“Isabelle,” her father said, waving her in. “I thought you were off to buy your book.”
“I was,” she answered, handing over the envelope. “There was a man. He gave me this.” Puzzled, her father slit the seal with his knife, reading the contents before his face grew deathly pale.
“What is it?” her mother demanded, alarmed by the sight of her husband. “What is wrong?”
The Baron sighed loudly as he placed the letter on the table, on top of the newspaper that he had been reading.
“They are going to take the house.”
“Oh no,” her mother wailed, grabbing her napkin. “What are we to do George? We cannot live on the street!”
“What is going on?” Isabelle interrupted, alarmed by her parents’ reactions. “What are you not telling us?”
The Baron wiped a hand over his face, waving her into a seat.
“You are old enough to know.” Isabelle did his bidding and sat down. “Before your first Season, I levied the house and most of our holdings on the shipping venture. It had a very favourable rate of return and was doing well. I expected that, by the time you found your husband, I would be a far wealthier man than I ever was. I would be in a strong position to secure excellent matches for my daughters.” He took in a shuddering breath and the Baroness reached for his hand, her eyes wet with tears. “But two months ago, the venture failed. The embargo ship caught an ill wind and was blown off course. Eventually it wrecked on the coastline of an island near the Americas. Fortunately, lives were spared, but all cargo was lost. In short Isabelle, the investors pulled out.”
“Father,” Isabelle started, horror rising in her throat. “Are you saying that we are penniless?”
“I’ve failed this family,” he continued, refusing to meet her eyes. “And without a successful match for you this season, we are doomed to be out on the street within the month.”
Isabelle raised a hand up to her mouth, his words sinking in. They had no money, yet he was going to allow her to purchase a silly book this morning! Rapidly she thought of solutions to their plight.
“We can sell off our wares then,” she stated, thinking about the amounts of silver in the drawers and priceless paintings that would gain a pretty penny.
“It has already been done,” her father announced grimly, finally looking at her. Suddenly he looked ten years older. “Collectors will be coming by the end of the week to take the rest. We have no other recourse, Isabelle, and if you do not–” His words caught in his throat and he turned his head.
Isabelle detested seeing her father, the proud Baron, like this. This was the same man who had allowed her to have the best dresses for her debut, the same man who had purchased ices for them all, just a few weeks ago, without hesitation.
Now they were facing utter ruin.
“There is a country party next week,” her mother said softly, clearing her throat. “Your cousin Helen has agreed to accompany you. You must attend and make a match, Isabelle. Tis our only hope.”
Her father stared hard at the ceiling, but Isabelle saw the glistening in his eyes. Her mother took his hand. Isabelle rose from her chair, her heart in her throat.
“O-of course. I will walk away with a match.”
Her mother nodded and turned back to consoling her husband, as Isabelle walked out of the breakfast room, the weight of her family’s plight now on her shoulders.
She would make a successful match. She had no choice.
Chapter Two: Charles
The opening and closing of the door was the only sound that Charles Fortescue, Duke of Beaufort, heard, the stack of missives appearing at his elbow a moment later. With a sigh, he set his fork aside and picked them up, leafing through them with disinterest. Most were society pages that, no matter how many times he sent them back, kept coming in his post. He had no wish to read about the latest gossip in society, and who was causing a scandal in London. That was a life he had never cared for. He much preferred the quiet, country life that he lived now.
A creamy envelope caught his eye and he extracted it from the stack, using his knife to open the familiar seal. He had been waiting for her response and alas, it had come. He had thought she would deliver it herself, as it had been a brazen attempt to get him to come to her party to begin with. He imagined that she had been red with anger, stalking about the room while her husband attempted to placate her.
The thought brought a smile to Charles’s face. He enjoyed thwarting his sister.
Pulling out the single piece of vellum, he flicked it open, the smile still on his face.
My dearest brother, it read in his sister’s elegant script. I hope that this letter finds you well, as I wish to wring your neck for your tart response to my invitation.
I would expect that my older brother, my only family, would wish to join my party and, if you do not, I will be forced to come find you in that draughty manor you call home. Do not disappoint me, Charles, for you know that I have no qualms about hunting you down. I look forward to seeing you in one week’s time.
Charles reread his sister’s response and chuckled, setting the letter down beside his unfinished dinner. His sister, Anne, had a fine way of getting her point across and while he knew that he would ruffle her feathers by sending his regrets to her invitation, he had done so anyway. With a sigh, he pushed away from the table and walked out of the dining room, heading to his study. A roaring fire was already in place, with his snifter of brandy awaiting him on the side table. It was a routine he had come to relish in the evenings, when there was no work to be done on the manor grounds. During the day he busied himself with his tenants, sometimes partaking in the manual labour to keep his mind off who he was. It mattered naught to him, what people thought. It hadn’t for a long time. But yet, every night, he stared into the fire and brooded, as his sister would say, until the decanter of brandy was empty.
The liquid no longer numbed his body as it once had, but at least the hurt was not at its sharpest. Charles seated himself before the fire, picking up the glass and admiring the flames through the cut crystal. There was a time in his life when had thought that everything would change, and change it had. Now, at twenty-six, he was alone once more, without a future to be had. Not that he wanted one. Charles had more than once assumed that he would die an old man in his bed, with only the servants to weep for his passing and bury his body in the small plot behind the manor. His name would only be a whisper on his sister’s lips when she thought about him. And no one else’s.
Taking a sip of the brandy, he allowed the smooth liquid to run down the back of his throat, leaving a fiery path in its wake. The study was the only room in the manor that she had not frequented, leaving it his private domain. He had laughed, and told her that she owned the rooms in their home just as much as he did, but she had never once graced the doors of the study. Now he was grateful that she hadn’t.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair. Augustine Fortworth had been a woman he had coveted. The daughter of a Duke, she was highly sought after during her debut into London society, and Charles had known immediately that he wanted her for his wife. She had given him a good chase, however, and by the end of the season, they were married. Unfortunately, she had not been keen on returning to the country, much preferring to be amid the city instead of the peaceful countryside. He had placated her for a while, but his soul called him to come home and that was what they had done.
Little did he know that would be his downfall in the end.
Opening his eyes, Charles pushed out of the chair, no longer caring to have his nightly bottle of brandy. He was restless suddenly, and as he walked out into the halls of the manor, he found himself pausing at the door of the late Duchess of Beaufort. He had kept the door shut since the night she had died, and for good reason. It was a reminder of how he had failed as a man, how he had allowed his heart to be open to that tender feeling of love.
He had thought that Augustine had loved him. Leaning his hea
d against the door, Charles forced himself to pull the feelings back into the box he had tucked away in his chest. It did no good to think of the past. He had learned his lesson very well on the affairs of love. But that did not keep him from having to answer his sister’s summons. She would expect him to be there and, given that she was his only surviving relative, he imagined he must go, or face her wrath.
Continued….
Read the rest exclusively in ‘Love, a Second Chance – A Regency Romance Springtime Collection’
At
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C2YDX21
Escaping The Scurrilous Earl Page 8
