The clerk pointed. “Here, you see, is the eighth duke, one Archibald Thornton. He was married three times, but since none of those unions resulted in any offspring, his brother, Cecil, was his heir. Unfortunately for my colleagues and I, Cecil moved to Italy before the war, and it took us several months to locate him. When we finally did, we discovered he’d drowned in a canal in Venice, not six weeks after the death of his own brother.”
“Unfortunate for Cecil,” Justin muttered.
“Since he also died without issue”—the clerk pointed again, his finger following an inked line sideways and upward—“we had to go back a generation, to the seventh duke.Hehad two brothers. The elder died six years ago, and although he left twelve children, only one son was actually legitimate. That child, one Clarence Thornton, celebrated so enthusiastically on hearing the news that he fell from his horse, drunk, and broke his neck.”
Justin rolled his eyes. He had no patience for such idiotic behavior. He hadn’t made it to his current position in life by drinking and gaming his days away. He’d worked bloody hard to gain his fortune.
“The seventh duke’sotherbrother died of a head injury in his twenties, so we were forced to go backyetanothergeneration, to the duke’s grandfather, Sir Sidney Thornton.”
Justin drummed his fingers on the desk, wishing he’d installed a bell to summon Simms for moments such as this.
The solicitor, aware of his impatience, rushed to finish. “Sir Sidney had a younger brother, Bertram, who himself had two sons. The eldest, George, was killed in a duel a month ago. Which brings us tohisbrother, William.” He paused meaningfully. “Your father.”
Justin frowned. “My father died in Canada three years ago, on a fur-trading expedition.”
The younger man nodded. “Which brings us toyou,one Justin Trevelyan Thornton. Heir presumptive to the duchy of Wansford, and all its associated incomes and estates. The principal seat, Wansford Hall, is a fine example of the Jacobean architectural style, I believe.”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t care if it’s a fairy-tale castle made entirely out of gingerbread. I don’t want it. Give it to someone else. Whoever’s next in line.”
Turnbull sent him a pained, regretful look. “That’s not how it works, I’m afraid. You can’t refuse a dukedom. Even if you choose not to claim the title by applying to the Lord Chancellor’s office for a writ of summons, the title can never be granted to anyone else until you yourself are dead.”
Justin groaned. “This sounds very much like a Trojan horse: something thatlookslike a gift, but in truth will be nothing but aggravation. There’s always a price to be paid. Come on, out with it. Is the duchy in debt? I bet it is. Mortgaged to the hilt. Crumbling into the ground. Sinking into a swamp.”
“I don’t believe so, no. I’m not privy to the accounts,of course, but the duke’s widow has been running the estate with the aid of the estate manager since the old duke died, and I’ve heard nothing but high praise.”
Justin squinted at the dates inked above the eighth duke’s name and did some swift mental calculation. The man had been over seventy at his death. His widow was doubtless similarly decrepit, but at least it sounded as if she had competent advisors. That was something, at least.
“Therewillbe costs involved, though,” he said. “Am I right?”
Turnbull pursed his lips. “Well, as to that, yes. There are homage fees: one on acceptance of your claim to the title, and another the first time a peer makes his appearance at the House of Lords.”
“Of course,” Justin said acidly. “How much must I pay for the privilege?”
“I believe for a duke, it’s around three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Bloody Hell. So I’m expected to rejoice in suddenly becoming responsible for an estate I’ve never seen, a title I don’t want, and an army of dependents I don’t need?”
The solicitor swallowed. “Er. Yes, sir?”
“Ialsosuppose that I’ll be expected to choose some well-bred, empty-headed chit to provide the duchy with an heir?”
“Well, yes,” Turnbull conceded. His lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “But there areworsethings a man could be required to do.”
“I disagree,” Justin countered sternly. “It sounds like a fate worse than death. An inescapable one.”
The clerk schooled his expression, and made a deferential bow. “You have my condolences. But I’m sure you’ll be equal to the task. After all, you already run oneof England’s most successful trading companies, do you not?”
Justin snorted. “I do indeed. I gather you think I should be more grateful?”
The solicitor shrugged. “With respect, a dukedom is the highest rank a man can achieve in this country, short of being born a royal prince. You will have power. Respect. Wealth.”
“I already have power, respect, and wealth. And I’veearnedthem, not had them handed to me on a silver platter.” Justin glared at him, but there was no escaping the inevitable. He let out an impatient huff. “Fine. I’ll give it a year, no longer. I’ll go to London, set the duchy’s affairs in order, find a wife, and be back here by Easter.”
The solicitor rolled his papers and neatly stashed them away. “You’ll be coming to London soon, then?”
“I suppose I must. Did the eighth duke keep a town house?”
“He did, sir. In Portman Square. But I believe it’s currently being occupied by the late duke’s widow. As the new duke, you do, of course, have the right to occupy the premises, but it might be politic to give the lady a few weeks’ grace to remove to the dower house at Wansford, or to some alternative lodging of her choice.”
