He nodded. “All right. Good afternoon to you, Katherina,” he said with a chuckle.
She snorted and turned Sophia’s horse away without a backward glance. Though, heavens, she truly did have the urge to look back.
Chapter Two
“Philip, darling, what are you doing?”
Philip De Vere, Earl of Harthorne stuffed the creditors’ notices littering his desktop into the drawer, forced a jovial smile he hadn’t felt in months, and turned to face his mother as she strolled into his study. He swept a hand toward the foolscap in front of him that he’d been about to jot a note on for Miss Adair, to accompany the money he owed her from their race that morning.
“Just writing a note,” he said. “What brings you to my office on this fine, sunny day? Shouldn’t you be out riding about in the carriage or visiting with one of your friends?”
Philip’s mother sat across from him in a noticeably threadbare gown that made him frown. She ran her finger along the worn, faded edge of what used to be his father’s favorite chair before his father had died and left them in shocking debt. She looked so small and helpless in the enormous rose-colored armchair.
Her brows dipped as she stared at him. “Never mind the lovely weather and my friends. You look worried.” Her hands twisted together as her blue eyes locked on his. “Are you? I mean to say, are the finances still excellent?” Her voice held the quiver of one who had been forced to worry about many things in her life, and it made Philip’s heart ache.
The finances were not excellent. He was sure he had never used that word, or maybe he had when he’d been blindly hopeful last year that this year’s crop would be better, that he’d be able to pay his sister Amelia’s husband, Aversley, back for the loan Mother knew nothing about, and that all would be well. But the damned rain was ruining the crops again. Philip couldn’t even commit to saying the finances were decent. They were far from it. He was still deep in debt. They were precariously close to not being able to afford food once again, as they had been immediately after Father had died.
Philip ground his teeth. Wagering with Miss Adair earlier in the park had been foolish, reckless, and wholly unlike him. And he’d purposely let her win on top of the initial idiocy of agreeing to the wager.
“Philip?” His mother’s prompting jerked him back to the moment.
He pulled his gaze from the window and glanced at her. What to say so she would not worry, yet ensure he was not lying? The words had to be just right. He could not tell his mother about the crops, and he could never let her know that they were so near running out of money that even buying necessities such as food was going to be difficult. The last time their situation had been so dire, she’d turned to laudanum to cope. He had to protect her now as he’d failed to do previously.
Philip raked his hand through his hair, trying to ward off the familiar feeling that he was drowning. If you’d asked him when he was a young lad if he would grow up to be a man who worried about finances he would have laughed. Money had never meant much to him. They’d had enough for a happy life, and he’d never desired more. As long as he had food to eat, poetry books, and the supplies he needed to write, he had everything he required.
“Philip?” His mother’s voice hitched, and lines of worry etched additional creases into her face.
“There is no need for you to be worried,” he assured her, which was perfectly true. He’d do all the worrying for both of them.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried as a genuine smile lit her face. “For a moment, my stomach became all knotted. You had such a look on your face, as if we were on the verge of starving again.”
Philip tugged on his cravat, which felt rather like a noose that was tightening. How close to the truth his mother was. He had precisely two months of funds left to feed them—possibly three if he was very careful.
She patted her hair, and he noted the dismal state of her gown once again. God, he felt like a failure even asking her if she could forgo new gowns again this Season, but he hated to create more debt he couldn’t pay. He was already supposed to pay Aversley back tomorrow for the previous loan, and he could not even do that. Humiliation branded him. “Mother, about this Season—”
“Yes! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!” She picked up the magazine she had been holding and opened it. “I offered to sponsor your cousin Eustice, so she might finally have a Season.”
Philip nearly groaned. “Have Eustice’s looks improved through the years?”
His mother scowled at him, then sighed. “Not much.”
This time he did groan.
“We must be kind, darling,” his mother chided.
He could not afford kindness, but he forced another nod, which won a smile of approval from his mother. “I said we could purchase her a few new gowns and I would accompany her to the balls, which means I likely need at least two new gowns myself.”
Philip began to sweat in his coat. He yanked it off and flung it on the desk, all while his mother watched him with a raised eyebrow. So much for not creating debt he could not pay back. Thank God he still had good credit with all the shops. Mother and Eustice would have to get the gowns thusly. And he’d have to—
“Philip, are you sure you are all right? You look feverish. Your cheeks are red.”
“Too much sun in the park today.” A complete truth. He’d stayed an hour after the race, staring at the Serpentine and trying to figure out what it was about Miss Adair that had made him agree to the wager when he knew he should not have.
“You should go to the park when the sun is not so strong,” his mother said.
He nodded absently.
Mother shifted in her seat and let out a long sigh. “I thank God every day I have you. You didn’t let me suffer the disgrace your aunt Lydia had to suffer when your uncle Richard died and poor Lydia could not pay all the debt. Once you knew our troubles, you took charge!” Mother pressed her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. “Lydia is too prideful. She took work as a seamstress and refused to let us help her. And look at her now. Shunned by the ton and she still cannot afford a Season for poor Eustice, who is already two and twenty. ”
The ton and how they would shun Mother if he, as an earl, took an honest job was precisely why finding employment was not a solution to his financial woes. She’d never survive being ostracized from Society. If he’d only had himself to consider, he’d find work in a second.
“You would never let me down that way.” She shook her head. “The shame of everyone knowing you cannot pay your obligations is bad enough, but to have all your belongings taken from you?” She paused and took a deep breath. “Philip, I don’t mind telling you that after your father died, I lay awake fearing that would happen to us. I thought I could face it if it did, but then seeing how the ton has treated poor Lydia and your cousin, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to bear it.”
He felt a grimace pull at his lips, and he steepled his hands in front of his face to hide his expression.
His mother frowned. “Your brow has creased, dear. Are you composing another poem in your head, or are you upset with me for agreeing to sponsor Eustice without asking you? If it’s too much expense, I’ll forgo gowns for myself again. I don’t mind, truly.”
A twitch started on the right side of his temple. Providing money for gowns for two women was too expensive, to be sure. Damnation! Even providing new gowns for one of them required money he didn’t have, but he’d barter his soul to the devil before giving his mother a reason that might drive her back to laudanum.
Philip’s pulse ticked up a beat.
“Philip, honestly,” his mother chided gently, “you’re not acting yourself at all.”
“I’m not feeling myself.” He was feeling rather trapped by life, his station, his obligations. Writing poetry had always provided an outlet to escape these feelings, but the poetry was not coming to mind anymore. His worry had ripped the creativity from his mind.
“It’s the heat,” she declared and fanned
herself.
He cleared his throat and forced out the words that would heap yet more debt on his head. “Of course we’ll help Eustice.”
“Wonderful! But there’s one more thing…”
Mother shot him an apologetic look that made his gut spasm. Of course, there was one more thing.
“She’ll be living with us until she secures an offer of marriage.” Mother stood and smoothed out the folds of her gown. “But of course, I’m sure you assumed that since she does not live in London and we are sponsoring her.”
He’d assumed nothing because he was too busy worrying about their finances. Enough of that. Wallowing in misery would not help matters. He had to come up with the money somehow. He’d not let his mother down as his father had done.
She came around the desk and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad we had this talk. I’m off to the dress shop.”
“Have fun,” he managed to choke out as he watched her disappear. He stared at his desk for a moment, his thoughts turning. He picked up his quill pen, dipped it, and sat there. What options did he have to set his debts to rights and get the lands back into shape so they would once again earn money?
He wrote the number one and then sat, listening to the incessant tick of the longcase clock while grinding his teeth. He could think of nothing except one thing. With a loud groan, he wrote, Find a lady with a large dowry to marry.
The notion made him shudder. He threw the pen down and stared at his only option. He’d always hoped he’d marry for love as his mother and father had done. He’d grown up seeing how happy they were compared to his friends’ parents who had married for convenience, and he knew he wanted love above all else. Even when Mary had broken their engagement because she’d found a lord with more money and a loftier title, he’d not become jaded against love. Well, he had, but he’d pulled himself out of it. After getting completely foxed, of course.
He’d not thought all women insipid creatures who cared for nothing beyond a rich husband with a grand title, and he’d presumed one day he would meet the woman he was meant to be with, a woman who would appreciate who he was, poetry and all. Hellfire.
He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against his desk, making the inkpot rattle. The only way he could save himself, Mother, and Cousin Eustice from financial ruin without making them suffer social leprosy was to sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony. There was no choice. Borrowing more money was out of the question if he wanted to keep a sliver of pride and be able to live with himself.
He stood, feeling as though he was going to go mad, and started pacing the room. Perhaps he’d find a lady he actually loved who also had a title. It was improbable but not impossible. He gathered his coat and put it on. He needed to speak to Aversley and admit he could not yet pay his brother-in-law back. The man might even have some notion of who the wealthy debutantes were this Season. Just the thought made Philip’s stomach turn. He started out the door and paused, remembering he still needed to write to Miss Adair.
He quickly penned the note and fished ten pounds out of his desk drawer, money that he had no business giving to the lovely, yet sharp-tongued Miss Adair, and made haste to Aversley and Amelia’s home. He could give the money and letter to his sister to hand over to Miss Adair while he was there, and afterward he’d break the news to Aversley.
Jemma breezed through the elaborately carved wooden door that led from the street of Mayfair into her grandfather’s London townhome. She’d purposely gone to Sophia’s after the race, hoping that perhaps gossip would spread like lightening and reach her grandfather before she returned home. If she was very lucky, he’d have already heard the story, come to the conclusion that she was in no way fit to debut, and be waiting to tell her as much. She got five steps into the main foyer when Mr. Sims, her grandfather’s butler, entered the room from the direction of Grandfather’s study.
Mr. Sims eyed her with disapproval, as he’d done since the day he’d overheard her tell Anne she wasn’t sure which she despised more, England’s rainy weather or Grandfather’s constant control over everything they did. Their every day was controlled by the schedule he dictated, from the moment they woke up and had to practice waltzing and curtsying with a book on their heads with Mrs. Young, until the end of the night when they were required to practice the pianoforte and embroidery. She could not wait to be out from under his command. She wasn’t sorry the butler knew it, nor did she care much that he disapproved of her.
Jemma stopped on her way to the staircase as Mr. Sims cleared his throat. Anne collided with Jemma from behind, and Jemma turned to her sister and raised a questioning eyebrow. Honestly, Anne seemed awfully preoccupied lately. Jemma needed to find out what secret Anne was hiding.
“Did you need me, Mr. Sims?” Jemma asked.
“His Grace wishes to speak with you and your sister in his study.”
This was it! Jemma couldn’t help but grin. “Of course,” she said sweetly. “We’ll go straight there.”
Mr. Sims cracked a rare smile. “He’s most displeased.”
“Excellent!” she cooed, giggling when Mr. Sims frowned. As she sashayed past him, her stomach did a little flip. She hoped she hadn’t gone too far.
Anne caught Jemma at the elbow. “I hope you haven’t carried things too far!” she whispered.
Jemma gave a start. For all the times Anne made her think they shared very little in common for twins, whenever her sister voiced a thought Jemma had just had, it reminded her of their special connection. Jemma bit her lip. “Hopefully, it was just far enough to cancel my debut but not get me disowned.”
Anne’s eyes widened with obvious worry.
Jemma patted her hand as they neared the open door to Grandfather’s study. “Don’t worry so. It will be fine.”
Before she could say anything else, Mrs. Young appeared in the doorway. She nodded to Anne and then fastened her faded-blue gaze on Jemma. “Here is a bit of advice before I depart.”
“Depart? Where are you going?” Her heart skipped a beat. This could be good or bad. Maybe Grandfather had dismissed Mrs. Young because he’d decided he needed to hire a new tutor. Or could it mean Mrs. Young was leaving because Grandfather thought Jemma ready to debut? She gulped.
Mrs. Young’s lips puckered before her mouth pulled into a victorious smile. “If you are going to deceive someone, my dear, you need to remember to keep the deception up at all times. And that just might be the most important rule of being a member of the ton you will ever need to know.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
A derisive sound came from the woman’s throat. “I’m sure you do. Do you know what I saw from the library window yesterday when you were in the garden with the servant children?”
It took all Jemma’s concentration not to cry out in dismay. Her tutor must have seen her showing one of the servants’ daughters how to properly curtsy. They’d asked her to teach them, and she’d obliged, thinking she was alone.
“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she fibbed.
The woman snorted. “Your voice just faltered. Try holding your breath before you tell a lie. These are the things all proper English ladies know. But you are American, after all.”
“Jemma and Anne!” Grandfather’s voice boomed from his study. Jemma jerked where she stood, then cursed under her breath that the old goat ruffled her so.
Mrs. Young departed with a snicker, and Jemma pushed her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and took Anne’s hand. “All will be well.”
Anne nodded, even as she sucked in her lower lip.
As they strolled into the study, Jemma’s gaze went to Grandfather’s desk but found the chair he usually sat in was empty. She located him in a small, blue velvet chair with delicately carved arms. She knew it had been her grandmother’s chair. She furrowed her brow. With his long legs and solid build, he looked positively stuffed into the tiny chair. Whyever would he sit there when he had so many more comfortable, more spacious options? Could it b
e that he actually missed her grandmother? She shook her head. No, the man was too cold to miss anyone.
Without looking up from what he was reading, he said, “Sit,” as if commanding two dogs, and flourished a hand toward the settee opposite him.
Jemma and Anne sat, pressed close together, and waited in silence for him to speak. The longcase clock ticked the seconds by, and Jemma felt her temper start to rise at his high-handed treatment. She narrowed her eyes. What the devil was he reading anyway? She leaned nearer to check the title, barely held her gasp in, and nudged Anne.
Anne gave her a questioning look as Jemma jerked her head at the magazine for ladies that Grandfather was reading. Anne’s eyes were like twin pools of astonishment when she met Jemma’s gaze.
Grandfather lowered the magazine and nodded to Anne. “You look well today, Granddaughter.”
That was the only compliment he ever gave.
“Thank you,” Anne murmured.
“I had something special made for you debut.”
A genuine smile lit Anne’s face that made Jemma smile, as well. “What is it?” Anne asked graciously.
Grandfather stood, went to his desk, and retrieved a box with the hand that was not holding the magazine. He brought the gift to Anne and stood over them as she opened it. Inside was a pair of lovely white satin slippers.
Jemma frowned. It was nice, a startling gesture of thoughtfulness and kindness from a man who had not showed either of them any true affection since meeting them six months prior, but it was odd.
“Er, thank you,” Anne said.
Grandfather chuckled, and Anne and Jemma both flinched in surprise. “Pick them up,” he instructed. “One has a thicker heel than the other to accommodate the leg that is shorter.”
Anne picked it up with an exclamation of delight and jumped up to hug him. To Jemma’s amazement, he didn’t disentangle himself as he usually did when Anne tried to hug him, but he did have a pained, uncomfortable look on his face that twisted his features as he stood there, stiff as a board. When Anne released him, Jemma heard his sigh of relief. What her poor grandmother must have endured being married to such a cold man…
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 84
