smiled weakly. “And what of you?”

  “I still cannot really believe Father has gone. But I find myself impotent here—I wish to return to college.”

  “I feel the same. Somehow, there is so much at the hall I do not understand. The estate management alone is maddening, but I must return to London as the king expects.” He rubbed his hands over his face. Part of him didn’t want to burden Francis with his knowledge, but at the same time he wanted to share the weight he carried. “Father warned me there was something amiss at the hall.”

  Francis gasped. “What did he say?”

  “That someone is stealing from the estate. Small quantities here and there—and in the grand scheme of things, it not an amount that would see us ruined, but the fact that someone here is so brazen as to manipulate and steal from us troubled him deeply.”

  “Father hated that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, but he intimated there was even more—something worse.”

  “Such as?”

  James shook his head. “He succumbed before he could tell me. He did say information about the thefts could be found in his diary, and I had hoped it would also allude to the other matter. But the diary has disappeared.”

  “Is that what you’ve been searching for?”

  “I suppose I’ve used it as a way to distract myself,” he admitted. “I want to do this for Father. Start as I mean to go on. I don’t want people thinking they can take advantage of me because of my age. And I need to find out what else is going on. We did not want dark deeds associated with our good family name.”

  “I want to help. Now is the time for family to work together,” said Francis, and James had never seen him so earnest, but James also knew Francis nee
ded to return to Cambridge.

  “Any help from you will be cherished, but I do not want to interfere with your studies.”

  “I plan to return in the next few days, but I think it right to take a sabbatical and return to the hall. At most it will delay my studies a year, but what I can learn from you and about the estate will be more valuable for the Redbourn family in the future.”

  “I cannot ask you to do that.”

  “You are not asking, it is my choice.” Francis stood a little straighter. “You need to be in London. The Redbourns need your presence there to retain our good status with the king, but, likewise, you need to be here—and last time I checked you have not the ability to split yourself in two.”

  “Francis.”

  “No listen, we can do this together. You have the connections to find someone you trust to act as estate manager and whoever else you think we need—then we make the hall run as we want, allowing those trusted men do their jobs. But today, you and I both know, Crofton Hall is at risk of a rotten stench spreading through her, and neither of us want that.”

  It seemed a cruel quirk of fate that Francis had found himself as the younger brother, because to James he had as much of the spirit and acumen needed to be a successful earl as James, if not more. Francis’s support lifted his heavy heart. He’d felt he was facing an insurmountable challenge, but now he had an ally, someone he could trust to help. They would still need outside assistance though. Neither he nor Francis would have the first clue how to weed out the troublemakers and ensure the estate was run as it should be. For the first time, he wondered if his father had been mistaken in sending him to university, that he should have been here, learning about the family business, but then he wouldn’t have made the connections he had, so now he had to catch up, that was all.

  “I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear you say the words, Francis. We will discuss it later. I swear that when I need you, I will write. But for now, we must finish our business where needed. I am sure together we will make the Redbourn name even stronger.”

  “I am certain of it.”

  He embraced his little brother in a fierce hug, feeling as if they were kids again but with the excitement of a new adventure in front of them. It didn’t relieve the pain of losing their father, or the worry of what he needed to do, but now James had a surer footing to start the journey. First thing was to return to London and call in a few favours from his oldest and dearest friend.

  James was in his father’s study, collecting the papers he would need once back in London, when a knock made him look up from his work. He had not expected anyone, and no one had been called for.

  “Come.”

  The door opened to reveal the man who was his father’s, now his, estate manager. Clement was neither old nor young, and while James didn’t know his exact age, he would have placed him in his late thirties. He was clean-shaven and dressed in the fashion of someone with a decent, if not large, salary, which befitted his status at Crofton Hall. A part of James thought he was somewhat amiss not to have thought to talk to the man sooner, especially given his father’s warning. But he had hoped to avoid it until his return, when he might have more of an idea what he was doing after speaking to Marchent.

  “Yes, Mr Clement?”

  He bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I have come to offer you my personal and heartfelt condolences on the death of your father.”

  “Thank you. But I am sure that’s not all you’ve come to speak to me about.” He did not bid Clement to sit, since he did not want him to think he had such level of familiarity, nor did he wish to prolong the conversation.

  “Indeed not, my lord. As you are aware, I am your estate manager, and I have been in the position for the last three years. In order to continue the smooth running of the estate, I need your lordship’s blessing in many areas. Such as the payment of the butcher and other local tradesmen. Your father would release the funds needed to me and I would arrange payment, and now I must respectfully ask for that task to fall to you, my lord.”

  James imagined there were many mundane tasks that his father had taken care of, but he was not aware of them. As much as he was loath to trust any of the servants at this time, he could not risk missing something important. “As steward you can read and write well, correct?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then you shall write me a list of all the tradesmen in service to the estate and all the actions and business you expect to conduct in the coming month, and the weekly and monthly costs.” The list would be useful to gauge not only the needs of the estate but how honest Clement was in his dealings. As steward, he would be the best situated to defraud the Redbourn purse, but he was not the only one, and James would not act rashly.

  “It would be my honour, my lord. I will detail as much as I can. Do you wish me to give an overview of the wages and the servants of the household? I would not expect you to have all of the information, due to your important business in London.”

  It was said respectfully enough, and of course Clement was correct, but it did not mean James liked to be reminded of it. Still, now was not the time for a fit of pique. “A welcome aid for my memory.”

  “And the harvest will be upon us within a matter of weeks, my lord. We usually take on several additional labourers.”

  “Write it all down. Including the figures. I will send letters to all our suppliers that any debts accrued during the period of my father’s passing and my becoming earl will be settled immediately, along with my personal assurance future monies will be paid.” He wanted no ill-will with the locals, nor did he want any slight upon the Redbourn name. Not that he expected it. They had been an important family in these parts for centuries. The earldom came later, but the Redbourns had always been a family of means and political acumen in Hertfordshire.

  “I will see to it straightaway, my lord.” Clement hesitated before speaking again. “I wish to say that I am here to support the estate and yourself as the new earl in any way you deem fit. Please call on me for any assistance I can give.”

  A snide voice in James’s head said that was the purpose of a steward, and he was well compensated for the demands the head of the household would impose, but again he did not want to antagonise Clement, not until he’d got a full measure of the man.

  “The Redbourn family are grateful for your loyalty. Please do not let me delay you further.”

  Clement left, and James was once again alone. He did not know what to think of Clement, but what was more than obvious was that he needed help from someone he could trust and he needed it as soon as possible.

  Chapter 10

  James flicked idly through the selection of pamphlets he’d taken to pass the journey, but none of them could hold his attention. He wasn’t in the mood to read about intrigues of the continents or new political machinations that would only make him more annoyed. Neither did he have the desire to the read through some of the records he had brought with him from the hall, or re-read the many lists Clement had provided. They could wait until he had better light and chance to make notes, which would be nigh on impossible given the terrain as the coach lurched towards London.

  Generally, he didn’t mind his own company, but events of the last few weeks left him prone to slipping into the dark areas of his mind when there was no one to distract him. The recent poor weather had made the going difficult. They’d already diverted once due to a swollen river, and a quick look out the window told him they’d had to change again. He was in half a mind to turn around and head back to Crofton Hall, but he knew he needed to return to court to be reintroduced as the earl and catch up with a few of his closest friends.

  The coach slowed further. He heard pounding hooves pass by, but something had spooked the horses, their whinnies and snorts clearly demonstrating their discomfort. The coach shuddered to a standstill. James heard his driver call out, but he couldn’t hear exactly what had been said. Seconds later, a dull thud was accompanied by a cry from the secon
d servant, which was followed by scuffling noises.

  James moved to open the door, to see what had happened, but stopped as he came face to face with the barrel of a pistol.

  “Good day, kind sir. Please get out of your carriage and I’ll try not to shoot you.” The man had the lower half of his face covered with a scarf, and a battered hat was pulled down low so only his eyes were visible. He wore equally distressed clothing, as if he’d come straight from the fields. “And before you think of trying any foolish attempts at bravery, I can as soon search a dead body as a living one.”

  James swallowed down the panic, knowing he needed to do as he was told if he wanted to walk away unharmed. This man was not like the Chivalrous Highwayman; he would have no qualm in leaving James for dead. Carefully, so as not to risk his assailant’s itchy finger on the trigger, James stepped down from the coach. He saw his two servants sprawled unconscious on the ground, but he didn’t see any other bandits lurking close by. The sole horse must belong to the highwayman.

  “I’m always pleasantly surprised to see one of the nobility capable of following simple orders, and bright enough not to do something daft.” His voice was rough with a northern twang. “Now, give me your money and your valuables.”

  James didn’t speak, not sure his voice wouldn’t crack. He slowly reached into his jacket and retrieved his coin purse, holding it out for the thief to take.

  “Very good.” He gestured his pistol at James’s right hand. “Don’t forget the ruby.”

  Of everything he owned, his father’s ring was the one thing he could not bear to part with. Losing him too recent and raw to lose the ring as well. “Please, take anything you want, but leave the ring.”

  He couldn’t see the cold smirk, but he knew it was there from the look in the bastard’s eyes. “Special, is it? Trinket for a lost love or dead parent?”