Page 93 of The Dueling Duchess

He had no chance of catching it, of course, so he continued on to the house.

Never had he gone around back before—to the servant’s entrance—but he surmised that would be the quickest way to summon the staff.

Guy cranked the bell and waited. And then cranked it again.

Finally, after the fifth time, the door opened a sliver and a man he’d never seen before stood in the entrance.

“What the ’ell do you—”

“Where’s Jerrod?” Guy demanded.

The fellow was a scrawny, pointy-nosed man who looked like a rat. “’Oo?”

“Jerrod—the butler.”

“Ain’t nobody but me. And ’oo are you to be—”

“This house was just robbed. Did you sleep through that, too, you fool? Or were they mates of yours?”

The man’s squinty eyes turned mean. “Those men was sent by the duke.”

Guy laughed. “At midnight?”

“Wot business is it of yorn?”

“I—”

Guy broke off when he realized it wasn’t his business, at least not if Barry really had sent the men. And there was no disputing that was the ducal coach. Perhaps Barry had even been inside it, as bizarre as that would be.

The servant, or whatever he was, slammed the door before Guy could formulate a response.

Guy’s brain was like a wild horse trapped in a cramped paddock—bolting and darting and charging in all directions, going nowhere.

Who should he tell about this? If it was Barry selling off the contents of the house, could he do anything about it? He knew that some items belonged to the dukedom—like the Fairhurst sapphires—but others . . . well, to be honest, Guy didn’t know what exactly could be sold. It had never occurred to him to strip the family homes of their furniture or to sell the portraits of his ancestors.

Guy would have to go to the Fairhurst solicitors first thing in the morning. While it was true that he had no real legal rights when it came to ducal affairs, he was still part of the family and had an interest in seeing the estate wasn’t plundered, if that was what was happening. Surely somebody could stop the man?

He turned and began the long trudge back to Newcastle Street.

He’d not gone very far when the light rain turned to flakes of snow, but Guy kept walking, even though he had miles to go before he got back home.

Home.

Guy snorted. He didn’t have a home with Cecile—he was an employee.

But Fairhurst House wasn’t his home, either.

And he no longer owned Darlington Park.

He had nowhere to call home.

For the first time since Barry’s return, Guy understood just how dire his situation was. He must be the thickest man in all England. Why had it taken him so long to understand just how far he’d fallen?

It struck him quite suddenly, and quite horrifically, that Cecile had probably offered him the job not because she loved him or wanted him back in her life. She’d offered him the job because she’d seen his situation clearly.

Because she felt sorry for him.

He was a public joke and had no real future to offer any woman. Rather than pester her, he should have just tucked his tail between his legs and boarded the first ship to Boston.