“Have a seat, Dutton,” George said, gesturing toward the chair Henshaw had previously occupied. “Apparently, you have something of import to share; otherwise, you would not be here.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Dutton said, sitting as instructed. “And you are correct.”
Talbot exited quietly and shut the door.
George watched as the man opened his leather case, removed a folder of documents, and began riffling through them. “I’m waiting,” George said in a soft tone not intended to be soothing.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” Dutton said. “I know your time is valuable.” He handed George one of the papers from the file. “As you are aware, for a while now, I have had my clerk researching your family line, in the hopes of locating your heir—your presumptive heir, that is, should you—”
“Never produce an heir of my own,” George said, finishing the man’s statement. George was only too aware that he’d neglected his duty in that area. But an heir required a wife, and George had yet to find a suitable candidate for the role. “And why was this search not carried out while my granduncle was still alive?”
“He, uh, held great confidence in your, shall we say, procreative abilities, and whenever I raised the subject, he dismissed it. But—and please forgive me for being blunt—” He paused, apparently waiting for George to object to his warning of the bluntness to follow. When George only stared at him, Dutton continued. “Well, Your Grace, you haven’t been as . . . enthusiastic . . . about the matter as I believe your granduncle expected you would be. And after this past month . . .” He trailed off.
This past month.
In addition to a few close calls during his travels to the Continent George would rather not recount at the moment, he’d also been laid up with a serious bout of pneumonia—and truthfully, being that ill had made him take a good, hard look at his own mortality. There had been more than one occasion during his fevered delirium when he had wondered if he’d be meeting his Maker soon. “And so you took it upon yourself to increase your efforts in locating my heir, if there is one to be had.”
“Precisely. I have a responsibility to the dukedom, Your Grace, and I take that responsibility seriously.” He leaned forward in his chair. “And here I will not apologize for being blunt. I was summoned to Aylesham House on multiple occasions last month when it appeared you were not long for this world. Seeing you at death’s door made it imperative that I begin a thorough search for your heir presumptive, yes. Seeing you at death’s door more than once convinced me further that I was correct in doing so. That being said, I am greatly relieved—greatly relieved—that you are recovered, Your Grace.” The man looked grave.
Dash it all, Dutton was right, and George couldn’t fault the man for doing his job and anticipating the needs of his employer, now, could he? “Carry on,” he said.
“Thank you. If you will look at this document”—he pointed to the paper in George's hand—“you will see that after extensive research, I have diagrammed your line of inheritance, beginning with the first Duke of Aylesham and on down through the male line until we come to you, the fifth Duke.”
George looked over the diagram. “None of this is new information.” George’s father or grandfather before him should have been the fifth Duke of Aylesham, had they not predeceased George’s granduncle.
“This, however, is new information.” Dutton handed George another diagram from the folder. “As you know, the first Duke of Aylesham had two sons; the eldest son, your great-great-grandfather Arthur Charles Kendall, became the second duke. All subsequent dukes have descended from his line. Your line. Since you currently have no heir apparent, I have searched for your heir presumptive following the line of the first duke’s second son.” He once again leaned over and pointed to a name with his forefinger. “That searching has led me to Roderick Arthur Kendall, your third cousin once removed.”
He took a third document from his folder and placed it on George’s desk. “I received this just this morning, Your Grace, after making further inquiries.”
George scanned the top of the document. “Penal transportation?”
Dutton cleared his throat. “Apparently so, Your Grace. Roderick Arthur Kendall, your third cousin once removed and heir presumptive, was transported to a penal colony in Australia for forgery, as you can see by the official record you are holding.”
What an odd thing it was, George mused as he read the convict record before him, to feel a sense of elation at finding a blood relative while simultaneously learning said relative was a criminal, of all things. “Do we know anything more about this cousin of mine?” he asked.
“Not as yet, Your Grace; although, with your permission, I will see what I can discover.”
“You do that,” George said, handing the papers back to Dutton in a manner as to inform the man their meeting was concluded.
Dutton looked at him inquiringly.
“Was there something else?” George asked, fingering his quizzing glass impatiently.
“Am I to notify Mr. Kendall of his position as heir presumptive? Should anything happen to you—”
“Nothing will happen,” George said, cutting him off. Heaven forbid. “Let us find out what we can about the man and his situation before we go haring off in all directions, shall we?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Dutton,” George said, his tone leaving no question this time that the meeting was over.
Dutton carefully placed the papers in his folder, then slid the folder back in his leather case before rising to his feet. “I shall inform you immediately when I receive any further information.”
“Thank you, Dutton,” George said again, his tone pitched to suggest boredom. The majority of his associates would have gotten the hint by now, but Dutton was more resistant than most.
The lawyer crossed to the door and opened it. “Your granduncle had high hopes for you, young man. He loved you.” And then he disappeared out the door, closing it with a snap. Few people got the last word in with George, but Dutton had managed it, which irritated George—and also impressed him.
His Granduncle Arthur, the fourth Duke of Aylesham, had been a courtly but kind man and a confirmed bachelor, but George knew very well that Granduncle Arthur had expected George to marry. The man had said as much to him on multiple occasions.
George rose from his desk and strode to the window, hoping the view of his gardens would soothe him. It didn’t.
Granduncle Arthur had never led the way when it had come to marriage, so George had always returned fire by claiming it was hypocritical for Arthur to browbeat him on the subject. After George’s brief betrothal to Lady Louisa Hargreaves had failed nine long years ago, he had become disinclined to marry. Perhaps if Arthur had left well enough alone, George would have been less resistant.