Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,8
through the monotone ramblings of the bespectacled fellow.
“The title of Milford goes back nearly seven and a half centuries and was created for William Greyson, a Norman baron . . .”
Ticktock-ticktock.
Dare stole a glance at the fine clock resting on the mantel and narrowed his eyes.
Austrian giltwood. Blue glass. Sometime of the last century. Certainly not the oldest, and yet it could still fetch a nice enough sum to see several wrongly accused freed.
His skin burnt from the feel of eyes trained on him.
Dare looked over.
Lady Kinsley . . . his sister—the sister he’d only just recently met—glared blackly at him.
“Its earlier grant was by Henry I to his first wife.” The gentleman frowned and consulted his papers. “Many pardons, his second wife, Adeliza, of the forfeited honor of—”
“We can stop with all this,” Dare cut in. “I don’t require a history lesson.” Nor did he want one. “Just tell me: How much do I have?” That was what mattered. That and what he could do with the fortune he’d inherit.
The servant’s visible Adam’s apple jumped. “O-of course, my lord.” He shuffled ahead several pages.
For the first time since he’d gathered here with his grandparents and sister, Dare leaned forward in his chair, eager and interested. He cracked his knuckles . . . and waited.
“But . . . in order to understand the current economic circumstances of the Milford title, one must understand the history of England on the whole.”
Bloody hell.
Dare sat back in his chair as Mr. Heron launched into an accounting of the kingdom’s finances following the Napoleonic Wars. To hell with this. To hell with all this. And while the servant ran on with those unimportant-to-Dare details, Dare resumed his mental inventorying of the office.
His office.
A French neoclassical vase. He peered at the gold-and-floral-painted piece and pegged it as newer—somewhere between the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth. With the right buyer, it’d fetch a good sum.
The floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, however, required closer inspection.
“Upon his death, she married William, who became master of the lands . . . Some of these lands have remained entailed. Some unentailed . . .”
Annnd it appeared they’d returned to the twelfth century. Dare consulted the clock once more.
An hour of this hell. And he was no closer to having answers than when it had first begun.
“Busy day?”
That curt query brought Heron’s recitation to an abrupt stop.
Dare looked to the source of the interruption.
Kinsley Greyson had her perpetual glare leveled on him.
“I beg your pardon?” Dare asked in cool tones that had managed to send taller, broader men fleeing in the opposite direction.
Mr. Heron looked hopelessly between the siblings, then over at the duke.
“Kinsley,” the duke said warningly.
The young lady, however, kept a fierce gaze trained on Dare.
And then, in a remarkable show of bravery, Kinsley rested her palms on her knees and leaned forward. “You’re stepping into one of the oldest, most distinguished titles. One that has existed since William the Conqueror.”
God, it was as though his father had returned from the grave and spoken through the mouth of his youngest child. And Dare could not resist the sting of resentment and loathing.
“You can spare some time to learn about that important history before asking what is in it for you,” the young woman was saying. Fire and hatred blazed from her eyes.
Dare would hand it to the young woman. She’d a greater strength than he had credited any nobleman as having. That realization, however, still changed nothing. The only things that mattered, the only reason he was here even now, were the funds he stood to earn.
Leaning forward, he matched his sister in her positioning. “This isn’t my history.” Not anymore. Mayhap it never had been. “And it never will be.”
“That is just fine with—”
“That is enough,” the duchess cut in with stern tones. “Furthermore, we don’t make productions in front of . . . anyone. You know that.” Her scolding came quieter.
Her mouth set stonily, Lady Kinsley slumped in her chair, looking very much like a recalcitrant child. Nay, she was more like . . .
I’m going to ride the rail down, and you can’t stop me . . .
“What of Perrin?” His younger brother, who’d done an admirable job in his stead, who’d always done . . . everything right. “I trust he would have done well enough in the role of marquess that you wouldn’t have had to come searching for me.”
Her Grace pressed a fist to her breast, and husband and wife shared a look.