Harold shook his head. “But what of the letter you spoke about at the supper party?”
“Have you never lied?” Eugene scoffed, tipping the cup to his lips again. “That is the letter I received. I told them what they needed to hear.”
The information took a moment to digest. Even then, Harold continued to shake his head. “You never received a letter saying the ship set sail.” A knot tightened in his stomach. He thought he was going to be sick.
The baron pushed his empty glass across the desk as though willing it to refill itself. “Astute observation.”
Ignoring his father’s sarcasm, Harold said, “This letter says the ship remains docked, both captain and crew unaccounted for. But what of the cargo?”
“Deviled if I know.” He reached for Harold’s glass, sipped, then rested the rim to his chin.
Why Harold wished to deny this beggared belief. All along he knew the captain was crooked. All along he knew this deal would fail. Yet wrapping his mind around his father’s performance of the previous week, that he had fallen for it along with the investors, and the dashed hopes he had entertained for days now was a heavy burden for both mind and heart.
What was he now to tell Hazel? The truth in all its grim reality.
“The investment capital?” Harold questioned.
“I know as much as you. The letter in front of you is all I have. Martins promises to do all he can to find the captain. From there, we could recoup our losses, force him to sail, or…” Eugene circled his hand in the air in search of other possibilities but finally let it fall to the desk.
Harold rose from his chair.
He walked to the hearth, rested his arm across the mantel, and stared into the fire. Flames licked at the logs. Red and orange teeth gnashed at the lumber, blues swallowing the kindling.
He flexed and relaxed his fingers, curling them into his palm until the half-moon nails dug into flesh. More irrationality—what was there to be angry about when he had known this would happen? What this was, he could not yet say, for nothing was definitive, not until they received more information. At this point, the direction seemed clear enough, but there were still possibilities. Until the baron’s man of business—Martins—sent a letter declaring the fate of the captain, crew, cargo, and capital, all was not lost.
This did change the conversation he needed to have with his father. Rather than make plans for the profit, they needed to make plans for the loss of…well, everything. There were debts to be paid, an estate on the way to ruin, an in-law on the way to poverty, staff wages to be paid with more than empty promises, and… Harold closed his eyes. It was all too much.
“We need to talk about this. We need to plan.” Harold spoke to the flames. He could not face his father. “Had I known… I’m taking Hazel to the boathouse. When I return, we’ll devote the remainder of the day to making a plan. Before you brush me off or remind me of my youth, know that I’m familiar enough now with the accounts to quote your sins. No more, Father.”
“Know the accounts.” Eugene snorted. “Your priorities are clear enough, boy. Too busy dipping the wick to know the sacrifices I make, the lengths I go to dress you and your mother in finery. While you’re off playing the happy husband, remember all I do to ensure our comforts, far more than you’ve ever done, only a leech to the coffers. Better yet, while you enjoy the pleasures of your wife, remember who arranged the marriage.”
Harold’s jaw clenched too tightly for him to speak. He ground his teeth, enraged. Although he remained silent, he pivoted to face the devil himself.
Eugene bellowed, “Wake up, boy, and admit I was right. Trethow’s estate will keep us afloat and ensure our legacy. Pure genius. The fee tail I convinced him to make on Teghyiy Hall will award us the estate itself, as long as you plow the field to produce an heir. With the estate in our hands, we’ll have a new source of income, lucrative income. Until then, we’ll milk his annual profits. There’s only one kind of friend in this world, and that’s the kind daft enough to disinherit his line to save a lightskirt, all for our benefit. There’s nothing more to plan, you see? All has already been arranged by the Collingwood cunning.”
The cold-bloodedness astounded Harold. His father showed no remorse, no empathy, not even a shred of guilt. Logic was missing from the equation, as well. The annual percentage they were set to receive would do little to right their situation, not if their estate continued to produce nothing of its own, and certainly not at the rate of his father’s expenditures and mounting debt. Percentage of Trethow’s income or not, they were being buried alive by debts. The fee tail was not something to consider, either, for it could be decades before the estate changed hands, if it ever did, and the one estate could not support two separate estates. Harold wondered if his father had gone mad.
What was he to say? He wanted to defend his wife, defend her family, defend himself. He wanted to show his father reason, work the basic numbers for him to see his plan was as worthless as the investment. Frankly, he wanted to plant his fist against his father’s cheek. But he was not a man of violence. The angrier he became, the more he sank into himself.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, his tone controlled, no indication of the anger funneling into his clenched fists. “Your perspective is clear. Use Hazel as a pawn. Coerce your childhood friend out of his family’s fortune. Ruin everyone through an investment gone wrong. The Collingwood cunning failed you, though, for you could have simply taken their money and kept it rather than invest it, for what difference would they know? Then we’d be rich as Croesus.” His words were embittered, filled with venom, yet to his ears they sounded flat, hollow.
The baron’s eyes flickered in response. “By Jove, that’s brilliant. Why didn’t you say that before? Why didn’t I think of that?” He leaned forward, stretching his arms across the desk, his expression lined with greed.
Harold palmed his face and rubbed his temples. If he did not leave this room in the next minute, he would do or say something he would regret. His best option was to retreat and regroup. Patrick had been right. Harold needed to handle his father. Not the easiest task. His father was a peer of the realm, while he was an heir still in his youth. Facts aside, he needed to handle his father.
Time to think.
Time to speak with the solicitor. As much as he dreaded another trip to London, it must be made. He could not stand by any longer and watch his father destroy them all. What choices did he have? The solicitor would know.
Time to think.
Harold slid his hand down his face. The table clock awarded him reprieve. Hazel would be waiting in the entrance hall by now. The romantic interlude he had planned for them had lost its appeal, but he needed her optimism more than anything. She would know what to do. Together, they could devise a plan. Together, they would go to London.
Yes, get out; get to Hazel.
Rather than take his leave of his father, he simply walked out of the study. He doubted his father noticed or cared, for the man was mumbling to himself about new investment ruses.
When Harold stepped into the anteroom adjacent to the study, he received the second shock of the day. Hazel stood in the middle of the room, staring up at him. His mouth formed the words of a greeting, but his voice failed when he registered her expression.
Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her eyes red-rimmed, her chin trembling. She did not speak. She studied him for a silent century before bowing her head and leaving him alone in the anteroom.
Hazel leaned against her bedchamber door, vision blurred with tears.
Betrayed.
Utterly betrayed.
All this time she had thought the family her saviors, her father’s friends who stepped in to protect her and her family from ruin, even sacrificing their only son and heir to save her reputation. The truth hit her boldly in the face. She had been used as a tool. Her father had been used as a tool. Her brother had be
en disinherited somehow. The marriage had been contrived from the greed of her father’s money.
The worst betrayal of all was Harold’s involvement. The marriage had been a sham. She did not want to doubt he loved her, but if he did, it had occurred by accident, and how convenient that he should get dowry and love. Did the love matter in light of the circumstances?
No.
A convenience for him. An inconvenience for her. A cause for deeper betrayal.
Knock knock.
Behind her, knuckles rapped smartly at the door. She jumped away as though burned, one hand clasped to her stomach, the other covering her mouth.
“Hazel?” Harold questioned from the other side of the door.
Panicked, she reached to the handle and flipped the lock, barring him from entry. The decisive click was met with silence.
Hazel waited.
More silence.
She closed her eyes, hoping he had left. As soon as she could collect her thoughts, she would request that her lady’s maid pack the necessary items. She wanted to go home. Her father needed to know what they had done. She needed to know what her father had done. What fee tail? What percentage of income? Oh, Papa. How cruelly they had taken advantage of a man desperate to save his beloved daughter. Was it too late to repair the damage?
“Hazel? Let us talk. Please,” came her husband’s voice again.
Choking on a sob, she ignored him. Vile man! A trickster just like his father. He had conspired and plotted with his father to steal her father’s money. Did they strategize with Lord Driffield, too, to force her into the compromise? She had not overheard enough of the conversation to understand much, but she had heard enough to know they had used her and her family abominably and to know Harold had some part in it or at least knowledge of it. From the way it sounded, he could have been the mastermind.
So much deception!
“Hazel, love, please let me explain. I understand you’re distraught. Let’s talk about this. If you need time, I’ll understand. I’ll be in our sitting room when you’re ready, even if that means staying there all night.”
This time, she heard the pad of footsteps down the hall. The faint click-click of a door opening and closing. Then another click of a door. He had walked around and into their sitting room.
Biting the knuckle of her forefinger, she stared at the sitting room door, then to her dressing room door, then back to the sitting room door. With a whimper, she went to the dressing room and rang for her lady’s maid.
Fifteen, twenty, as much as thirty minutes passed. Hazel changed out of her warm walking dress, instructed her maid to pack enough for the journey, and cried anew—curiously, more about the loss of her boathouse romance than the situation. Before packing, the maid brought Hazel a cup of hot chocolate. By the time Hazel checked the table clock above the mantel, it had not been fifteen, twenty, or even thirty minutes, rather over an hour.
The truth was, unless she planned to steal the carriage, bribe the coachman, or some other silliness like whisking away on a horse in the dead of night, she needed Harold if she hoped to return home. She abhorred the thought of talking to him—villainous blackguard!
Tears dried, shoulders back, chin high, she marched to the sitting room door.
Hand to handle, she questioned if she could write him a note instead. Resigned, she opened the door and stepped inside.
True to his word, Harold remained in the sitting room, waiting. He was doubled over on the chaise longue, his head buried in his hands. At the sound of the door, he looked up with a jerk of his head.
Hazel covered her heart with her hand. It thumped and bumped at the sight of him. How could he? For that matter, how could her traitorous heart thump happily after a single look from those brown eyes and that unruly russet hair, the latter untidy from having fingers dragged through the locks for over an hour. His expression broke her heart. He looked for all the world like a wounded stag.
But he was not wounded. She was. She would do well to remember that it had been he who wielded the bow and arrow that struck her.
To safeguard her from her disloyal heart, she left open the door to her bedchamber. Nodding to him with a brisk and unfriendly acknowledgment, Hazel sat at the far end of the chaise and arranged her dress so it would not brush against his leg.
She said, looking into the fireplace rather than at him, “I’m going home to my father. Please arrange for the carriage to take me. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
If he showed surprise or bitterness or any reaction at all, she did not know. Her gaze remained on the fireplace.
Harold’s voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet and soft. “I’ll escort you there myself.”
“No!” she protested, looking over at him in dismay before she remembered she was avoiding all eye contact. That same wounded expression met her glance. She hastened her gaze back to the fireplace, her heart giving a predictable thump. “No. I need away from you, your family, here, everything.”
The chaise dipped as he shifted his weight. “I’ll not have you travel alone. I’ll send a message to Patrick.”
“Not with his injury. I’ll…I’ll…I’ll take Nana with me.”
Yes, that sounded reasonable. Of all the dastardly deeds the family had committed against Hazel, Nana would have had no part in any of it. If anything, she wanted to protect Nana, as well. Who would look after her without Hazel here?
The sound and peripheral glimpse of him rubbing his hands against his buckskin breeches wrecked her senses. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to will herself to hate him. He had used her! Any desire to be consoled by him or held by those strong hands was gulped down. He had tricked her!
Harold said, “I’ll speak with Nana this afternoon about the trip, but I don’t want my wife or my grandmother traveling alone. Two defenseless women on the open road? And what if she has one of her moments? I’ll arrange for outriders, but I want a chaperone, a male chaperone.” After a moment’s silence he asked, “What about Sir Chauncey?”
“They couldn’t possibly receive the message in time for tomorrow morning. But yes, if Sir Chauncey and Melissa could join, then that would be ideal.”
“If you’ll agree to wait a few days, I can arrange it.”
She thought for a moment. A few days was too long. To stay under this roof? To stay with these people? These tricksters? She could hide in her room, have her meals brought to her. It would be worth the wait.
She nodded.
Harold said, “I’ll have everything taken care of for you and send a notice to your father of your impending arrival.”
She could hear him swallow.
He continued, “I don’t know what you overheard, but I hope for the opportunity to explain everything.”
“My father can explain it all to me.”
A stretch of silence, then, “Yes, it would be good to talk with him. But please, can we talk through it before you leave?”
Pursing her lips, she granted a curt nod. She did not want to hear more lies, but it was the ransom she had to pay to return to her bedchamber.
Harold exhaled loudly. She could see him from the corner of her eyes run a hand through his curls.
“My father has made poor choices, a great many poor choices. He’s driven debts higher than he can pay, using the estate’s income to invest in ventures rather than putting the money back into the estate. Nothing was this bad when I left for India. He had a series of successful deals, profits he used to invest in riskier ventures. I went to India to see to the riskiest one to date. It yielded substantial profits. I returned home to find the estate in disrepair, the coffers empty, and the debts unmanageably high. He was set on using the profits for a bigger gamble, an investment I advised him against. It was that investment for which he needed money. I knew nothing of his deal with your father, however, until I was told we would marry. Believe me wh
en I say I had no part in the settlement other than to be the bridegroom.”
She interrupted him. “But you knew about it. You went along with it. You allowed my father to sell his soul to save me. Even after marriage, you’ve never said a word about it to me.”
“I went along with it to save you, not because of the settlement. Finding the words to tell you you’ve married a family of paupers with a head of household determined to ruin us isn’t so easy, Hazel, although I refuse to make excuses. I should have said something sooner. I should have. I suppose I worried you would see me as having played a part in the marriage settlement. What I should have realized is not telling you branded me guilty despite innocence. There is nothing I can do about the settlement now, but if I can set it right with your father, I will.”
Hazel did not know exactly what her father signed into the settlement nor did she ask. She would ask her father and no one else. As for the rest of what he was telling her, she did not know what to believe or even what shocked her the most. The family was known for their wealth. All of the parties! All of the expenses! Their reputation was renowned. There had been signs of disrepair, so many signs, but she had ignored them since they contradicted what she and everyone else had known about the family. But what of Harold’s innocence? She had heard how coldly and callously he had spoken with his father about other ways to cheat people from their money. Had he been facetious? That was not Harold’s style. Then, what did she know of her husband? Everything she knew about him was called into question.
“My father is not well,” Harold continued. “He’s consumed not just by greed but by the fear of poverty. I don’t believe he meant you or your family harm when he took advantage of the situation. He was guided not by malice but by fear and greed. I offer no excuses for his behavior other than to say I don’t think he was in his right mind when he convinced your father of the settlement.”
She offered no reply. There was nothing to say.
Her hands became infinitely interesting as she answered him with her silence. How curious were hands? They lay folded in her lap, a sign of calm in the storm, a calmness she did not feel but portrayed outwardly. Her wedding band caught the firelight with a glint.
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