Royal Bridesmaids

by Stephanie Laurens

  To an act so inexplicable.

  A sound down one corridor had Julian turning.

  From the shadows, an older man in a fastidiously neat dark suit emerged. “Thank you for coming so promptly, my lord.”

  Lips tight, Julian nodded. “Draper.” This was Draper senior, his brother’s man of business, Jordan’s father. The Draper offices were in Derby, much nearer than London. Julian searched Draper’s face. “Do you have any idea why George . . . I still can’t believe it . . . why he took his life?”

  Sober and solemn, Draper nodded; he looked pale, worn down—significantly more aged than Julian remembered him. “Sadly, my lord, I do. That’s why I was relieved the staff had taken it upon themselves to send for you. This is a bad business, and we’ll need decisions made quickly if we’re to protect the family.”

  “Protect . . . ?” Julian frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” Draper waved down the corridor. “If you will come to the office, I’ll endeavor to explain.”

  Julian hesitated. “My mother?”

  “Prostrated by the shock, as is the duchess, but the doctor was here yesterday and both were sedated. I’m told they might wake in a few hours.”

  “My sisters? And Henry? Good God, the poor boy’s the duke now.”

  “Indeed, but the staff have the young people well in hand, and I fear . . .” Draper broke off and rubbed his forehead. “I fear our discussion won’t wait, my lord. In such a situation, time is of the essence.”

  Draper was a solid man, a steady, unruffleable, conscientious man, which was one reason Julian had chosen his son as his own man of affairs. Growing even more puzzled—more alarmed—Julian nodded. “Very well.” He gestured. “Lead on.”

  Following Draper down the corridor, he asked, “When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday morning, my lord. The staff heard the shot at eleven o’clock, I believe. They had to break down the library door, but of course there was nothing they could do.”

  Julian had had time to think during the long hours of the drive. “How many others know of George’s death?”

  “At the moment, my lord, I believe the knowledge is restricted to the indoor staff, the stable staff, and the family. And the doctor and myself, of course.”

  “So we have a chance of concealing the suicide.” His first thought was for his sisters, his mother, for Henry, and even for his sister-in-law; a suicide in the family, whatever the reason, cast a long social shadow.

  Draper hesitated before saying, “Possibly.” He didn’t sound at all certain.

  Julian followed Draper into the estate office.

  Draper waved him to the chair behind the desk. “It will make it easier for me to show you the accounts.”

  “Accounts?” Lowering himself into the chair, Julian frowned. “Why do I need to see the accounts?”

  Lifting a heavy ledger from a shelf, Draper turned and met his gaze. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that your brother wasn’t, as was generally supposed, immune to the Delbraith curse.”

  “Hell’s bells!” Julian speared the fingers of both hands through his hair and stared at the evidence of George’s addiction. In the past half hour, Draper had laid ledger after ledger before him, driving home one very simple fact.

  George had succeeded where all Delbraiths before him had failed. He’d run the estate into the ground, then had compounded the damage by mortgaging every last asset to the hilt.

  Lowering his hands, Julian sat back. “All right.” His mind was whirling, juggling figures and sums, chances and possibilities. He now understood why Draper had wanted him there. “Tot up the sum. All of it. And send for Jordan—tell him to bring all my current accounts.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Draper hesitated, then admitted, “I took it upon myself to send for Jordan earlier—he should arrive within the hour.”

  Julian raised his gaze to the older man’s face. “That was strangely presumptuous of you.” He said it without heat, more as a question.

  Draper met his gaze. “I apologize, my lord, but I’ve known you and your brother since you were infants. I knew the family could count on your help, and, as I’ve said, we—”

  “Don’t have time.” Julian grimaced, then nodded curtly. “Very well.” He pushed back his chair. “I’m going up to see my sisters. Send for me when Jordan arrives.”

  He found Millicent, Cassandra, and Edwina in the small upstairs parlor they used as their own. They’d been informed that George had died, but they had been told nothing else. However, having heard the shot and witnessed the resulting furor, they were more than capable of putting two and two together.

  “He killed himself, didn’t he?” Millicent, fourteen years old and bidding fair to becoming another Lucasta, sat sideways along the window seat, knees to her chest, and cut straight to the heart of the matter.

  Having exchanged kisses and longer-and-tighter-than-usual hugs with all three, Julian sat on the cushion beyond Millicent’s toes and hesitated, wondering what he could spare them, whether he should . . .

  Cassie, eleven, snorted. “Just tell us—you know we’ll get it out of the staff if you don’t.”

  Julian sighed and complied, keeping an eye on Edwina, just ten, to make sure nothing he said was too much of a shock.

  “But . . . why?” Millicent frowned. “It’s a thoroughly horrible thing to do—he must have had a reason.”

  This was the tricky part. “I understand from Draper that George had begun gambling. It seems the curse had caught up with him, and rather than risk the estate and his family, George . . . well, he put a stop to it.”

  Julian hoped they would swallow the white lie.

  All three frowned, considering, then Cassie humphed. “That sounds like George. So stuffy that he couldn’t bear asking you for help.” Cassie turned her gray eyes on Julian. “You’ve been living with the curse all your life and it’s never hurt you—and you’ve never hurt the estate or the family, either.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Sadly, George wasn’t me.”

  “No.” Millie swung her legs down and briefly clasped his arm. “You’re made of much sterner stuff. But what about the taint? Of suicide, I mean?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. The doctor left a note saying that in the circumstances he would suggest we put it about that George died suddenly and unexpectedly of apoplexy.”

  The three thought for a moment, then Edwina said, “Well, then, I suppose what we need to do next is get some mourning clothes so we can see George off in proper style.”

  Millie grimaced. “True. He might have been an idiot, but he was our noble idiot and he sacrificed himself for us, so we should at least do him proud in the matter of his funeral.”

  From the corner of his eye, Julian spotted a gig, driven by Jordan Draper, come bowling up the drive.

  “We should go and talk to Mama,” Cassie said. “Discussing clothes might cheer her up, or at least take her mind off the manner of George’s passing.” She looked at Julian. “Have you seen her yet?”

  “No. Not yet.” He paused, then said, “Why don’t you three go and distract her, and tell her I’m here, and that I’ll be up to speak with her as soon as I can?” He rose along with the girls. “I have to go and sort things out with Draper, just to get everything squared away. Tell Mama I’ll come up as soon as I’ve finished.”

  His sisters nodded and hugged him again, then they all quit the parlor. Parting from the girls in the corridor, Julian surreptitiously sighed with relief; that had gone better than he’d hoped.

  He spent the next hours with the Drapers, father and son, then they were joined by Minchinbury, the family solicitor. The office was crowded with all four of them in it, but no one suggested they take their discussions into a less secure and well-shielded room.

  Minchinbury confirmed that George’s will named Julian as sole executor, and also joint guardian of three-year-old Henry. In regard to the latter, Julian merely nodded and set that problem aside for
later; one hellish scenario at a time.

  “There’s no way around it,” Jordan eventually concluded. “No matter how we structure payments, even if we liquidate every saleable unentailed asset and devote the entirety of the estate income to said payments, the outgoings still far exceed the duke’s ability to pay.”

  While they’d been going over the horrendous figures, a plan had taken shape in Julian’s mind. It was beyond outrageous, but outrageous was something he did well. Across the desk, he met Jordan’s eyes. “Factor in my funds—all of them. Liquidate my assets, all of them, and add them in, too—reduce the capital owed. Leave me . . .” He considered, then said, “Ten thousand in cash. Assume an ongoing income through me of . . .” That took a little longer to calculate, but eventually he named a sum.

  Draper and Minchinbury looked startled, but Jordan only grimaced, jotted down the figures, and started reworking the complex web of mortgage and loan repayments again.

  While he did, Draper and Minchinbury traded looks . . . and slowly worked out Julian’s direction. It was Minchinbury who, faintly shocked, finally looked at Julian. “My lord . . . what are you planning?”

  Julian held up a finger and patiently waited while Jordan did his sums.

  Eventually, Jordan blew out a breath. “We’re close. Just a whisker in it.” He looked at Julian. “You could pull it off.”

  Julian hadn’t needed to explain to Jordan what he was thinking of doing; Jordan had worked for him for long enough to guess what he might, and could, do, but he was grateful for the younger man’s unequivocal support. “You’ve included the running of this house and the estate in general, the usual payments to my mother, the girls, and the duchess, and left the girls’ portions intact?”

  “Well, the girls’ portions are already long gone,” Jordan said, “but that will return them to their previous amounts by the time each of them reach sixteen. I’ve also included an escalating amount for Henry in the years to come, starting from his fifth birthday.”

  “Good man.” Julian paused to gather his arguments, then transferred his gaze to Draper and Minchinbury. “What I’m proposing to do, gentlemen, is this.”

  He told them his plan, the whole of it; if he was to succeed in saving the Delbraiths—family, title, and estate—he needed them on his side. At first, they were shocked, then aghast as the full ramifications of what he was proposing came clear in their minds, but finally, like Jordan, they, too, accepted that, when it came to it, he had no other choice.

  George had taken the easy way out and left Julian to rescue the Delbraiths.

  His interview with his mother was difficult, not least because Lucasta was inclined to blame herself for George’s disgrace.

  Seated in an armchair angled before the wide window in her sitting room, a still handsome woman with graying hair pulled back from a grief-stricken face, she clenched a damp handkerchief in one fist. “I should have seen it! I can’t believe I missed the signs.”

  Contrary to general assumptions, Julian got along well with his mother; they were much alike when it came to will. They’d long ago reached an accommodation; Lucasta didn’t try to push him, and he didn’t push back.

  Standing gazing out over the rolling lawns to the trees of the home wood, he sighed. “Mama, if I didn’t see anything, there wasn’t anything to be seen. He was . . . excellent at hiding it.”

  “He deceived us. He betrayed us.” After a moment, in a quieter voice, Lucasta asked, “For how long?”

  Julian hesitated, but he knew better than to try to lie to her. Turning, he said, “According to Draper, since he started at Eton, but initially the amounts were small enough not to alert Papa or you. Only after he inherited did he start wagering larger sums.”

  Helplessly, Lucasta shook her head. “You never heard any whisper?”

  “No.” Which said a great deal about what establishments George had frequented. Any socially accepted hell, and Julian would have heard of it, so George had slid into the underworld to sate his addiction.

  Slowly, Lucasta drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and raised her chin. “What’s done is done. We’ll do as Doctor Melrose suggested—George died of an apoplexy. We’ll bury him with all due circumstance. And then”—she looked at Julian—“we’ll pick up the pieces and rebuild.” She paused, eyes narrowing on him. “So.” She heaved a tight sigh. “Given George blew out his brains rather than face the consequences, tell me—how bad is it?”

  He didn’t try to soften the news—pointless where she was concerned. His mother had always been fierce in defense of her family; she would detect any prevarication and, terrier-like, drag the truth from him. So he drew up another armchair, sat and told her all, and when the shock, unsurprisingly, held her stunned and silent, he smoothly continued, “I’ve spoken with the Drapers, both of them, and with Minchinbury, and worked out a plan. It’s desperate, but for us these are desperate times. They’ve agreed that it’s our only possible way forward—we’ve canvassed every other course, and none will get us through this except what I propose.”

  She looked him in the eye. “I’m not going to like your plan, am I?”

  “No, but it is the only plan we have.” He proceeded to tell her the whole of it.

  She heard him out in silence.

  Then they argued.

  That he’d expected; he held to his guns and eventually, bit by bit, inch by inch, she backed down.

  Except, to his surprise, over one aspect, and on that she wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t shift, would not concede.

  “I have lost one son—I will not lose you, too. No!” She held up a hand. “I appreciate that to be successful your plan makes open association impossible, but”—she fixed her eyes on his—“you will continue to visit this house, to visit me and your sisters. They are my daughters and are as capable of keeping your secrets as I am. You will not cut yourself off from us—and I assure you we will not let you go.” Her eyes filled. “That, my dear, is something you cannot ask of us. If your plan is to succeed, you will need to factor that in.”

  He hadn’t expected such a vehement reaction. Searching her face, knowing her adamantine will, he reconsidered, then nodded. “Very well. But my visits will be, for want of a better word, furtive.”

  “Secret.” She nodded. “You know the staff will do anything for you, so that won’t be a problem.”

  “The girls . . .” He grimaced. “I’ll leave it to you to tell them—you’ll know better than I how to put it, and I don’t have time for the inevitable arguments and explanations. Jordan and I must leave for London as soon as possible. If we’re to paper over the gaping holes George has left in the family’s financial façade, we need to act immediately.”

  Lucasta’s eyes searched his face, then she quietly asked, “And Caroline? I’ll explain to her if you wish.”

  Lips thinning, he shook his head. “No—I’ll speak with her. She’s Henry’s other guardian. She and I are going to have to find a way to work together, for Henry’s sake if nothing else.”

  He rose.

  Lucasta rose, too, gripped his arm, and stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Go, my dear. I know you must.”

  She released him and turned away, but not before he saw a tear slide down her cheek.

  His interview with his sister-in-law set the seal on a long and horrendous day.

  As he approached her suite, he saw Draper and Minchinbury emerge from Caroline’s sitting room. They closed the door behind them and came along the gallery. When he and the pair met, they all halted.

  Minchinbury spoke. “I’ve explained the terms of the will to the duchess. She understands that you are sole executor and also her son’s co-guardian, and comprehends the rights that are yours by virtue of those facts.”

  Julian felt his lips twist. “And how did she take that news?”

  Minchinbury grimaced. “Not well, but she had to be told. At least she now knows and understands the situation.”

  “We also informed her of the financial strait
s the late duke left behind.” Draper’s lips primmed. “I explained that, contrary to her long-held belief, you have never drained any undue resources from the estate, and that the current situation has arisen entirely through the late duke’s depredations. We did not, of course, venture to explain your plan, although we did allude to the fact that you had one, and that, given the situation, we believe it is the only route by which the family, and indeed the dukedom, can be saved from financial devastation.”

  Julian looked from one to the other. “Let me see if I understand this correctly—you’ve left the duchess knowing that whatever I propose, she must agree if she wishes to save herself and her son from ruin?”

  Both men thought, then both nodded. “We”—Minchinbury flicked a glance at Draper—“have been privy to the duchess’s view of you, my lord, and considered it our duty to clarify matters for Her Grace so that your words should fall on more fertile soil.”

  Draper nodded. “Least we could do to assist you with your plan.”

  Julian inclined his head. “Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your assistance.”

  Both bowed and stepped back. Minchinbury said, “If you need any assistance subsequently, my lord, please know you have only to ask.”

  Julian nodded and continued along the corridor. Reaching Caroline’s sitting room, he didn’t pause to let himself think but tapped on the door. Hearing a muffled “Come,” he turned the knob and entered.

  Caroline was standing with her back to the window, her arms wrapped tightly about her. Inclining his head, Julian closed the door, then walked toward her. “My condolences. I would it were otherwise, but we have to talk.” Halting a yard away, he met her blue eyes. “Minchinbury and Draper told me they’d explained the situation. Is there anything about it you don’t understand?” He kept his tone even, uninflected and distantly polite.

  Her face stripped of all masks, Caroline stared up at him; he could see the emotions, the questions, the rage, roiling behind her eyes. In the end, she rasped out one word, hoarse and ragged. “Why?”