Read When the Duke Returns for Free Online Page B

and read them. Valamksepa had forgotten to speak of guilt.
    Hours later, he raised his head from a stack of papers and stared blearily at his butler.
    â€œYour Grace, would you like me to bring you a light breakfast?”
    Simeon ran a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”
    â€œEleven in the morning. Your Grace ought to go to bed,” Honeydew said disapprovingly.
    Had he really stayed up all night? He had. And yet more papers awaited, stacked in crazy piles around the desk. He’d found a new cache at four in the morning, letters from solicitors pleading for their clients’ payments, letters from his father’s solicitors containing information about the estate, about investments…The only thing that seemed to characterize this particularpile was that they were written on hot-pressed paper rather than foolscap.
    Could it be that his mother hadn’t responded because she didn’t like the type of paper the writers employed?
    The very idea of asking her made him want to groan.
    â€œBreakfast,” Honeydew prompted.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo doubt you would like to bathe before eating,” the butler said, “I shall order a footman to prepare one for you directly.” It wasn’t a hint. It was more like a royal command.
    â€œI have a few more papers to read,” Simeon said. At some point people in his household would have to stop treating him like the rebellious sixteen-year-old boy he had once been.
    A few minutes later he raised his head. “Ah, Honeydew. I forgot to…”
    â€œIt is now one o’clock,” Honeydew informed him.
    Simeon looked with some surprise at the tray next to him. Apparently, he’d eaten all the toast without noticing.
    â€œThose papers have been waiting for years, Your Grace. Surely a night or two won’t make any difference.”
    â€œSome—nay, many—of these papers extend back into the days when my father was alive.”
    â€œAh.” The butler’s face was utterly inexpressive.
    â€œYet my father didn’t suffer a long illness; he died in a carriage accident. How could—” Simeon bit off the words. It wasn’t appropriate to ask the butler why his father had stopped answering estate mail.
    And yet it was true. Incredibly, it seemed that his father had made a practice of not paying bills until he absolutely had to, until letters from solicitors reached hysterical and unpleasant depths. He knew. He’d found all the letters. He even thought there was a system to it:his father paid after the fourth or fifth dunning letter, and then quite frequently only part of the bill.
    Apparently tradesmen were so happy to receive a few pence on the pound that they ceased their complaints. It was inconceivable.
    Well, perhaps it was conceivable in the case of a man with no substance. Yet the Duke of Cosway could hardly be described as poor.
    Simeon kept turning back to the estate books, neatly kept, neatly laid out. The estate was thriving. He couldn’t explain how or why. There had been no improvements made in years. His father had fired the estate manager years ago. But it was. He could pay off all the outstanding bills and feel no pinch.
    So why had his father done it?
    There was only one person who could tell him, and he didn’t wish to speak to her.
    â€œMr. Kinnaird has arrived, Your Grace,” Honeydew said.
    Thank God. His father had somehow neglected to fire Kinnaird, the manager of his London properties, perhaps because he didn’t see him often. “Send him in immediately, please.”
    Kinnaird entered, bowing. He was a tall, nervous-looking man with a skinny bottom that showed to no great advantage in his short frock-coat. With it he wore horizontally striped stockings, undoubtedly because his valet thought the effect would give his legs more breadth.
    â€œKinnaird,” Simeon snapped, thinking that the man looked like a fool. And then: A fool to whom I