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was today.
    Since his return to England, he had been exploring the most modern methodology, trying to find the best way to stop the declining income stream from the agricultural production and instead turn a profit.
    One of the ideas he had implemented was the construction of a brewery on lands in the nearby village of Swansdowne. He intended to brew very high-quality ale, which, he was convinced, was the most profitable use of the Bransford barley crop. As he had done with the sugar produced at Sugar Reef, he intended to market Swansdowne Ale as the finest in England. He also intended to increase the estate’s sheep herds and perhaps put in a woolen mill. All of that took money, of course, of which—at least until he married—he had little.
    Royal released a breath, the notion of money returning his thoughts once more to the ledgers on the desk in front of him. In the last thirty days, he had begun to study the accounts that reflected former Bransford holdings, including several mills and a coal mine, properties his father had sold in order to raise money.
    He had also studied the investments his father had made over the last several years.
    At first the amount the late duke had invested had been small, the losses of little consequence. About three years ago his father’s health had begun to decline, though, at the duke’s insistence, Royal had never really known how severely. In an effort to recover the money, larger, even more poorly chosen investments were made and the losses began to mount.
    Good money followed bad, and the duke began to sell his unentailed holdings in order to pay off his debts. Even the house itself was not safe from ransacking, as evidenced by the sale of the priceless paintings and statues missing from the castle, and the estate’s run-down condition.
    Royal raked a hand through his hair, dislodging several heavy, slightly wavy strands. He looked up atthe sound of a familiar rap on the door. The panel swung wide and Sheridan Knowles stood in the opening. Never one to stand on formality, he strolled into the study.
    “I see, as usual, your nose is buried in those damnable ledgers. I suppose I am interrupting.”
    “Yes, but since I am not particularly happy with what I am finding in the pages, you may as well sit down.”
    Sherry walked forward with his usual casual ease, pausing for a moment at the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “Shall I pour one for you?”
    Royal shook his head. “I’ve too much yet to do.”
    Sheridan studied the rich golden-brown liquid in his glass, just a little darker than his hair. “I just stopped by to tell you the patrols have been organized. My men will start tonight, cover the area around Bransford and Wellesley, and also the road between here and Swansdowne.”
    “Well done.”
    Sheridan sauntered behind the desk and looked over Royal’s shoulder at the big leather volumes lying open on top, some of the writing on the older pages beginning to fade. “So what are you finding that you do not like?”
    Royal sighed. “I am seeing thousands of pounds draining away as if they were sand poured down a rat hole. For the last few years, my father made one bad investment after another. It is a difficult thing to say, but after he first took ill three years ago, I don’t believe his mind was ever quite the same.”
    “A lot of rich men make poor investments.”
    “True enough, but up until that time, my father wasn’t one of them.” He turned several pages, glanced down at the writing in one of the columns. “See here,for example, money that quite literally went up in smoke. Last year, my father invested in a cotton mill near Bolton. Six months later, the mill caught fire and burned to the ground. Apparently, the company had no insurance.”
    Sheridan shook his head. “Certainly a thing like that wouldn’t have happened to the shrewd, formidable man your father used to be.”
    “No, indeed. I’ve hired an investigator, Sherry. A man named Chase