Manor for Sale, Baron Included: A Victorian Romance (A Romance of Rank Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Esther Hatch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my fellow authors. You all have terrible jobs.

  But it is also the best job, so here we are, still going…

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Esther Hatch

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Jonathan’s solicitor was a horrible human being.

  He was also one of his best friends, so he couldn’t exactly tell him that. “I thought I made myself clear, I don’t want to sell Greenwood Manor. What do you mean you have a buyer?”

  Oliver pushed his spectacles lower on his nose so he could look above them. He didn’t need the blasted things. He wore them so clients would take him seriously. When they were practically hanging off his nose it didn’t make him look serious. It made him look ridiculous. Oliver sniffed—another annoying habit he had formed since becoming a solicitor. “It is your only property that isn’t entailed.”

  Jonathan leaned across the desk and ripped the spectacles off of Oliver’s nose, exposing his friend’s fresh-faced good looks. Oliver didn’t need to pretend with him. “That’s because it was my mother’s.”

  The office grew quiet. Outside a carriage rolled past. Of all the people in London, Oliver knew better than any of them the hole that had been torn in Jonathan’s heart when his mother had passed away. The manor was the one place he had ever felt at home and now his friend wanted to rip it from him. Oliver blinked a few times, shuffled a stack of paper on his desk, and then returned the spectacles to his face. “I know. I know. But after our last conversation, I had an idea. It was highly improbable, but I let my colleagues know that I had a client looking to sell a manor house, and a manor house only. No land. The estate is one of the few you have that is still profitable and no one has used the house for years. I didn’t think I would find anyone interested, for the house is expensive to maintain without the land to support it…”

  Jonathan didn’t need Oliver telling him how expensive his homes were to maintain. His barony had come with three of them in addition to Greenwood Manor. The past year had been filled with sheets of numbers cataloguing every expense and every penny coming in. The numbers had never added up in his favor. Britain's estates were still reeling from the repeal of the Corn Laws and the subsequent lowered price on grain, and his were no exception. While Jonathan hadn’t opposed the change in theory or in vote, in action it had nearly bankrupted him. But his tenants at Greenwood Manor had sheep, not farmland. Unlike the rest of his estates, the lower price of grain had actually been a benefit to them.

  “But Greenwood Manor? Oliver, how can I?”

  Oliver slammed his fist on the desk and Jonathan jumped. “Some people don’t have the luxury of holding on to items worth tens of thousands of pounds. And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Jonathan, you are now one of them.”

  He didn’t seem very sorry. His face was red and his breathing quick. In all of their years at Eton and then Oxford, Jonathan had never heard Oliver voice frustration about his situation. This outburst was the closest his friend had ever come to admitting he not only noticed, but resented his lower station. Oliver must not relish being the bearer of bad news, but Jonathan must look like a fool, every day getting closer to ruin, and not being willing to sell the one thing that would change his fortune for the better.

  Jonathan took a deep breath. He should at least listen to what Oliver had to say. “So you found someone.”

  Oliver lifted his hand from the desk and his forehead smoothed. He put his glasses back on the end of his nose. He was back to being a solicitor, not a friend. “I did. And the offer is quite good. It should allow you to maintain your property for at least your lifetime. And the price of grain will have to come up at some point. You will be able to raise the rents back to what they were before. This could turn things around, even for your children.”

  His children? Jonathan sat back down on the chair in front of Oliver’s desk. Greenwood Manor was supposed to be where he raised his children. They were to wander the grounds, learn about the flowers that grew there, and feel at peace just as he had. How exactly was he supposed to raise children without Greenwood Manor? The lines between Oliver’s eyebrows were returning. It was almost as if he could hear Oliver’s thoughts: Jonathan needed to grow up. For all his fairy-tale like attributions to Greenwood Manor, he hadn’t even set foot on the grounds since his mother died. At first it was because his father hadn’t let him, and then after his father had passed…well…what if it didn’t live up to his memory? And how could it? It was empty.

  But despite never going there, he couldn’t bear to part with it. Not even to save his other estates.

  He was a rubbish baron.

  There was a knock at the office’s exterior door. Oliver had left the door to his private office open to the foyer that connected it to the street. Oliver slid his chair out from behind him and stood. “That is probably her.”

  “Her?” Jonathan eyed the door. Who was Oliver meeting with?

  “The buyer. I told her to meet us here today to discuss the possibility of a sale. She is the soul of discretion, so if you decide you really can’t part with it, you can count on her not to say anything. But, Farnsworth…” Oliver lowered his glasses again, his piercing, icy blue eyes boring into Jonathan’s own. “I don’t think you have a better option than this.”

  A woman? Jonathan sat back, blinking hard. A woman was the client Oliver had drummed up to buy the manor? What kind of woman would buy a manor house on her own? A widow was really the only possibility—most likely one with too much money for her own good. Whoever she was, her husband must have left her a fortune. “You are trying to convince me to sell to a woman?”

  “She was the only person to show interest. It shouldn’t matter that she is a woman.”

  It shouldn’t, but it did. A woman with money meant a lone woman. Greenwood Manor should belong to a family.

  Oliver strode to the door, but Jonathan leaped toward him and turned him around by his elbow. “I’m not selling and I don’t want to be introduced to her.”

  “You should stay and at least hear what she has to say. She could perhaps change your mind.”

  “If she does, I will eat my hat.”

  Oliver rubbed his forehead between his eyes. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t not introduce you, not if you are in the room, and I do think you should stay and hear her out.”

  “Turn her away.”

  “I am not going to stand in the doorway and turn away a respectable woman w
hile she stands in the street. The least I can do is invite her in and speak with her respectably. If you cannot handle that, then even though I highly discourage it, as this may be your only opportunity to get yourself out of this mess you are in, I suggest you leave.”

  Jonathan groaned. Hiring a friend for a solicitor had been a terrible mistake. Jonathan should be the one telling Oliver what to do. “If you insist I stay, I will. But tell her I’m your scribe or something.”

  “My scribe?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan hissed.

  Oliver shook his head. “Have you seen your handwriting?”

  Jonathan slapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m not actually going to be your scribe.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened as if the thought of Jonathan working for him was abhorrent. “Of course you’re not. You are brilliantly under-qualified.”

  Through gritted teeth Jonathan managed a smile. He cocked his head to one side. “Your clerk, then.”

  One side of Oliver’s face scrunched together. If he wanted to disguise his youth and looks, he should make that face more often. “Your organization skills aren’t exactly stellar either.”

  Jonathan let out an exasperated puff of air. “For heaven’s sake, Oliver, just make up something. I will not be introduced to this land-grubbing woman. I will never have another reason to spend another second in her company and I don’t even want to be here now. Just pick whatever skill you think I am worthy of pretending to have and tell her I do that.”

  Oliver frowned, examining him like he was some sort of experiment gone wrong. Jonathan raised his gaze to the ceiling. This was ridiculous. The man couldn’t think of one thing he was good at? They had spent years together at Eton as well as Oxford. And it wasn’t as if he actually had to be good at any of those things—they were only pretending, for heaven’s sake.

  Oliver went through the doorway, crossed the foyer and reached for the handle of the outside door. Jonathan strode over to the large window, as far away from the entrance of the office as he could get. He put a hand at his waistcoat and did his best to look as though he were a working man. What did a working man look like?

  Tired? He rubbed his eyes and raked a hand through his meticulously styled hair. Although he couldn't see the result, it would be unruly in an instant. His hair much preferred a natural state of dishevelment. He didn’t have time to change the lavish knot in his cravat, but a matronly widow surely would not inspect his clothing closely. She wouldn’t be in the room long; it didn’t really matter.

  Oliver opened the door and a young woman walked in. Her hair was dark and piled up on the top of her head with perfect curls. She held herself straight and looked Oliver unabashedly in the eye. Jonathan’s jaw dropped. This was the woman who was to buy Greenwood Manor? He leaned forward on his toes. What the devil was going on?

  He fell back on his heels a moment later when an older woman strode in just behind the dark-haired surprise. She was exactly the type of woman he had expected: impeccable clothing, hair already mostly gray, and an upturned chin exuding wealth. This had to be the widow interested in Greenwood Manor, and the young lady a daughter or a companion.

  The young lady put out her hand and Oliver shook it. Women were never so forward with Jonathan, at least not in this friendly manner, with no fluttering eyelashes or heads lowered in false modesty. Did she and Oliver already know each other from somewhere? Jonathan typically only spoke of business with his solicitor. Yet it seemed as though Oliver should have mentioned such an intriguing acquaintance to him. Was he hiding this relationship?

  “Mrs. Merryweather,” the young lady said, turning to the older woman, “allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oliver Beechcroft.”

  “A pleasure.” Oliver gave her a short bow. Mrs. Merryweather didn’t extend her hand. Oliver motioned for the two women to enter his office and sit at the chairs in front of his desk.

  Jonathan waited for his introduction, but Oliver must have taken his wishes seriously, for it never came. He didn’t mind escaping an introduction with the elderly woman, but he would have liked to have known her companion’s name. There was something about the tilt of her head and the comfortable way she shook hands with Oliver that was…different.

  He had determined to stay by the window, hopefully ignored, but something about the spark in the young lady’s eye drew him like the warmth of a fire. He strode over to the desk and stood behind Oliver’s chair, ignoring the feeling that he was like a young pup hoping for some attention. He was a baron, he reminded himself. He might not feel like one, but it didn’t change the fact that he was. He should be able to take or leave this young woman’s introduction.

  But he would prefer to take it.

  Mrs. Merryweather and her companion cast a quick glance over his person from their seats. The young lady paused at his waistcoat, her eyes focusing on his chest. For some reason he felt the need to take in a deep breath to expand it, but he controlled himself. He only half-expanded it. He didn’t have a tall, dashing figure like Oliver, but he did have an impressive chest.

  The young lady turned questioningly to Oliver.

  “Ah, yes.” Oliver turned to him. “Miss Duncan, Mrs. Merryweather, I’m sorry, an introduction is in order.”

  Miss Duncan. He finally had a name to go with the face. It suited her.

  “This is Jonathan...” He paused before mumbling an incoherent last name that could have been anything. “He is my…” Oliver paused again, hesitation in his eyes. If the blasted man was calculating any skills or talents Jonathan could possibly have, it was taking him much too long. Oliver was excellent at math, history, and governing wealth, but his skills at deception were sadly lacking. Whatever he said now would hardly be believed by the two astute women sitting before him. With a final squint and a wave of his hand in Jonathan’s direction, Oliver spoke. “He is my pugilist.”

  The women blinked.

  His pugilist? True, Jonathan had gotten into trouble in his youth for rows that had turned to fisticuffs, and his knowledge and expertise in the sport had come in handy. But, really? That was really the only skill Oliver could think of?

  And who employed a pugilist?

  Jonathan ignored the urge to slap his hand to his forehead and start the whole introduction over. He would have to wrangle Oliver’s words into making some sort of sense.

  “You are a pugilist?” Mrs. Merryweather asked. Her eyes went to his hands, which were thankfully still clothed in his gloves. He had a few scars from his lessons with Mr. Ashton in the garden of Greenwood Manor, as well as his escapades in university, but nothing like what a real pugilist would boast.

  “Why do you employ a pugilist?” Miss Duncan asked. Her wide-open, honest eyes were positively curious.

  “Yes, Oliver.” Jonathan couldn’t help it. His friend was the one who had come up with the ridiculous idea. Somehow this was more believable than him being a scribe? “Why did you hire a pugilist?”

  Oliver pushed his spectacles up on his nose—a movement that would only make the two women less distinguishable to him. Perhaps he lied better when he couldn't make out people’s faces. If that were the case, he should have pushed his spectacles up five minutes ago.

  “In this business, you never know when a pugilist could come in handy. He isn’t here every day. But he does provide some protection when I bring in clients I am worried about.”

  Miss Duncan flashed her dark eyes toward Oliver. There was just enough gold smattered in with the brown to make them spark. “And you believe you need protection from me? Or is it Mrs. Merryweather you are worried about?” She raised an eyebrow in a fashion much too forward and familiar for mere acquaintances. How closely were those two connected? But when she turned her eyes on Jonathan, they contained just as much fire. Perhaps she looked at everyone in such an open manner. “Would you strike a woman if Mr. Beechcroft asked you to?”

  Jonathan reared back. “No, of course not.” What did the woman take him for?

  She turned to Oliver. “It seem
s to me you haven’t chosen your pugilist wisely. He just admitted he wouldn’t do his job.”

  “No, no…indeed, he is a fine pugilist. And, no, I am not worried about either of you. He was meeting with me before this.”

  “Well, I would rather not discuss my offer on the Greenwood property with an uninvolved man in the room.”

  Her offer? Jonathan snapped his jaw closed and forced his gaze onto the longcase clock across the room. It wouldn’t do for Miss Duncan to see his surprise. Miss Duncan was the woman who had offered to buy Greenwood Manor? She was so young. Where had she come up with the capital for a home like that? No wonder she was so forthcoming with Oliver. She was the one here on business, and if she had the type of wealth that would afford her a large home in the country that brought in no income, she was most likely used to dealing with businessmen.

  Oliver pulled down his spectacles, looked Jonathan in the eye and nodded toward the door. Jonathan gave Oliver a subtle nod. If Miss Duncan didn’t want him there, he wouldn't stay. Oliver pushed his spectacles back up. “Thank you, Mr. …” He mumbled another or perhaps the same unintelligible family name.

  Jonathan crossed the room, all the time aware that Miss Duncan watched him. He left Oliver’s office and paced about in the small foyer. What were they saying? He pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t make out much more than the low rumblings of Oliver’s voice. There were pauses where he assumed Miss Duncan must have been talking, but perhaps because she was facing away from him, he couldn’t even make out the timbre of her voice.

  He pressed his ear tighter to the hard grain of the wood. There it was...a soft but firm vibration rolling out from behind the door. What were they discussing? How would Miss Duncan take his refusal to sell? Coming here had been a complete waste of her time, and she didn’t seem like the type of woman who would appreciate that.