Perfect Sins by Jo Bannister Page A

said, “Can I ask you something personal?”
    He had no idea what to expect. He nodded anyway. “Sure.”
    â€œDoes it ever trouble you? Having all this? Being the master of all you survey?”
    â€œYou mean,” he appended astutely, “when I haven’t worked for it.”
    â€œI know you work,” she said quickly. “I know you work hard. All the same, most people work hard. But nobody could expect to have something like this without inheriting it.”
    â€œOr, of course, being a rock star or a footballer,” said Byrfield, just tartly enough that he must have been tired of the question. “But isn’t that pretty much the point? If you want there to be places like Byrfield—hedges, honeysuckle, house and all—there have to be people like me. Like the Byrfield family.
    â€œSomewhere like Byrfield isn’t the creation of one lifetime. One man couldn’t carry the burden. It needs to go hand in hand with a family, so someone is ready to pick up the reins when the last coachman falls off the box. I don’t know if it’s fair. I think it’s the only way for a country to preserve this kind of heritage. If you sold off all the grand houses in England, and paid off all the mortgages, and settled the tax liability, and divided what was left among the entire population, people would get a book of stamps each. And it would have cost them an important part of their history.”
    Hazel looked at him and saw the commitment shining in his eyes, and her smile was warm. “You’re right. This is worth preserving, even if it takes a little inequality to do it. I inherited my mother’s jewelry and a half share in a small rental property in Basingstoke, you inherited Byrfield and its title. There might be a difference in scale, but it’s the same principle.”
    â€œThe title does bother me, sometimes,” admitted Byrfield. “I can be worthy of the estate by working it well, and using it to give other people employment. The title’s different. It says I’m different to other people for no better reason than that a distant ancestor, hundreds of years ago, was better, or braver, or maybe just sneakier than the people around him. And it goes on saying that, however little I contribute to the family’s prestige. All that’s required of me is to produce a son before I die, and if I can manage that challenging task, the title goes on.
    â€œAnd if I can’t, the title will go elsewhere and take Byrfield with it. It’s ridiculous, when you think about it. In theory, my mother could be walking the streets if I don’t do my duty by her! And some second cousin whose real talent lies in making violins or translating Sanskrit could be the next earl, with all of this to manage.”
    â€œWho is the next in line, anyway?” asked Hazel. She wondered if he’d even know.
    The promptness of his answer told her, more than anything he’d said, that the future of Byrfield was never more than a thought from his mind. “My father’s younger brother’s second son, Rodney. The older son died in a car crash when he was twenty.”
    â€œAnd does cousin Rodney want to be earl?”
    â€œNot as far as I know. Doesn’t come into it—you don’t get a choice. You can’t pass a title on to a good home, as if it was an unwanted puppy. You can get rid of it—drown it, effectively—if you feel strongly enough, but it’s quite an undertaking, and your descendants can’t get it back if they feel differently.”
    â€œWhat about daughters?” asked Hazel mischievously. “Viv would have made a good earl.”
    â€œThere are titles that can travel down the distaff line,” Byrfield acknowledged, a shade loftily, as if it was a little infra dig, “but ours isn’t one of them. Even if I hadn’t come along, the only way my sister could be Countess Byrfield would