Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Christian trained his gaze down the cobbled roads to the corner establishment of his solicitor’s offices. With annoyance thrumming through him, he tensed his jaw. Bloody futile meetings. Unless the man had since transformed himself into a bloody skilled wizard who could make money from nothing, then there was little benefit to this weekly appointment. The facts invariably remained the same. Christian was in dun territory. A growl rumbled up his chest and he quickened his stride.

  Maxwell hurried to keep up. “Bah, you make for miserable company these days.” As a lifelong friend, the earl had taken it upon himself to telling Christian precisely what he thought about his of-late surliness.

  “You are, of course, free to not join me in my weekly visits with Redding.”

  His friend gave a mock shudder. “And be stuck behind with a too-doting mama and three younger sisters? I think not.” The hard pavement swallowed the sound of their footsteps as they moved with military precision through the quiet streets.

  With a doting mama and just one younger sister, Christian could certainly well appreciate the need for freedom from those infernal, never-ending questions:

  When do you plan to marry? Have you met a young lady whom you’d care to wed? Might I introduce you to a young lady who’d make you a splendid wife? Invariably, the questions all came ’round to the same matter—marital state. That interference on his mother’s part had become all the more frequent following his first, and last, meeting with the inherited solicitor, Redding, inside his also inherited townhouse. That whole keyhole listening business by his mother had led to weekly meetings at the oft-scowling solicitor’s office.

  Maxwell sighed. “Regardless of your ill luck, I do not like this uncharacteristic solemnity to you.”

  It would seem only his friend could see through the easy half-grin he’d adopted for Society’s benefit. “Forgive me if I am not more casual about my state of affairs,” he gritted out. “Not all of us were blessed with a fortune.” Those words were not spoken out of bitterness, but rather as a matter-of-fact. The recently titled earl had been deuced lucky.

  Most would have considered themselves properly chastised. Maxwell merely grinned. “Hardly my fault I’ve found myself on the good side of fortune.”

  “I would never begrudge you that,” he answered with an automaticity born of truth. For it was true. Some solace was to be found in the truth that at least one of them was not a miserable rotter in dire straits.

  They turned right at the end of the street and continued on. No, Christian had long ago ceased bemoaning the circumstances in any aspect of his life: war, fortune, or in his case, a lack of fortune, the demons that haunted him for past crimes. Just as the earth turned and the tides ebbed and flowed, some would find themselves on the receiving end of good fortune. Others would not. Then, hadn’t the small trio of he, Maxwell, and the recent Duke of Blackthorne proven as much? Three friends since their days at Eton he, Maxwell, and the last sorry member of their childhood trio, Lord Derek Winters, had been born as lesser lords or spares to heirs. In fate’s fickle way, they’d all found themselves powerfully titled lords. Guilt crept in. Though Lord Derek Winters, the recent Duke of Blackthorne, would never be considered fortunate in any regard, thanks to Christian’s own failings.

  Maxwell was not content to allow Christian the misery of his musings this day. “Would it help were we to speak of that blonde beauty on Bond Street you were casually speaking to without the benefit of a chaperone?”

  “It would not,” he bit out. Except, the young lady’s awestruck visage slipped into his mind once more. The wide, blue eyes, enormous in her face, had been filled with such joy and innocence that a man could forever lose himself in their cornflower depths. That was if he’d not already been drowning in the state of his financial circumstances. When his tenacious friend opened his mouth to speak again, Christian glared him into no more mention of the innocent stranger. Little good could come in discussing an unchaperoned miss—little good that could solve his current financial affairs, anyway.

  A carriage rumbled past, blotting out his friend’s deliberately drawn out sigh. “These are sorry days indeed when you are more eager to sit with your infernally depressing solicitor than attend the winsome young miss who’d been making eyes at you in the street.”

  He cast a sideways glance at his friend. “I am so very pleased that one of us should find amusement in my bloody financial affairs,” he complained. Christian found little amusement in the grimness of his circumstances. His blasted inherited title had proven as dire as his previous debt-ridden one.

  “Oh, come,” Maxwell scoffed. “You know I’m hardly amused by your lot. You, however, are making a good deal more of it than you ought. You merely need to wed a deliciously lovely beauty with an abundant fortune.” How very easy the other man made it out to be. As they walked, he slapped Christian on the back. “How very difficult should it be to find such a lady to wed the sought-after, heroic Marquess of St. Cyr?”

  Maxwell would speak so flippantly about Christian selling what little remained of his honor for some young woman’s fortune. A dull flush burned his neck. Maxwell knew all the details surrounding Christian’s honorable showing at Toulouse. He was grateful to be spared from answering, as they came to a stop outside the offices of his solicitor.

  The air stirred with a cold, winter wind. It tugged at the sign hanging above the establishment which creaked noisily in the morning quiet. He momentarily eyed the name etched in the wood. Gideon Redding. God, how he despised the curt, no-nonsense man of affairs. He looked to Maxwell. “I will be a short while.” For the other man’s constant presence and support, and everything he already did, in fact, know about Christian’s life, there was the humiliating rest, he’d keep to himself—that was the full extent of his finances.

  A half-grin tugged at the other man’s lips. “Good God, man, I’ve little desire to interfere in your affairs, if that is what you were thinking.” Actually, he hadn’t thought as much. Even with their lifelong friendship, they’d taken care to not discuss the serious parts of either of their lives. For which Christian was grateful. He was content to wallow in the disgrace of his own making without having the words dragged forth by Maxwell or any other. “I shall leave you to your business while I go see to mine.” He winked. “A bauble for my mistress.” Christian hadn’t two farthings to put together for either a mistress or a bauble. The earl tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “There are less questions from my interfering mother determined to see me wed when I’m with you, chap.” He stuffed the piece back inside his cloak. Lifting his hand in salutation, he turned on his heel and continued on down the street.

  Christian stared after the other man a long moment, hating the envy slicing through him; sentiments which had nothing to do with the widow necessitating his friend’s trip to Bond Street this day, and everything to do with the clear conscience carried by Maxwell. He’d never been the failure Christian himself had been and, as such, was deserving of that carefree half-grin. The fake that Christian was, however, and his own patent rogue’s grin was perfect for one such as him.

  Shoving aside the guilt that would never be fully gone, he pressed the handle and entered. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark office; an all too familiar office which he paid weekly visits to, with the answer always the same and, as such, always bleak.

  “My lord, I have been expecting you.” There was a touch of impatience in the tone of the solicitor who rushed forward. The other man had made little attempt at concealing his disdain for Christian; the very distant and last male issue connected to his former employer. Alas, Redding was one of just a handful who’d fully gleaned the current Marquess of St. Cyr’s worth.

  Nonetheless, he’d be damned if he would be demeaned by the rotund, condescending solicitor. Christian turned a dark frown on Redding, which immediately slowed the other man’s steps. His inherited man of affairs had the good grace to turn red. �
��Redding,” he greeted coolly. He’d not bother to explain there had been a fleeting streetside exchange with a slip of an English miss which had momentarily distracted him and also proven a much-needed diversion from his own circumstances.

  Redding cleared his throat. “I-if you will follow me, my lord?” The aging solicitor did not wait to see if his request was obeyed, but instead turned on his heel and started down the narrow corridor. His boot steps filled the quiet of the empty office.

  Christian continued after him. Each trip to this godforsaken building was not unlike the trek he’d been forced to make to his father’s office when he’d been a troublesome boy wreaking havoc on his tutors. Odd, regardless if one was a boy of six or a man of twenty-six, the guilt was equally strong.

  They entered Redding’s immaculate office. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust upon the mahogany surface of his furniture. Redding was as meticulous in attending his office as he was in his precision with numbers.

  “Please sit, my lord,” Redding said as he came around his desk. He motioned to the opposite chair.

  As he did each week, Christian slid into the seat hoping the situation had somehow miraculously worked itself through, all the while knowing nothing short of a bloody miracle could salvage the floundering estates left by the late marquess.

  The other man wasted little time. “I am afraid your circumstances are even more dire, my lord.” He gave him a deliberate look. “Very dire.”

  In an attempt at nonchalance, Christian bent his knee and hooked it over his opposite leg. He infused a droll tone to his response. “If you can spare me your dramatic commentary and instead focus on the numbers.”

  Redding bristled. “Very well.” Then with an almost gleeful relish, he plucked his spectacles from his face and snapped them shut with a grating click. He set them down upon the leather folio containing the details of Christian’s estates. “The late marquess, as you know, lived heavily on debt for years. Since our last meeting, I’ve seen to his mighty steeds.” Seen to, as in sold off. The other man’s horseflesh mattered not. But for his own loyal mount, Valiant, he didn’t give a jot for the prized stallions and mares that had been passed down and since sold by Redding.

  By the expectant look on the man’s fleshy face, there was something he expected. Christian rolled his shoulders. “And?”

  “And it did little to cover the previous debt left.”

  Of course. That whole wizarding business Redding hadn’t managed to accomplish. Christian’s annoyance snapped. He unfolded his knee and rested his booted feet upon the floor. “Will you get on with it?” He’d hardly expected the sale of the late marquess’ horseflesh to cover the years of neglect and debt to the estates.

  The other man pursed his lips like an old Society matron who’d had her soiree invaded by rakes and rogues. “Very well.” He folded his hands together and leaned over his clasped hands. “Even with the sale of the horseflesh, as well as the inherited and since sold jewels belonging to the late marquess, you are still unable to maintain the staff at your present level.”

  The muscles of his stomach clenched. He’d known those words were coming and yet hearing them did not lessen the power of hearing them flippantly tossed out by Redding.

  “Might I speak freely?”

  “Please,” Christian said brusquely.

  “Your household is overrunning with inadequate maids and footmen. You need but a handful of the servants you presently employ, but certainly not the crip—inexperienced,” he swiftly amended at the black glower Christian trained on him. “—men you now call servants.”

  And here it was. The argument in favor of cutting his present staff had been a long time coming. One year, six weeks, three days, and a handful of hours if one wanted to be truly precise. The leather of the winged back chair Christian now occupied cracked as he shifted. He placed his palms on the edge of the man’s desk and leaned forward. “They are not men I call servants.” He dipped his voice to a menacing whisper. “They are servants.” All the highhanded insolence demonstrated by the man in their previous exchanges faded as Redding’s throat muscles moved, hinting at his nervousness. “And they are not going anywhere.” From the moment he’d inherited the debt-ridden marquisate from his late father’s distant cousin with nothing more than a housekeeper, butler, and scullery maid, Christian had set out to build an altogether new staff; hiring men he’d wronged, who were, as such, in need of work. By God, he’d not turn them out. “Are we clear?” he repeated, infusing a steely edge to those three words.

  Redding gave a jerky nod, looking like a chicken pecking at the farmer’s feed. “V-very clear, my lord.” He withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-dampened brow. “You would see to the security of those crip—men,” he hurriedly corrected. “As such, it will present problems for your mother and sister.”

  Always in these meetings, Redding emerged triumphant in his cold, callous dealings. For with that slight but powerful reminder, he neatly kicked the legs out from under Christian’s already uncertain world. One could say the old solicitor was harsh, cold, and heartless, but the man spoke the truth. Unwilling to let him see the effect his words had, he leaned back in his seat and settled comfortably into the leather folds. All the while, furious energy pumped through his veins. A desire to throw his head back and snarl at his own failings and his inability these years to oversee all the debt left by both his father and the demmed cousin who’d left Christian nothing more than a title. “How much longer do I have to maintain the staff at the present level?”

  “Three months, perhaps a bit more.”

  Christian swallowed a curse. Three months. Three months with which to find a fortune that might save his sister, mother, and staff. Suddenly, he wished the other man were, in fact, a wizard with answers to solve his tenuous situation. “What of my investments in steam?”

  He may as well have spoken treason against the king. The other man pursed his lips, having made clear his opinion on his new employer’s foray into trade and investment ventures. “As of yet, they’ve proven little return.”

  Unable to feign indifference any longer, Christian swiped a hand over his eyes. Knowing the miserable, if meticulous, solicitor as he did, the traditional-thinking man of affairs had likely worked through his own solution to Christian’s impending doom. “You’ve surely some idea as to how I might,” avoid debtor’s prison and see to his responsibilities this time when he’d so failed before, “see to the mounting debt?”

  Redding inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord.” Then with a casualness that set his teeth on edge, the older man put aside his spectacles and flipped open the leather folio. He ruffled through several thick, ivory sheets, containing columns of numbers and then paused. With his short, stubby fingers he proffered a single page.

  Christian eyed it a moment and then took the sheet. He furrowed his brow. “Throw a ball?” he repeated back the words on the page. “How in bloody hell is throwing a lavish ball going to do anything but further deplete my already nonexistent coffers?”

  Wordlessly, Redding held forth another piece of parchment. Christian accepted the second sheet. He quickly scanned the handful of sentences and numbers contained upon the page. Tamping down another black curse, he gave the man a questioning look. “What in blazes is this?”

  The old solicitor jabbed one finger toward the loathsome page. “That is the most immediate, definitive way to salvage your family, staff, and holdings without relinquishing control of those investments you’re so determined to retain.” Redding’s lip curled in distaste.

  Christian dragged his reluctant stare back to the page. A knot sat hard in his belly as he re-read the contents of Redding’s notes.

  Wed an heiress with a fortune not worth less than 50,000 lbs.

  Bloody hell, so this is what it would come to?

  “I advise you to throw a ball with the ladies who fit your qualifications.”

  “My qualifications?” A humorless laugh escaped him.

  “In
your marchioness,” Redding said slowly as though speaking to a lackwit.

  If he weren’t already going to hell for the crimes upon the battlefields of Toulouse, this final act jested about earlier by Maxwell, and now encouraged by Redding, as the only solution was certainly the death knell to whatever pure piece remained of his tarnished soul for even considering it.

  Redding’s leather seat creaked and Christian looked up from the note to find the man studying him with his patent impatience. “That is the surest, quickest way to replenish the coffers, paying off the mountain of debt upon the property, my lord.” As casual as he was in his words, the matter-of-fact solicitor might as well have been making a case for tea over coffee.

  Christian winged an eyebrow up. “And should the ball prove nothing more than an exorbitant expense with no future Marchioness of St. Cyr to show for those efforts?” The practical solicitor was placing a good deal of hope upon one lavish event.

  Redding frowned. “I suggest you be sure that ball is not a wasted expense then, my lord.”

  He’d not hang his future on this man’s cryptic warnings. “But if it does and I do not wed an heiress within three months,” he pressed.

  “Within three months you will be unable to employ any staff in any of your households. You will be required to sell off your,” he curled his lip, “ventures in steam. Is that clear enough for you, my lord?” He added that last part almost as though an afterthought.

  “Quite,” he bit out. It was hard to say just then whom he despised more; his father for his miserable handling of their family’s finances, the marquess who’d died and left him this quagmire, or himself for being unable to muddle his way out of it. Christian shoved back his chair and the legs scraped along the hardwood floor. “I will see myself out,” he said when Redding made to rise. He despised Redding on most days, but in this instance he hated him for being accurate in this blasted matter.