Prime Minister, Lord High Chamberlain, Equerry to the Crown, of course. They have influenced kings, my lord.”
“Impressive.” He didn’t remind Roker that he knew that well.
Roker would know. It was his way of dampening pretension, keeping John in awe of the rank he held. Making him subject to the title and family.
John refused to play that game. He would make the earldom pay and leave it healthy, but he would not become a slave to it.
He would have his own life. Somehow.
“But how does it stand financially? There are some improvements I wish to undertake. For instance. I want a full report on the estates. Why is David Carlisle not here yet?”
He knew one answer to that. Because the current land steward, as a boy, had teased and sneered at the then John Dalkington-Smythe without mercy. He’d called him an upstart, a shiner, an arse-licker, until John had the growth spurt that had taken him to six feet tall at sixteen. Then he’d beaten the snot out of the little worm. Carlisle had sworn he would never forget. Was he petty enough to resent one beating? John thought it might be.
Not that he felt proud of the fact, oh no, although he did feel a touch of pride at the memory. Wholly unmerited, of course. Now David Carlisle, would be understandably nervous. Good, he thought viciously. He deserved to. Carlisle’s attitude did not mean he was bad at his job, even though he’d inherited it from his father, nearly as inevitably as John’s cousin had inherited the title from his father.
A chill bedamned. That was merely an excuse, a chance to show John that although he held the title, David Carlisle still ruled the estate.
Maybe he had a second cousin waiting to step into his shoes.
“I have written to the steward, demanding his presence here next week, by Thursday without fail. It will take him two days to travel to London, so he may start on Monday and have Wednesday to prepare himself for the meeting. By then, I want to be fully in command of the part that you oversee, Mr. Roker.”
“I fear you might find the business of the estate a trifle more complex than your fur-trapping concern.”
Irritation filled John. Roker hadn’t researched him properly.
True, he traded under the simpler name of Smith, but Pickering and Smith was a significant force in several areas. He had half expected Roker to guess his secret, would have respected the man more if he had.
“I brought the summary accounts.” Roker reverently placed the leather-bound book on the desk. “I have this, and one other copy, which is drawn up as a safeguard and kept in my safe. His late lordship always found this sufficient.”
“You are in possession of both?”
“Your predecessor preferred it that way.”
Sometimes they did, although John couldn’t fathom why. Alter one book, alter the other at the same time. No chance he’d allow that to happen. The further away his control went, the less he liked it. Of business, anyway, although there was a time and a place to give up control.
A vision of Faith flashed across his mind. She was straddling his body, riding him with complete passion and abandon. His cock stirred, making him lean forward in an attempt to stifle its urges.
Likely he wouldn’t satisfy that particular need for a few days. Faith needed her rest after the shock she’d undergone today. Anything more inappropriate he could not imagine in this situation, but that was the way it was with her. Recollections of her smiling, her sated expression after they’d made love, her unguarded happiness came into his mind without his conscious volition.
He picked up the book, the size of a piece of foolscap paper. The binding was worn and the exterior creased leather, smooth to the touch, the spine marked by deep creases where someone had opened and closed it frequently. “I will keep this copy. In future I want to retain this book here, kept up to date weekly. You may send a clerk across or do it yourself, whichever suits you best. Or send me the details and I’ll do it myself.”
“I always compile the central accounts myself, my lord,” Roker said. “I would not trust the task to anyone else.” He sniffed and groped in his pocket, coming up with a pristine, crisply starched handkerchief. Everything about Roker spoke of the neatness and precision of his work, so perhaps he considered it a vocation rather than a profession. The best workers had enthusiasm, and John could understand this, where few other people could not. He knew the pleasure of a neat line of figures, properly tallied; the delight when a balance sheet actually balanced, without the need to insert a few sundries and extras.
“I think it best a copy is kept away from the office,” he said, more gently. “In case of fire, you know.”
The crease between Roker’s brows smoothed out. “Of course, my lord. There is a copy retained in the armaments room at the Hall, but it is not as up to date as this one. I do ensure that I post the latest figures, but I do not think anyone does anything more than put them in a safe place.”
“Glad to hear it.” John looked forward to assessing this new group of numbers. But he decided he had no reason to divulge to the man of his familiarity with accounts and more complex book keeping than the average gentleman. If Roker couldn’t deduce it, from the story of his life so far, then the man was an idiot and didn’t deserve to know.
“My lord, I should inform you that this year at this time, I review the accounts. It is the beginning of the new financial year and I and go over everything personally.”
John raised a brow. “Do your other clients not object?” Roker did not work for him exclusively, he had other people to take care of. He didn’t yet know who else Roker administered, but he would rectify that lack of knowledge very soon.
“You are the principal client, sir, and I spend most of my time on the affairs of the Graywood estate. I need to speak to the justice of the peace in your Hereford estate, for instance. You have some boundary disputes that may turn uncomfortable if we do not attend to them now.”
He showed Roker none of his irritation at the way Roker was talking down to him. “Thank you. I would prefer to go over the books with you, as soon as possible. In a matter of weeks my wife and I will be engaged in the season and too busy to spare the time.
We should make ourselves acceptable as soon as we may, don’t you agree?”
Roker agreed smoothly. “However, we must make every effort to discover an heir.” He coughed. “May I be frank?”
John waved a hand, tacitly giving him permission.
John watched the red colour tinge Roker’s cheekbones. “Sir, your wife is not in the first flush of youth, and I believe you said she married before?”
Why the question? Surely he’d had the sense to research Faith?
“For five years, and yes, I know what you’re about to say. There was no issue.”
“I see. I do not wish to disparage the woman you choose to take as wife, but—“
John sighed. “I have no reason to assume the fault was on her side, if that’s what you want to know. I married her shortly before Waterloo.” A fair question, if intrusive. He paused. “If you recall, the army began to move the previous evening, when the Duke called the muster at the Duchess of Drayton’s ball. My wife and I had no opportunity—since we have reconciled, we must wait on events. However I would prefer to discover more heirs to the title. I don’t wish to give her that burden. Women too concerned with conceiving sometimes fail because of their very worry.” He’d read that somewhere, he couldn’t think where at the moment, but it sounded good to him. It would also keep the lawyer from bothering them overmuch. He’d try to discover where he’d read it and bring the matter to Faith’s attention.
Roker bowed his head. “I regret having to bring up such a delicate matter. I will continue as you suggest. Although when I initiated a search on the death of the fourth earl, I found no one.”