Disreputable

                                                            Disreputable

                                  Adjective:  Not respectable in character or appearance.

                                                       

"This is BBC Radio 4 and here is the news read by Chris Aldridge."

"The artist son of The Duke of Shettleham, Jasper Neyve, who is the Marquis Prybourn was photographed by the press early this morning rescuing a runaway horse at the gates of Hyde Park. It seemed that the rescue happened on the spur of the moment as Marquis Prybourn was naked except for a pair of women's red silk and lace underwear. He ran across the road and jumped on the back of the horse to stop it, running into traffic. When asked about his attire, the Marquess said that he jumped out of bed and his girlfriend's pants were the first thing he picked up. He said the safety of the horse and keeping it away from the traffic was paramount.

The Prime Minister flew to Brussels last night…"

It was a slow news day.

Edwin Neyve closed his eyes in fury and despair. He forced his breathing to be even and slow, his bone-white knuckles as he clenched his fists were the only sign of his rage. God help him if the nurse caught sight of his anger, she would fuss and faff around him as if he was drawing his last breath. Edwin knew that moment was not too far away, but it wouldn't be today. 

For his son, however, if he could get hold of him, drawing his last breath might come sooner than he ever thought it would. Once again, Jasper had disgraced their name. Edwin was sick of seeing his only son in the Daily Mail' column of shame'. In fact, that wasn't the only tabloid newspaper Jasper was in this morning, his charming features and irrepressible grin also graced The Sun, The Daily Mirror, and The Daily Express. Edwin refused point-blank to look in The Daily Star. Worst of all, he was on the front page of The Daily Telegraph.

He was seething. What the hell did Jasper think he was playing at? It wasn't the fact that he was tearing around Hyde Park on the back of a horse, but the fact that he was naked except for a pair of red lacy knickers which probably belonged to one of the two topless floosies hanging out of his bedroom window cheering him on!

Did he have no respect for his heritage, for his title, and the name he bore?  How could he trust him to take care of the house and land after he'd died? His behaviour was appalling! It was just not good enough, not by a very long shot! 

He took a deep calming breath and soothed his anxiety by looking around his ancient study. It was, he thought, the very best part of Shettleham Manor. Just sitting at his desk watching the early morning sunlight refracting rainbows through the mullioned windows, brought a sense of peace and continuity somewhat dispelling the feeling of anger and irritation caused by his son. The light bounced off the glass-fronted shelves, housing his leather volumes depicting the history of his home and ancestors. The house had been standing here since 1346 AD, a reward for knightly and valiant service at the battle of Crecy by Edward III. 

There had been numerous alterations over the seven hundred years that a Neyve had been living here and this wonderful room was added in during the reign of Henry VIII.

They had fought for the monarch, upheld the law, tended the land, and looked after the tenants. The past Duke's of Shettleham had been warriors and landowners. There had, of course, been the odd rogue in their ancestry. The fifth Duke, Thomas, had upset King Henry VIII, which, according to hindsight, was not a very bright thing to do at the best of times, but after spending several months in the Tower of London Henry forgave him. Edwin could only imagine that he had been a real charmer. Just like his son. The Holbein painting of Thomas in the great hall was the spitting image of Jasper.

He moved the mouse to click the X, banishing The Daily Mail's picture of his grinning son from the computer screen. He had to do something to rein Jasper in. Time was short for him, the cancer was eating at his body despite the chemo, but he had made peace with God, he wasn't afraid of dying. He'd had seventy-five years of life, and it was a good life. Twenty years older than his dear wife Rosslyn, she had put up with him all these years, loving him even though he had been a lousy and unfaithful husband. He hoped that once he was gone, she would find someone to love her, someone to comfort her.

Now though, it was his errant son whom he needed to control. For a moment, his mind drifted to another boy, some eighteen months younger than Jasper. He still felt the stomach-churning shame after all these years, that just six weeks after she had given birth, he had cheated on his wife. He had been incredibly selfish, not to mention stupid, in enticing and seducing one of the stable girls. Rosslyn had been exhausted after a prolonged and difficult birth, and although Jasper was looked after by Nanny Grisham, his wife was too tired to see to him and his needs, so he went elsewhere. 

Over the years he had repeatedly blocked the whole episode from his mind, mostly when Jasper went away to Eton and he didn't seem him for weeks at a time. However, occasionally, it blasted to the forefront of his consciousness, causing him to lose his thoughts and to endure the shame again and again. The boy and his mother were far away in Yorkshire, and perhaps still living in the house he had secretly bought for the girl. He hoped that she had used the lump sum of fifty thousand pounds to live well, she had been an intelligent girl, mostly, and promised him that she would make use of the money to the best of her ability. Now, in the twilight of his life, he wondered about the boy and if he had made a success of his life, was he married, did he have children of his own, was he happy? What did that girl call him? Grant? Yes, that was it, Grant Dawkins. 

'Braxton, the butler, had driven her to the train station with her luggage, not that she had much. He had forbidden her to tell Braxton why. He had threatened her with the loss of the house and money if she told a soul.   Rosslyn's knew nothing about this, although she was too exhausted to bother much about anything except her baby.

There was no need for anyone else to know the boy wouldn't be entering the family. By-blows were swept under the carpet. He knew that wasn't a very modern way of looking at it, but he was old fashioned enough, and maybe shameful of the fact that he had cheated on his wife over and over again. His wife, who loved and adored him. However, it might be prudent to have his lawyer, Henry, do a discreet search and find out just where he was especially if his firstborn didn't pull himself together.

Maybe telling Jasper that Grant might be taking over the dukedom if he didn't alter his ways would shock him into behaving himself. For God's sake, the man was thirty-three years of age, and he should be married with a couple of children by now. Father to a son who would take the reins eventually of this house and land. But then, that brought another problem. 

The girls that Jasper associated with were ghastly! They had absolutely no class whatsoever! Showing everything they had in those ridiculously short frocks, had they never heard that imagination is everything as far as a man is concerned. He did not doubt that the parties these young people went to were on a par with a Roman orgy full of drugs and sex. Well, he had some influence on who Jasper married, even if he was dead and buried. He would phone Henry, and he would change his will. He would put a stop to Jasper's shameful ways, and he would teach that boy a lesson.