Chapter 5: Carrying the Weight (rewrited)

In England, nobles could sell part of their inherited assets to pay inheritance tax.

Sounds simple, right? Sell a painting here, an estate there, and poof! No more tax troubles.

Well, if only it were that easy.

For aristocrats, selling off their property wasn't just a financial decision—it was an existential crisis. They weren't just raised with silver spoons; they were raised with an entire rulebook on "How to Be a Noble Without Looking Like a Peasant."

Rule #1: You don't just own the family's wealth—you guard it like a dragon hoarding gold.

Barron's grandfather understood this well. When faced with an inheritance tax of a whopping £7 million, he didn't just throw a yard sale and call it a day. No, the man toiled for 24 years to pay it off, one painstaking installment at a time. Because in his mind, if you wanted to wear the crown, you had to carry its weight—even if it broke your back in the process.

And that's why, even now, the family butler, Sean—who had served the Cavendish family for over forty years and probably cared about its honor more than his own cholesterol levels—was looking at Barron like he had just suggested selling the estate to fund a reality TV show.

Julia Moore, the family trust manager, was less emotionally attached. Her job was simply to make sure the money didn't vanish into thin air—though, given the current state of affairs, she might as well start learning magic tricks.

Barron could sense the hesitation in Sean's eyes. The butler had known him since childhood, and, let's be honest, Barron's track record wasn't exactly inspiring confidence.

But times had changed. His brother was gone. His father had turned their finances into a cautionary tale. And now, he was the duke—whether anyone liked it or not.

Taking a deep breath, Barron looked Sean straight in the eye and said, "Listen, I know my past behavior was... let's call it 'questionable' at best. But that was when I thought my biggest responsibility was choosing the right champagne. Now, I have to step up. So, I need you to trust me."

Sean's expression shifted. Was it disbelief? Cautious optimism? Gas? Hard to say.

But after a long pause, he finally sighed. "Very well, Your Grace. I'll prepare a list."

One small step for Barron. One giant leap for Cavendish survival.

Back at the manor, Barron was finally experiencing true aristocratic service.

And at first? It was weird.

Imagine waking up and not having to dress yourself. That was now his life.

"Stretch out your arm, sir."

Boop! Someone slides a sleeve over it.

"Lift your chin, sir."

Zip! Collar fastened.

Frankly, it was a level of pampering that would make a newborn jealous.

Granted, unlike certain fantasy novels, there were no beautiful maids helping him dress—only a very competent male valet named Ramos.

(Barron wasn't complaining. He'd rather have a properly buttoned shirt than a scandalous misunderstanding.)

Ramos, however, seemed a bit distracted today. After adjusting Barron's tie, he hesitated before asking, "Master... is it true? Did we lose a lot of money?"

Ah, so the gossip mill was in full swing already.

Barron raised an eyebrow. "Where did you hear that?"

"The other servants are talking. Everyone's... concerned."

Of course they were. Servants might have called the estate "home," but they weren't exactly bound to it. If the place crumbled, they'd find jobs elsewhere—probably with fewer financial crises.

Barron sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ramos, let's just say… things are a little rough right now. But I promise you, I won't let this place fall apart."

Ramos nodded, though his face still held a hint of doubt. Understandable. Barron had inherited a legacy—and a disaster.

But hey—if history had taught him anything, it was that nobles could survive anything… as long as they had a good plan.

And Barron was determined to make one.