by Abby Ayles
“He had no male heir,” Lady Holden interjected. “And he did specify my daughter in his will.”
Cecilia knew what he meant by unusual, but found herself again frustrated by the morays of society that found her promotion as her father’s heir to be so remarkable.
In truth, she would have cared little for the money if it hadn’t been for her mother, who fretted often about the possible loss of status after her husband’s passing.
“I’ve no argument on that point, Lady Holden,” the solicitor seemed to have at last gained the confidence necessary to speak, and placed his hands palms down on the top of the desk.
“Unfortunately, the Viscount’s debts proved more serious than I imagined. It seems he engaged in a bit of unrecommended speculation, and the company in question has gone under.”
“How much?” Lady Holden asked.
“How much what?”
“How much was wagered on this doomed company?” Cecilia filled in for her mother, whose face was growing alarmingly pale.
“All.”
Cecilia felt an icy panic growing inside her.
She thought of the Carlsons, a well-respected family in Chesire with whom she’d grown up. She’d seen the Carlson boys at dances, and chattered away with the two youngest daughters. Their father had seemed to be very successful, throwing lavish parties and hosting grand hunts during the season.
Then, quite suddenly, they were out of society. Rumors spread quickly in London and the surrounding area that the grand Carlsons were penniless, surviving in a small cottage after they lost house and estate in a reckless gamble.
Cecilia realized with horror that this was her situation, and that of her mother. Vaguely, she refocused on the solicitor, who was explaining the breadth of their misfortune.
“There is no more to draw on, and I’ve drained the last of your account to repay the Viscount’s innumerable debts.”
“Are the debts settled then?” Cecilia asked.
Mr. Combs ventured a coarse laugh, and then stopped when he saw the two women staring at him with earnest eyes.
“No, I’m afraid not. His debts were many, and he did not leave enough to settle them aright.”
“We are penniless.” Lady Holden said the words softly, and they hung unrefuted in the cold air of the office. “We will lose everything.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Cecilia asked the solicitor as calmly as she could manage.
“It is my job to give you the facts, not a remedy,” Mr. Combs said. “But if I may venture an opinion, your daughter is not an unseemly girl. You still have a title. Perhaps some kind of worthy union could solve the issue on the table.”
“Marriage?”
“Yes. Surely you could find a man of title and wealth who could offer you reprieve from your current troubles.”
Cecilia winced inwardly. Though marriage did seem the most obvious way out of such financial ruin, the solicitor’s immediate recommendation struck her as both unoriginal and frightening.
The Dowager Viscountess had been offering hints for some time now about the marriageability of her only daughter, pushing Cecilia into the arms of wealthy and titled gentlemen. Cecilia had always been able to avoid imminent proposals by pleading her youth or the possibility of a better match.
Now, she knew such arguments would hold no water with her mother. They were poor, and poor women should not expect better matches.
For her part, Lady Holden’s eyes lit with hope at the solicitor’s suggestion, and that light followed the two women long after they’d left Mr. Combs behind in his heavily-curtained office.
***
“You look lovely tonight, my dear,” Lady Holden said, giving her daughter a good look before the two settled themselves in the carriage for the short drive over to the Sinclairs’ manor.
Cecilia Prescott was still a blushing nineteen years of age, and, though petite, cut a striking figure at local events.
For years, her rich brown curls and piercing grey eyes had been sought after by the lads of the county, and more recently by the respectable sons of titled aristocrats and landed gentry.
She was slim, and even in the mute grey dress that she wore in respect for her father’s passing, she looked like a vision.
“Thank you, Mama.”
She settled her cloak about her shoulders and rested her hand on the door sash with a sigh.
“It feels odd to be travelling to the Sinclairs’ ball as though we are the equals of every person in the ball room.”
“We are more than their equal,” Lady Holden sniffed in response. “You are a lady, and I am the Dowager Viscountess of Holden. They are lucky to have such people in attendance.”
She fiddled with the lace at her throat. “And if you’re speaking about our earlier conversation with Mr. Combs, I hardly think skipping the first ball of the season a good way to keep the news of our precarious financial situation from prying ears.”
“We can’t keep it quiet forever, Mama.”
“We can keep it quiet long enough. If anyone finds out, it will ruin your prospects of marriage, my dear. Our only chance now is for you to find a reputable, titled man with a bit of wealth on the side.”
Cecilia smiled in outward allowance, but thought back on the line of suitors she’d seen of late.
She hadn’t minded the sweet boy from Manchester, although he’d been rather simple and not an elegant conversation partner.
Then there was the baron who’d found himself with quite a few gambling debts and was willing to settle them all with an illustrious marriage to a titled lady such as herself.
Aside from the obvious truth that such an alliance in retrospect would have left both penniless, Cecilia had found the baron both preposterous and ignorant. She was glad to be rid of him.
More recently, her mama had been pressing her to meet with an untitled man of vast wealth who owned a collection of periodicals in London.
The lack of title wasn’t as much of an insult to Cecilia as the man’s undeviating view that women were only good for needlepoint and the planning of grand parties.
“I understand my duty,” she said with a sigh. “But even if I were to find such an elusive gentleman, surely he would be unwilling to pursue an attachment once he learned the truth of our financial situation.”
“That is where love comes in,” Lady Holden said, as calmly as if she were talking of the taking of tea at midday.
“You must do your best to be winning and amiable, Cecilia. Try to remember all that we taught you, and what your governess encouraged you to emulate from Fordyce’s. That is the sort of thing that entices a man to deep affection.”
“’Nature appears to have formed the faculties of your sex, for the most part, with less vigor than those of ours,’” Cecilia began quietly quoting the sermons in question, her gaze still fixed outside the door sash.
“’Observing the same distinction here as in the more delicate frames of your bodies.’”
She turned to her mother with a faint smile.
“It would seem Fordyce has not the faith in feminine mental faculties to — how did you put it? — ‘entice a man to deep affection.’”
“You’re taking him out of context, I’m sure.” Lady Holden folded her gloved hands with quiet dignity. “And you can’t deny that women are the weaker sex, in need of a firm hand and a strong provider.”
Cecilia nodded absentmindedly.
In truth, she found Fordyce and all sermonizing men like him to be adding little to the world of literature and thought.
He was trying desperately to hold the rising stars of womanhood in their proper place in the parlor, and she found his argument both unappealing and unoriginal.
For herself, she appreciated the helpful advice of lesser known etiquette books, and even these she preferred to set aside in favor of modern poets and the epics of old.
She drew her mind back to the conversation in the carriage, and found her mother still speaking about her earlier comment
.
“It’s just that kind of opinionated stubbornness that will lose you the affections of the gentlemen in attendance tonight. The death of your father has given us the perfect opportunity to show you’ve softened in the last year.”
“Yes, Mama,” Cecilia didn’t protest.
“If you can get a man to fall in love with you, he will not mind assuming your father’s debts.”
“I think you have far too high an opinion of the virtues of the male sex,” Cecilia said wryly.
“On the contrary, I find their hearts fickle and easily swayed by a pretty face.”
A pretty face. It was a familiar phrase for Cecilia. She had never, in all the long line of men at her door, found a single one who’d been drawn to aught but her title and the luminosity of her eyes.
Once, when she was but a girl of sixteen, she’d formed a strong connection with the son of an untitled but wealthy member of the landed gentry.
Young Mr. Phillip Larson had everything to recommend himself. He was handsome and clever and well-read. When he first began to pursue Cecilia, she’d been delighted at the prospect of long conversations and witty banter.
It soon became apparent that while the gentleman treasured her title and the loveliness of her face, he did not want her to weigh in on matters of the mind or society.
It felt remarkable at times, that ladies were encouraged to broaden their minds with reading and conversation, when their ultimate end was to pretend simpering idiocy and vanity for the sake of a wealthy husband’s ego.
“I need to hear you say it, Cecilia.”
“What, Mama? Pardon me, my mind was elsewhere.”
“As it often is. I need to hear you say that you are with me on this. Tonight is an excellent opportunity to show me you are serious about doing your part to uphold our family’s legacy.”
“Mama, I will do what is necessary,” Cecilia said, her heart heavy.
The drive leading up to the Sinclairs’ manor was lined with bobbing lanterns. Even before the carriage came to a halt, Cecilia could hear the music and tinkling laughter of guests over the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves.
She stayed back a moment whilst her mother exited the carriage in a cloud of amber silk. Then she herself stepped out onto the folding step, resting a moment there as the footman steadied Lady Holden.
It was at that moment of pause that Cecilia glanced up and caught a glimpse of a man riding along the lane crosswise to the party.
She only saw him for a moment, and then caught a few glimpses of his form through windows in the ivy hedge. He seemed so tall and free.
Free… That was the real draw, she realized, stepping down onto the pebbled path with the assistance of the now unengaged footman.
If only someone like that would ride into all this charade and take her away to a place where all her father’s debts and her mother’s expectations couldn’t reach her.
“Lady Holden!” she heard above her, and looked up in time to see Lady Sinclair in the greeting line at the door. Her voice came faintly over the sound of the revelers. “It’s so good to see you, and out of mourning as well.”
“Well, it is a new season, though I try to remain decorous of course,” Lady Holden said as they approached.
“Is Miss Prescott here?”
“Of course, I’m chaperoning her revels this evening. May I ask, who is in attendance?”
“The Duke of Belshire’s son is here, and a few noteworthy Mormonts, I believe. You should see the train on Lady Dowding’s dress, it’s woven with imported silk, I’m told.”
“Isn’t all silk imported these days?”
“Well, we are certainly delighted to have you in attendance, my lady.”
Cecilia walked up the stairs, steeling herself for the lights and laughter within.
The idea of a handsome prince was a little fanciful, even for her. She thought how her father would have teased her.
“It’s all those books you read,” he had always said when he was alive. “You’ve got worlds of nonsense at home in your head.”
Reality is nothing like fantasy, she thought, pushing the man on the horse and the freedom he symbolized from her mind.
She took a breath, and went to join her mother on the stairs.
Chapter 2
Robert Fanning lowered his quill to the paper and paused for a moment before drawing a thin line and shifting the page across the desk to Mrs. Norris, who sat shivering on the opposite side.
“Do you require a cloak, Madame?” he asked kindly.
She shook her head, and he went on to point out the line at the base of the page.
“If you will sign your name here, Mrs. Norris, we will take your petition before the court. I looked at your documents, and it seems you have a legitimate claim that your employer has withheld proper wages.”
The cook was elderly, and frail. She’d come in with hardly any hope left, on the chance that the rumors about Fanning & Parnum helping the destitute were true.
“But what about peers of the realm? The Lord Bartnam is well-connected.” Her hands shook on the wool of her shawl. “He told me he would drag me into ruin if I told of his misdeeds.”
Robert felt a twinge of anger at the other man’s blatant misuse of his power.
“It will be necessary to connect you with a barrister of good social standing in the court, but I’ve a few who owe me a favor. He won’t appear in the Court of Chancery, but I’ve good hope we can negotiate a settlement outside the courtroom.”
“You’ve nothing to bargain with.”
“I have his good standing in society and the threat of the community getting wind of his mismanagement. For a man of his vanity, it should be enough.”
Mrs. Norris looked up with hope in her weary eyes.
“You think I will get my wages?”
“I think I can get you what you’re owed, and more. You have kept diligent documentation, Mrs. Norris.”
Robert came out from around the desk and helped his client to her feet. “I’d like to see you back in a week to finalize the case. Would you like me to send the carriage?”
She shook her head.
“I can get a ride with the grocer again.”
“Send notice if that changes and we’d be happy to help.”
He helped her down the stairs, one at a time, and then into the carriage, tucking a fur blanket around her knees.
“Thank you, Lord Lothmire,” she said. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”
“You have nothing more to worry about under my care,” he said gently, stepping away from the carriage and closing the door.
When he climbed the stairs back into the office, he met his partner, Roger Parnum, on the stairs.
“You get the cook settled?”
“Mrs. Norris’ case is something we can handle, I think.”
The older man frowned.
“Robert, you know she won’t be able to give us a high percentage of the profits. Just because you’re set for the future doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to earn our daily bread.”
Robert knew he was referring to the recent death of Charles Fanning, Robert’s older brother. The unfortunate sickness that stole Charles had inadvertently left Robert with the title of Earl of Lothmire, and an impressive sum of money.
“Cases like this win the trust of the people, and give us a good position in court,” Robert said. “It’s good for business, and you can’t tell me your business hasn’t been prospering since you added ‘Fanning’ to the awning.”
“Don’t let your ego be too significant, my dear Earl,” Roger said, feigning insult. “Why a wealthy man such as yourself would ever put himself through solicitors’ studies is beyond me.”
Robert smiled, following Roger into the top floor of the office and gathering the papers he’d left strewn on the desk.
“I wasn’t planning to be an heir.”
“That’s right,” his partner said, seating himself in one of the low Sheraton chairs and pul
ling out his pipe. “Just a hardworking lad who stumbled upon a fortune.”
Robert fell quiet. It was a familiar avenue of jest with his partner ever since Charles’ death, and at times it grated on him.
He loved the law, and even with his new title and money he knew he would keep advising.
Roger Farnum knew it as well, and despite his bluster and feigned jealousy, Robert new the other man was glad for his aid.
