Rescued from Ruin

by Georgie Lee

  Randall watched as Strathmore pointed a thick finger at first one and then another of the most sordid of the lot. All at once, he imagined Strathmore sitting close to Cecelia, his dry lips hovering near her ear as he relayed with delight the dirty details of every picture, relishing the chance to poison her against him.

  Randall took a step down, ready to grab the Earl by the collar and toss him out of the house, but he stopped, regaining his imperious stance and wiping away all traces of annoyance from his expression. Strathmore was beneath his notice and his anger.

  A footman pulled open the front door and Lord Weatherly, Lord Hartley and Lord Malvern entered, their loud voices dropping at the sight before them.

  ‘Heavens,’ Lord Weatherly mumbled as he stepped up to the nearest painting, an explicit depiction of an ancient Roman man and woman watched by their curious servants. It used to hang in Uncle Edmund’s study, a strange complement to the paintings of birds and hunting dogs.

  Behind him stood Lord Hartley, Marquess of Hartley, a stately man of forty-five and a fixture of society whom Randall liked and respected. He could not say the same about his dolt of a nephew, Lord Malvern. The young Baron in the tight blue silk coat possessed more words than brains and little knew how to wield either.

  The fop gaped at the paintings before catching Randall’s eye. He made for Randall, his poor uncle following behind like a tired governess chasing after a wayward charge. If it weren’t for Lord Hartley, Randall would have cut his nephew. Instead, he remained standing on the steps, looking down at the rail-thin Malvern.

  ‘Lord Falconbridge, with so much interesting art for sale, may we assume you have a new conquest, one who is making you part with your precious collection?’ His weak lips drew up into a grin Randall assumed was meant to be haughty, but it only made him look as if he’d smelled curdled milk.

  Behind him Lord Hartley rolled his eyes.

  Randall twisted the signet ring on his small finger, looking over the stupid man’s head. ‘You may assume whatever you like.’

  ‘Don’t disappoint, Lord Falconbridge.’ He lifted one foot to step up and Randall pinned him with a look to melt ice.

  Malvern lowered his foot back to the floor. ‘Tell us who she is. All society wants to know.’

  ‘If by all society, you mean the betting book at White’s, don’t think I’ll give you the advantage. We aren’t on familiar enough terms for such confidences.’

  Lord Malvern’s lips twitched as if trying to form a retort when his uncle dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Spare the Marquess any more of your wit, Morton. Go see the paintings and enjoy the only visit you’ll likely make to the Marquess’s house.’

  Lord Malvern sneered at his uncle, but shuffled off to join a group of similarly dressed young men crowding around a painting of nymphs and satyrs engaged in an orgy.

  ‘If he wasn’t my wife’s nephew, I’d have nothing to do with him.’ Lord Hartley shook his head, leaning one elbow on the wood balustrade. ‘He thinks his mouth will make him a reputation, but it won’t be the one he wants. I don’t suppose you’d consider calling him out, aim wide and send him scurrying back to the country?’

  ‘As tempting as it is to draw first blood on him, he’s hardly worth the effort or the bullet.’ Randall stepped down to join the Marquess. ‘Besides, with his lack of wit, you won’t be saddled with him for long.’

  ‘Ah, how I look forward to the day he leaves.’ Lord Hartley laughed before he sobered at the sight of his nephew making a rude gesture to one of the other fops. ‘I’d better see to it he doesn’t embarrass himself further. Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’

  Lord Hartley walked off to rejoin his nephew near the Roman painting.

  The fops crowded around it, laughing into their hands like a gaggle of school girls before one of them reached out to run a gloved finger over the Roman woman’s arm.

  Her arm is too long, Cecelia’s voice rang through his mind, the memory of her laughing at the painting bringing a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.

  The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.

  I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.

  Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.

  Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.

  He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.

  He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.

  * * *

  ‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’

  ‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’

  It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.

  ‘I look forward to speaking with you then.’ She nodded for Theresa to rise, the strain on her cousin’s face striking Cecelia harder than Mr Watkins’s news. It ripped at her to see Theresa so worried instead of carefree and happy like she used to be before Daniel’s death. It reminded her too much of herself at sixteen.

  ‘I
don’t normally recommend this measure, but I sense you may be in need of such services.’ Mr Watkins’s words stopped them and they settled back on the edges of their chairs. He removed a slip of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write. ‘This is the name of a gentleman who may be able to help you.’

  He handed the paper across the desk. Cecelia took it and looked at the name and address.

  Philip Rathbone, 25 Fleet Street.

  ‘A gentleman? You mean a moneylender.’

  Mr Watkins nodded. ‘I would not recommend him except among his class he is exceptional.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t ruin people as quickly as the others.’

  Mr Watkins steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘He’ll deal fairly with you, more so than any other man in the Fleet.’

  ‘I’ll take it into consideration.’ She slipped the paper into her reticule. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Watkins.’

  The solicitor escorted them through the front room past two clerks copying documents. ‘I’ll notify you if anything changes.’

  She caught a slight sympathy in the older man’s words and, though she appreciated it, hated being in a position to need it. ‘Of course, you’ll be discreet concerning this matter.’

  ‘I’m always discreet.’

  ‘Thank you. Good day.’

  Cecelia slipped her arm in Theresa’s and guided her down the pavement.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Theresa whispered, looking nervously over the passing people as if expecting someone to stop, point and announce their secret.

  She didn’t blame her for being nervous. There were many times when she had wondered if everyone already knew and if that’s why they kept their distance.

  Cecelia clutched the top of the reticule and the paper inside crinkled. Having Mr Rathbone’s name in the bag made it, along with all the other burdens she carried, seem heavier. She stood up straight, trying not to let this new setback weigh her down, to be brave for Theresa’s sake and ease some of her cousin’s fears. ‘I may have to visit the moneylender.’

  ‘But you can’t.’ Theresa’s voice rose high with panic before she clamped her mouth closed, leaning in close to Cecelia. ‘We haven’t the means to repay a man like him.’

  ‘I know, but it’s better to owe one discreet man than to have the butcher and grocer declaring our debts through town. I can make arrangements with Mr Rathbone, then only use the money if things turn dire.’ Though at the moment, they were teetering precariously close to dire.

  London was proving far more expensive than she’d anticipated. They reworked old dresses, made do with only Mary, shivered through the night to avoid burning coal and relied on refreshments at soirées and dances to help keep them fed, yet still it wasn’t enough. She’d sold the silver yesterday, the small amount it brought already spent to secure their town house for the next three months. Hopefully, it would be enough time for either her or Theresa to find a husband. If not, she wasn’t sure how they would survive. Except for their simple jewellery, fine clothes and the books, there was little left to sell.

  ‘Miss Domville told me all sorts of horrible stories about people being threatened by creditors,’ Theresa protested, stepping closer to Cecelia when the pavement narrowed and the crowd thickened. ‘It isn’t safe to deal with them.’

  ‘What does Miss Domville know except gossip?’ Cecelia scoffed, wondering if Madame de Badeau’s sister was the best influence for Theresa. ‘I’ve dealt with creditors before. I know how they conduct business.’

  ‘But I thought Daniel didn’t believe in credit?’

  ‘He didn’t, but after the hurricane, when the harvest was destroyed, we had no choice, not if we wanted to rebuild. If Mr Rathbone is as honest as Mr Watkins says, then his money will give us the time we need.’ She said it as much to convince herself as Theresa.

  ‘And if he isn’t?’

  ‘Then we can hardly be any worse off than we are now.’

  They paused at the corner, waiting for a break in the carriages and carts to cross. Cecelia covered her nose with her hand against the stench of the filth littering the street. The fresh air of Belle View, the bright sun hanging over the lush green trees and reflecting off the red brick seemed so far behind her, and with it all the strength of Daniel’s patient smiles and tender ways. Daniel might have failed to provide for her after his death, but alive he had always been a rock, steady and calm beside her. Even after the loss of their little boy, Daniel, despite being weak from the fever, had held her and let her pour out her heart and her grief.

  Tears blurred Cecelia’s vision, and she let Theresa pull her across the street, fighting the heaviness settling over her to reach the other side before a large carriage passed. Exhaustion pulled at her until she wanted nothing more than to sit on the stone pavement and surrender to her troubles, let them press down on her until she could do nothing except pace the hallways and cry, just like her mother.

  ‘Cecelia, I’ve been thinking. If the Season ends and neither of us are settled, I’ll become a governess,’ Theresa said as the clatter of the street faded behind them.

  The announcement snapped Cecelia out of her fog. She couldn’t give up, not with Theresa depending on her. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Why? My wages could support us.’

  Cecelia pulled her into the quiet of a small space between two shops, not wanting to discourage the girl’s spirit, but unwilling to let her live in ignorance of the realities of life. ‘You don’t speak French and you know nothing of music. Who but the most questionable of families might hire you and then where would you be? A stranger in a strange house, always hovering between a paid servant and an unwanted member of the family, perhaps suffering the inappropriate attentions of the gentleman?’

  ‘Yet you’ll let men like Lord Strathmore pester you?’

  ‘If it means seeing you happy and safe, then, yes.’

  ‘I won’t let you, not with him. Miss Domville says he may not even be rich and she tells me the most awful things about him. Please, promise me you won’t marry him.’

  Cecelia laid her hands on either side of Theresa’s face, smoothing away the tight lines at the corners of her mouth with her thumbs. ‘Even if Miss Domville’s stories are true, I can’t promise not to marry him. His title will keep us from debtors’ prison, and a poor Countess is still more respected than a poor colonial.’ She smoothed Theresa’s dark hair from her forehead. ‘I saw so many of my father’s business associates driven into poverty by shipwrecks or war. Once they were poor, almost everyone turned their backs on them just like they did to us in Virginia, except here it’ll be worse. I know, because I saw what happened to the daughters of more than one of Father’s old associates. If tying myself to Lord Strathmore means saving us from a life uglier than you can imagine, then I’ll do it.’

  ‘What about Lord Falconbridge? He seemed quite taken with you when we were riding and you certainly enjoyed his company.’

  ‘Lord Falconbridge is only interested in me as a diversion, nothing more, and I was foolish to forget myself with him.’ Cecelia dropped her hands to Theresa’s arm and drew her back onto the busy pavement, her embarrassment rising at being reminded of her behaviour, and his. ‘You have no idea the damage it might have done.’

  ‘I know you told me about what he did to you before, but perhaps he’s changed.’

  ‘The only thing that’s changed is his conceit, which is worse now than ever. Trust me when I tell you, Lord Falconbridge is not the man to save us.’

  ‘Then why can’t we save ourselves, if not as governesses, then perhaps as a lady’s companion?’

  Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington, wondering if the Dowager Countess would be kind enough to take Cecelia on in such a position. She imagined the scorn Randall would heap on her then, assuming he allowed his aunt to employ her. �
�I’m sure we’ll find a way to survive, but let’s not think about it until we have to.’

  ‘Some days, I think that moment is coming faster than we’d like.’

  Cecelia wrapped one arm around Theresa’s shoulders, drawing her close. ‘Please, don’t worry. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. You forget, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in this situation and pulled through.’

  Hopefully, it would be the last.

  Chapter Six

  Cecelia laid down the winning card, able to breathe again as the other players erupted in begrudging congratulations. Reaching into the centre of the table, her hands shook as she scooped up the small pile of coins. She shouldn’t have taken a chance with her money, but Lady Thornton’s card party was no place to be frugal, not when pretending to be wealthy. Palming one coin, she examined the face imprinted on the surface. For a brief moment during the play, the thrill of risking her money had proved as exciting as racing Randall in Rotten Row. Thankfully, the win meant she didn’t have to go home and explain to Theresa why she’d gambled away the butcher’s payment.

  ‘You’ve been very lucky tonight,’ Lady Weatherly observed as she gathered up the cards. ‘Will you play again?’

  Cecelia looked at the eager faces of the other players, tempted to try to win enough of their blunt to relieve some of her troubles, then changed her mind. When it came to risking money, like her father, luck never seemed to stay with her for long.

  She dropped the coins into her reticule, then rose. ‘I believe I’ll stop while I’m winning.’

  ‘As we all should, but we won’t, will we?’ Lady Weatherly laughed, wasting no time dealing another hand to the players who remained.

  Cecelia tightened the strings of her reticule and walked away, her excitement fading, the mask of calm respectability she’d worn since the incident in Rotten Row smothering her again. If only she could be as carefree about losing money as Lady Weatherly, play with abandon and enjoy herself without her heart stopping at every turn of the cards, but she couldn’t. She could barely afford a ride in a hackney, much less a gambling loss.