"Dad, tell me about our business and the order of succession. My tutor has completely confused me. He said that many people would inherit the Grosvenor fortune, including Grandpa Charles's brothers and sisters."
"Hm…" Gerald said thoughtfully. "No. To help you understand, my father—your grandfather—did the following. He created several trust funds and divided the Grosvenor fortune in half. One half went to the Grosvenor Group fund, which was passed to the main heir—that is, to me. The rest of the estate was divided into four parts, according to the number of his remaining children—your uncles and aunts. All the Grosvenors, starting with the first Duke of Westminster, distributed their property in a similar way. No child was left out, except for the black sheep."
Richie was very tempted to ask who the "black sheep" were—and whether he himself might one day fall into that category—but he restrained himself from asking such an inappropriate question.
"I see," Richie said. "So you'll do the same? Divide the estate into two parts—one half to my two sisters, and the other to me?"
"You're thinking about inheritance far too soon, Richie," Gerald said with a smile. "And there's a mistake in your thinking—half of the fortune will go to your three sisters."
"I have three sisters?!"
The boy's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the news. Until recently, he'd only heard about two.
"Yes," Gerald sighed deeply, as if preparing to jump into cold water.
"When I was young, I was a troublemaker. In my final year at boarding school, I behaved badly and neglected my studies. How could I not? I was a rich heir—a future duke! The servants were beneath me… As a result, I failed two exams."
The man closed his eyes, clearly reliving the past. His lips and eyelids trembled slightly. When he looked at his son again, he continued:
"My father was furious and sent me to military school. That's where they taught me discipline. But still I remained a rebel at heart. After graduation, I went completely wild—alcohol, casinos, parties, free love. And so, unplanned, Tamara was born to a political émigré poet from Russia, a woman with the beautiful name Natasha. I couldn't marry her. At the time, marriages outside one's social circle were strongly condemned. Nowadays a nobleman may marry for love — though even now it is not certain that everyone would accept it without judgment. After the scandal with my father, I acknowledged the child, gave my daughter my surname and financial support, and brought her into society. Tamara Grosvenor is now forty years old. She is recognized as a Lady. Five years ago, Tamara became the godmother of Prince William, the son of my friend Charlie and his charming wife, Diana."
At this point, the boy's eyes widened even further. In a stunned voice, he asked:
"Dad… by friend Charlie, do you mean Prince Charles?!"
"Exactly. We're almost the same age," a warm smile softened the duke's otherwise dry features. "Oh, I remember how Charlie and I used to party… Then we'd both get scolded by our parents."
"Wow!" was all Richie could manage.
"Ahem…" Gerald hid his embarrassment behind a deliberate cough. "So, where was I? Ah, yes. After finishing school, Tamara went on to study criminology at Northumbria University. Recently, she founded a charity and is now in Nepal, helping innocent children get out of prison."
Richie had no idea what was happening in Nepal, or why innocent children were imprisoned there. He couldn't even picture where the country was. Just in case, he chose not to reveal his ignorance.
Still, the transmigrator was pleased. He had finally clarified the order of succession within the family. He wouldn't have to support a crowd of distant relatives. Half of the Grosvenor fortune would eventually go to Richie, which was an undeniable advantage. The only question was when. His father, though no longer young, was full of health and vigor. He could easily live to ninety—or even a hundred. Take the same Prince Charles, for example: he had been heir to the Queen, God bless her, for decades. And what then? Spend his entire life dependent on his parent's goodwill? Live off funds Gerald could regulate at will in order to control his son?
No—something had to be done about that.
Richie came to the conclusion that he needed to earn his own capital. And the earlier he started, the better—ideally, right now.
It is only in words that earning a fortune seems easy and simple. Even if you know the future, you still need starting capital to invest in successful ventures. And where was that money supposed to come from? In this case, the only realistic option was to ask his father. To pull something like that off out of the blue is hardly possible. He would need solid arguments—and for that, he needed to study economics more seriously with his tutor.
Richie now had a goal. Until recently, he'd simply been adjusting to his new role—coming to terms with the fact that he was alive, that he was living in the past, and that he had become a child again. Now he dreamed of independence, something only significant wealth could provide. And not just wealth, but personal funds. Not the family fortune locked away in a trust fund under his father's control and the trustees' oversight, but Richard Grosvenor's own capital.
That, however, was a matter for the future. Right now the royal reception with the Queen of Great Britain is at hand.
"Dad, what are we going to do at the reception?"
"The reception…" Gerald drawled. "Everything as usual. I'll donate fifty thousand pounds to charity, perhaps give a short speech, pose for the journalists' cameras. You'll stay with me at first, and then you can socialize with your peers."
"Will they be there?"
Gerald thought for a moment.
"They should be," he said. "William will definitely attend. Lord Finch-Fletchley, a member of my hunting club, has a son about your age. Yes, there will be plenty of children. As usual, a separate room will be set aside for them, with a table prepared."