Chapter 3: Estate Taxes and Debts (rewrited)

"From dust you are, to dust you shall return. May the mercy of the Lord be with you forever. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen..."

It was, without a doubt, the most dramatic funeral the British aristocracy had seen in decades. In the span of just a few days, the Cavendish family had been reduced from a respectable lineage to… well, just Barron. Even the tabloids were running out of ways to sensationalize it.

Some headlines included:

"DUKES IN DOOMSDAY DISASTER – ONLY PLAYBOY SON REMAINS!"

"LAST CAVENDISH STANDING: PARTY BOY OR SAVIOR?"

"FROM NIGHTCLUBS TO NOBILITY – A DUKE'S UNLIKELY DESTINY!"

Barron had barely finished processing that he was the last Cavendish left when His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, personally attended the funeral.

"Lord Barron, please accept my condolences," the Prince said solemnly.

Barron nodded respectfully. "Your Highness, thank you for coming."

It was a surreal moment. A week ago, he was just a carefree second son, blissfully irrelevant to family affairs. Now, not only was he the Duke of Devonshire, but he was shaking hands with the future King of England.

Of course, he knew the Prince wasn't here for him. It was for his late grandmother, Deborah Cavendish, the legendary socialite, writer, and one of the famous Mitford Sisters.

The Prince stared at her portrait for a long time before saying, "We will miss her very much. She is not someone who will be easily forgotten."

Barron sighed internally. Well, at least someone in the family was competent.

After the funeral, the guests left, the grand halls of Chatsworth House fell silent, and Barron finally had time to process his actual nightmare.

"Young Master," Butler Sean said hesitantly, "there is something you need to see."

That something turned out to be the family's financial records.

"Alright," Barron said optimistically, "let's see how rich I am."

Sean and the family trust manager exchanged glances. The kind of glance people gave before announcing a plane crash.

"Young Master…" Sean took a deep breath. "We are, how should I put it… spectacularly broke."

Barron blinked. "Come again?"

Sean placed a thick folder in front of him, labeled Financial Summary: Devonshire Estate.

"Your father and grandfather did their best to protect the family fortune," Sean explained. "Unfortunately… well… let's just say the 'fortune' part didn't quite make it."

Barron flipped through the documents. His face went from mildly concerned to deeply horrified.

The Problems at a Glance:

Inheritance tax: £35 million. (Because apparently, death wasn't expensive enough.)

Family debt: Another £30 million. (His father's 'brilliant' investments had been less 'brilliant' and more catastrophic.)

Liquid assets: Practically non-existent. (Unless he fancied selling the chandeliers.)

"£65 million in the hole?" Barron sputtered. "How is that even possible? This is a duchy, not a failed startup!"

"Well, young master…" Sean coughed delicately. "Your father… had some unfortunate investments."

"Like what? A fleet of gold-plated carriages?"

Sean hesitated. "Actually… cryptocurrency."

Barron slammed his head onto the desk.

The deeper Barron dug, the more he realized that financial mismanagement was practically a family tradition.

His great-grandfather, the 10th Duke, had tried to be smart. He transferred most of the estate into a trust fund to avoid taxes. A brilliant move—except that he died three months before the tax exemption kicked in, leading to an 80% inheritance tax.

His grandfather, the 11th Duke, had then worked himself to death trying to pay off that tax. He had to sell 60,000 acres of land, priceless paintings, and even a Hardwick estate. By the time he was done, he had successfully saved the family name—by working twenty-four years just to pay the government.

And then came his father, the 12th Duke, who looked at all this struggle and thought: You know what? Let's YOLO this fortune into the stock market!

Barron rubbed his temples.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "My great-grandfather screwed up by dying too early. My grandfather saved the family by sacrificing everything. And my father… lost it all again?"

Sean sighed. "In his defense, no one expected the dot-com bubble to burst so spectacularly."

Barron threw the folder onto the table. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. So, what do I do now? Sell Chatsworth and live in a flat above a pub?"

Sean coughed. "Technically, Chatsworth is protected under the family trust. You can't sell it."

Barron groaned. "So I'm not even rich enough to go bankrupt properly?!"

"Alright," Barron said, pacing the room. "We need a plan. What are my options?"

Sean hesitated. "Well… there are ways to raise money. Perhaps hosting more events at Chatsworth? Some aristocratic families even open their estates for tours or reality TV shows…"

"Absolutely not." Barron scowled. "I am not turning this place into 'Keeping Up with the Cavendishes'!"

Sean cleared his throat. "Then… there's also the classic method."

Barron raised an eyebrow. "And that is…?"

Sean straightened his tie. "A rich marriage."

Barron's eye twitched. "You mean selling myself to the highest bidder?"

"Not selling, young master," Sean corrected. "Just… strategic matrimony."

Barron flopped onto a chair, rubbing his face. "Great. Just great. My life has turned into a Jane Austen novel, except instead of finding love, I need to find someone willing to pay off a £65 million debt."

Sean nodded. "Precisely."

Barron let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Fine. If I have to marry for money, at least find me someone young and attractive. If I'm selling my soul, I'm getting something out of it!"

Sean simply smiled. "Of course, young master. I shall prepare the list of eligible heiresses immediately."

Barron groaned. "I was supposed to be living the playboy dream! Not becoming a debt-ridden duke!"

And with that, the new Duke of Devonshire began plotting his greatest scheme yet—how to turn his inherited disaster into a financial comeback… or at least, how to avoid marrying someone who looked like his grandmother.