Chapter 8

"Your Grace, with all due respect, these matters will not wait for your interest before needing to be resolved. There are pressing issues among them indeed, and I dare say it would not be wise to delay addressing them."

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 sure why it 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 deposited on 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 frankly should be 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 may be 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 me what, 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.

"I hardly know what to say," Anthony murmured. "But if that is true, why would he have agreed to the race? Why would my mother have let him go along with it?"

"From what little I understand of the situation, your father expressly ordered the physician not to speak a word of things to Her Grace," Mr Acaster replied. "Your father told no one except those who worked most closely with him. He did not want to alarm the duchess, believing, I think, that his weakness would pass in time."

Anthony glanced over his shoulder through the window leading to the garden. Sun beat down on the grounds as strongly as it had that morning. He tried to push the thought of his father suffering alone out of his mind.

It was a pointless task.

"That old fool, letting his pride get in the way of his recovery …" Anthony paused. "Who was this physician? Someone new?"

"Doctor De Laurier, I believe. He runs his practice out of Norwich."

Anthony didn't recognize the name. The family physician had always been Boris McMillan. If his father hoped to keep the secret from his mother, it stood to reason that he had chosen to consult with a doctor she didn't know.

Anthony squinted against the sun as it streamed through the window. A silhouette passed under the nearby arbor, and he recognized the figure instantly as Marianne. She sported the same pale pink dress as that morning, hoisting up the hem of her skirts as she cut through the flower beds. His mother would have been horrified, but the sight only made Anthony smile.

Marianne was all too good at distracting him. She was funny and bright, effortlessly charming. With so much misery ensconcing them all in the manor, he was glad of the distraction, already imagining the next time they would speak. For now, he needed to conclude matters with Mr Acaster.

"I would like to talk to this man," Anthony declared, turning suddenly back to his agent.

He didn't feel the need to explain his motivations. For the simple fact of being Edward's son, he needed to know what exactly had happened.

Or maybe, Anthony thought to himself, you're still hoping to discover something that will prove the impossible. Your father was not immortal, and you are not immortal either.

*

"There you are, darling Marianne!" Catherine beamed at her as Marianne arrived in the archway to the drawing room. "Frida and I were just discussing your wardrobe for the party at Hagram Park—assuming, of course, that you have come to the correct conclusion and wish to attend."

Marianne drifted by the entrance, her eyes still adjusting to the light indoors. She had taken a brief but necessary walk when Catherine had retired inside with Miss Barclay a few hours earlier. Her mind had been racing since their discussion at breakfast. Not even one week ago she had been filling out invoices and sewing trims in the back of her mother's shop. Now she had to face the prospect of meeting a whole gaggle of aristocrats who would not have looked at her twice before becoming a Chambers instead of a Buller.

The walk had helped clear her mind, and she entered the room confident in her decision. Catherine was right when she said Marianne was just delaying the inevitable. Returning to London with all her new knowledge would have been impossible.

Marianne Buller was as dead as Anne. Neither would be able to rest until Nicholas' daughter was allowed a chance at life. If that meant learning to be a lady, then so be it. Marianne would just have to suck it up and try.

A hundred questions still needed answering. Where would Marianne get her money? Where was she going to stay? It was enough to resolve one matter: She would attend the party.

"I thought my attendance depended on His Grace's decision," Marianne replied, leaning on the back of the remaining empty sofa. "If he does decide to attend … then I agree that I should go with him."

Catherine's face lit up with delight. She clapped her hands, jumping to her feet. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed Marianne and dragged her onto the sofa beside her.

"Such wonderful news. Truly, wonderful news," Catherine cried. She squeezed Marianne's hands. "Though I never doubted you for a second, naturally. There really was no other outcome." She smoothed out a loose ringlet in Marianne's hair, grooming her like always. "But I must ask—what decided for you in the end?"

"I suppose ..." Marianne bit her lower lip, unsure how much to reveal. "When we spoke this morning about your duties as a duchess, it made me realize that I could be of so much use to people as the daughter of an earl. I would like to use my name and influence to make a difference. I'm not sure where to begin. Who knows whether anyone will even listen to me? It's worth a try at least, don't you think?"

"How honoured I am to have inspired you," Catherine said in awe, pressing a hand to her chest. "And yes, I agree. Every woman must seize the opportunities presented to her, especially a rare gift like this."

Marianne was glad Catherine felt that way. So glad, in fact, that she saw no point in correcting her. Catherine was inspiring. There was no denying her kind spirit. But Marianne wanted to do even more with her newfound influence.

She had only a basic knowledge of politics—Whigs and Tories and everything else that could be read in the newspapers—but there had to be people out who wanted to make real changes, people who needed someone with the money and the authority to carry them out.

For the first time in her life, Marianne had witnessed how the other half truly lived. The luxuries, the parties, the food, the space ... She couldn't believe how ignorant she had been to the inequality that defined their world. For someone to be at the top, hundreds of thousands of others had to be at the bottom.

She and Anne had lived in one of the more affluent neighbourhoods in Lambeth. But she still remembered their visits to the rookeries. She couldn't forget if she tried. And with that thought, she wondered whether the Colline family had ever seen poverty and struggle up close and personal.

The duchess had spoken about prejudices against the ton. To Marianne, the ton understood even less about the working class—or didn't care to learn—and even less than that about the people in the slums. Immigrants, orphans, and veterans forced to rag-pick or turn to crime just to survive.

There were endless problems just sitting on their own doorstep. Children, she was sure, were going hungry not five miles away, while that night, the Colline family was going to feast on exotic fruits that cost more than the average year's salary.

She had loved being of use to others at Buller's Stitch. Nothing had made her happier than seeing a nervous young woman equipped to face the world with a new gown. Now, she had the chance to make a real difference. Not with dresses, but with real action.

Maybe she was being an idealistic fool. Maybe she would try to help change the world and find herself completely useless in the end. None of that mattered. She had to try. She would never forgive herself if she didn't. The people back home, like Sarah, would never forgive her either.

"You look lost in thought, my dear." Catherine roused her gently. "Is everything all right?"

"I am a little lost. There is so much to consider and so much that needs doing," Marianne replied, blinking. "But I think this could be a good change—a worthwhile change. You're right. I should seize the opportunity while I can." Her gaze drifted to the floor, feeling uncomfortable about asking what needed to be asked. "Nicholas ... my father ... Was there nothing left for me once he was gone?"

Catherine's cheeks coloured. It obviously wasn't proper to discuss money. Marianne made a mental note of it. "As I said, Nicholas' father cut him off after the elopement. If you had been born a man, his title and properties would have been passed down to you, regardless of your long estrangement from the ton. As things stand, I'm afraid Nicholas left only his name to you, darling." She smiled reassuringly.

"But you must not underestimate the power of a name. The status of your birth alone will open many doors for you. While you may not become the Countess of Foxburn directly, any sons you bear could potentially pick up the title in years to come. And any gentleman without a title will not pass up an opportunity to marry the daughter of an earl, for example—certainly not one as special and beautiful as you are."

"You truly believe that someone would want to marry me?" Marianne said, not meaning to sound as self-deprecating as she had. "Just for the name?"

Catherine nodded, reaching for her tea. "These things may sound confusing to you, but you would be surprised what a landed gentleman would do to climb the ladder. They're an ambitious lot. In the eyes of a pilgrim, every rung closer to heaven is worth the risk of falling—wouldn't you agree?"

Her tone was mocking, almost diminishing, though it wasn't at Marianne's expense. Marianne didn't know enough about the gentry to pass judgement like Catherine. Comparing the likes of the ton to angels in heaven, however, left a bad taste in her mouth. The nearest vicar would likely have agreed.

"And you will want to secure a marriage quickly," Catherine continued, her voice serious now rather than joking. "You are one-and-twenty. Not a terrible age to be on the marriage mart, by any means. But you will be competing against girls from all across England, some of whom will be five years younger than you, accomplished, less polarizing, and so forth.

Your uniqueness will shine a spotlight on you for a time. We need to make the most of that while we can. We should formally present you next spring once we've acquired all the necessary documents. And once, most naturally, we have met the rest of the Chambers family."

Marianne looked at the ground. She hadn't given much thought to marriage until her mother's death. From what Catherine was saying, it seemed like a necessary evil. There was little chance of finding true love before she was too old to be of interest to anyone—that concept alone made her snarl in disgust. But maybe she could find a kind and decent landed gentleman like Catherine had suggested.

They can't all be so bad, she thought. Anthony has been an aristocrat his whole life, and he still manages to embody every quality a woman looks for in a man. Gentle, passionate, thoughtful, handsome ...

Marianne cleared her throat, eager to change the topic.

"Who became my father's heir?" She looked towards Miss Barclay, who nodded, confirming that there had to have been one. "If my father was next in line to become the Earl of Foxburn but died before that could happen, surely someone had to have become the new earl. Did Nicholas not have any brothers?"

The duchess shook her head. "No brothers," she replied. "I've done some investigating in the few days since your arrival. When the late earl passed, the title was inherited by the son of your father's cousin.

His name is Gideon Manners. I believe he is not much older than our Anthony. He resides in Suffolk—perhaps a three-hour drive from here? The Foxburn estate has been rented to a different family, and they pointed us towards Manners, now living in Bury St. Edmunds."

Marianne contemplated the news soberly. She had real, living relatives out there. It was anyone's guess what they would think of her once they learned of her existence. Under normal circumstances, they probably would have been glad to meet her. But if she had learned anything about aristocrats in her few short days of being one, it was that nothing about them was normal.

"I've never had a family before," she murmured absently. When she looked up, the other women were staring at her expectantly. "I mean, a real family with cousins, uncles, and such. For my entire life, it was just my mother and me. Do you think the new earl would want to meet me?"

"Doubtless, he would. I will write to him, and we will find out for definite," Catherine said. "Now, I shan't lie. It may take some convincing to make Lord Foxburn see the truth. Many charlatans have falsely claimed a noble birth. Such is not the case for you, and in time, everyone will come to see that." She turned to solicit Miss Barclay. "Which reminds me ... Has there been any word on those records from Brittany?"

Miss Barclay straightened in her seat. Marianne looked at her, confused, before remembering what Catherine had said on the day of her arrival. Her parents had fled to France after their wedding, and Marianne had likely been christened there.

She could hardly believe that there were years of her life when she had had a mother and a father – when they had loved each other and loved her. Her eyes smarted at the thought, and she lowered her gaze as Miss Barclay started to speak.

"Her Grace tasked me with finding a record of your christening," Miss Barclay explained. "I followed a lead to a small town in France, where it appears that your mother and father settled once they fled England. I'm afraid it will be some time until the church replies." She turned to the duchess.

"In the meantime, I've contacted some women who worked alongside Anne Buller under the Earl of Foxburn. A few have replied, agreeing to meet with us and testify to Anne's pregnancy and her escape with Nicholas.

Between their testimonies and the letters Anne sent you, Your Grace, I imagine they would provide sufficient proof to convince even this Gideon Manners of Lady Marianne's connection to the Chambers family."

Catherine nodded her thanks for Marianne, who sat motionlessly beside her. There was nothing to do but wait until the records came in unless Gideon Manners was a trusting fellow. From what Catherine had said, Marianne doubted any lord would willingly accept a claimant to their title without solid proof.

"None of this should slow us down," Catherine said resolutely. "I have more evidence I can dig up and show them if the young earl is not satisfied with that. Few would challenge my word in this area, including the new Earl of Foxburn.

If I say that you are Nicholas' daughter, as I know you to be, then that declaration alone with be sufficient evidence for most sceptics. Attending the party at Hagram Park would be a perfect opportunity to test the waters. Now," she sighed, "if only I can get my son to agree ..."

"He does," a voice came from behind them.

Marianne twisted in her seat, heart skipping a beat as Anthony appeared in the archway. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. The last time she had seen him, he had gone to attend some meeting. How long had he been standing there instead, eavesdropping on them?

"Like Marianne, I agree that we should not delay her introduction to the ton," he said.

A long while, it seems, Marianne thought, answering her own question.

"I do not revel at the idea of postponing my trip to London." Anthony stepped into the room, waving a hand magnanimously in the air. "Like you," he directed at Marianne, "they will be calling me by a name that I have yet to truly earn. We will both be playing parts. Well, at least we may play them side by side."

She knew he meant nothing by that innocent comment, but Marianne still felt her cheeks grow hot at the idea of teaming up with Anthony and facing their troubles together. In the few days since they had met, she had come to trust him implicitly. She wondered what more she would learn about him at the Hindborough party, smiling at the thought. They would be alone, away from the watchful eye of his mother …

Almost as quickly as the idea had made her smile, Marianne's gut twisted in fear.

"If you're certain that's a good idea, then I may need some help learning how not to make a fool of myself, and soon," Marianne said. "I don't know anything about hunting parties. I've never held a gun in my life."

"Oh, darling Marianne, no." Catherine laughed, tapping Marianne's hand.

"Luckily for you, the women do not hunt," Anthony interjected, with a smile that made Marianne melt. "We will all return to Moorhaven with our limbs intact—that much I promise you. As for your other concerns ..." He nodded at Miss Barclay. "I imagine between the four of us, we can provide a decent education in the days before the party. For my part, it would be a pleasure to teach you what I know ..."