by Erica Ridley
But he hadn’t come home to any of those things. Hadn’t even thought about them since the moment he held his father’s coronet in his knife-scarred hands. Leading troops was so much simpler than managing an earldom. Soldiers were trained. Heirs were…accidental.
He had come to London determined to make the best of it. Being back in the city meant Oliver finally had a chance to find someone capable of explaining the earldom to him in the King’s English. Or at the very least, make sense of the charts of accounts. He strode into the Bank of England with his shoulders back and his head held high.
Unfortunately, the portly Mr. Brown couldn’t seem to make sense of Oliver’s presence in his office.
“Young…Master…York?” he gasped, sounding as if he’d perhaps swallowed a pheasant.
“It’s Carlisle now,” Oliver found himself explaining for the second time in as many days. “I’m sure the bank received notice of my father’s unfortunate passing?”
“Yes…Yes…Of course we have done…” Mr. Brown’s feeble reply faded away, but his eyes remained round as cannonballs.
“Did the accounts not transfer to me, then? Are there forms I need to sign, evidence to provide?”
“No…Everything is yours, of course. Such that it is. Of course. I’m just… It’s such a surprise that you’re here, that’s all. Such a surprise. What with the probate report, you know.”
Oliver shifted in his suddenly uncomfortable chair. It didn’t seem like a good surprise. Nor had he encountered any reports. His father’s financial records were a disaster. “You were not expecting to meet with me?”
“Er, no. Obviously we were not. Meet about what? In situations like these, that is.”
“In situations like what?” Oliver demanded, his muscles clenched as tight as his jaw. “Situations in which an heir inherits his father’s holdings? My schedule for the next few weeks is filled with appointments. I’m meeting with everyone in charge of everything. Why wouldn’t I meet with the bank?”
“B-because there are no holdings,” Mr. Brown stammered. “Your father closed his account with us after he sold the last of the unentailed properties. All that’s left is the principle seat. I’ve no idea how your father was paying his retainers or caring for his tenants these last months.” Mr. Brown narrowed his eyes. “Unless there’s another account at another bank?”
Another bank? The buzzing in Oliver’s ears increased to a roar as his fists tightened painfully. One of the few phrases he’d managed to make out on the first page of each journal was “Bank of England.” This could mean only one thing.
“There are no other accounts.” The weak voice that scraped from Oliver’s hoarse throat didn’t sound like his own.
Mr. Brown nodded jerkily, then gave a what-can-you-do lift to his hands. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. If that’s the case, there’s no money. Unless you’ve funds of your own to invest…?”
Oliver shook his head. Or tried to. His shoulders were too tight, his neck too corded. He gritted his teeth. Lovely. His father had left the son he’d never wanted alone and penniless. His lips flattened. Checkmate from beyond the grave.
All soldiers left the army with coin in their pockets when they sold their commissions, but Oliver had already spent his on the town house he had rented in Mayfair. There was none left over for salaries or tenants or—good lord, the tailor! The bill he’d accumulated when outfitting Xavier and himself in the first stare of fashion would rival the rents he had paid for his London town house. He gripped the arms of his chair as if he might explode at any moment.
Now what? He couldn’t undo all that labor, or make good on any of his debts. The food—where was the food coming from? The tenants, most likely. No wonder his father’s liquor supply had dwindled. Oliver had thought the menservants were judging him for going from the battle to the bottle, but there was simply no money left to spend. His breath caught.
The staff! How long would they remain in his employ, once they discovered he could ill afford to keep them? Had they imagined excuses for why their wages were late, expecting the new heir to settle accounts with them at any moment?
His heart raced. He wasn’t protecting his tenants, he was stealing from them. And using his servants as free labor until they wised up enough to take themselves to the street. Penniless. Just like him.
He slammed his fist onto the banker’s table. Untenable. But what could he do? He didn’t have tuppence to wager at the gaming hells, or much hope of marrying into the kind of fortune he’d need just to break even with debts of this size. An earldom! The Carlisle estate didn’t need an heiress, it needed a royal princess. And a magic lantern, just to be safe.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” No. He tried to rein in his anger. This wasn’t Mr. Brown’s fault. Blame didn’t matter. All of it—the estate’s every debt, every brick, every tenant—was Oliver’s responsibility.
“Your father didn’t involve you in his affairs because…” Mr. Brown straightened his documents rather than meet Oliver’s eyes. “Frankly, you weren’t expected to live.”
Oliver leaned forward, startled. “What? When? During the war?”
“When you were born. Your mother died of fever, and you were quite small and sickly.”
“Twenty-six years ago! At what point would I be considered healthy enough to be let in on the secret?”
“It’s…not secret.”
The back of Oliver’s neck chilled. “Everybody knew the estate was doomed but me? How is that even possible?”
Mr. Brown shook his head. “The situation didn’t become desperate until the final weeks of your father’s life. The earldom’s lack of funds may not yet be common knowledge, but…Your father couldn’t continue to pay his last mistress. Now that he’s gone, who knows what pillow talk she’ll have with her next protector? If you’ll pardon my bluntness.”
Shite on a shingle. Mr. Brown’s bluntness was the least of Oliver’s problems.
His father had died in his final mistress’s bed, the infamy of which had vaulted her to the pinnacle of the demimonde. Oliver doubted she’d waited five minutes before sharing every salacious detail with her demimondaine friends, who in turn would do the same with their upper-crust clients, and the next thing you knew, all of London would have heard that Oliver’s papa didn’t just die of prawn salad. He’d died poor. Leaving Oliver the least eligible bachelor in England.
Are your pockets to let? the delectable Miss Halton had asked the night before. Was that an innocent question, or was the truth becoming known?
No, he reminded himself. He hadn’t introduced himself yet, so there was no way Miss Halton had matched his face to any rumors.
He hoped.
Oliver pushed himself up on stiff legs and muttered his farewells. He blindly made his way out of the bank and onto the street. He had wasted enough of Mr. Brown’s time. And his own.
The past few months had been one nightmare after another. He’d lost his father, his best friends. So much death in so little time.
At least he had no dependents to care for. The four friends had marched off as free men and returned home avowed to stay that way. Except for Edmund, who hadn’t returned at all. Thank God the man hadn’t married his childhood sweetheart before heading into battle. Sarah Fairfax was far too young to be a widow. Not that anything lessened the pain.
Come to think of it, Oliver hadn’t seen Miss Fairfax even once since he’d returned to Town. His heart twisted. Although a fiancée wasn’t expected to don widow’s weeds for a full year like a wife would, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Sarah Fairfax had done. Oliver himself would probably never remove his black armband.
They’d all lost too much.
He crossed his arms and shivered against the January cold. He could pay her a call, check in. A friendly face would be welcome right about now, and they could both use a break from their misery. He couldn’t recover an earldom in one day. Spending the afternoon with someone who didn’t expect him to be anyone but himself sou
nded divine.
As he swung up into his carriage, he decided his second errand after visiting Miss Fairfax’s town house ought to be finding a stable to take his barouche and his prized pair of grays off his hands. Were there any other horses or carriages to sell, or had his father already rid himself of the lot? His arms broke out in gooseflesh. Perhaps even the grays would not bring in enough blunt to staunch the flow.
How many servants could Oliver let go without the house falling down about his ears? His cheeks burned at what they must think. Some of the staff had been with his family for generations. Their great-grandparents had shined boots and curled hair for Oliver’s great-grandparents. He would write glorious letters of recommendation for all of them, but how could he ever repay them for staying as long as they had with no income? By tossing them to the gutters with nothing more than a spare pair of clothes and a note of commendation in their pockets?
Chapter 5
Berkeley Square, at last! Oliver leapt from his carriage. He had never been so happy to see Sarah Fairfax’s gated garden in his life. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of his impossible situation, even for a few hours.
He made good use of the brass knocker. Within seconds the door cracked open, revealing an inch and a half of the Fairfax butler’s familiar face. He did not miss the flash of pain in the butler’s eyes.
Oliver frowned. Primble had never hesitated to throw the door wide for any of the friends. Yet he continued to block the way. Oliver rubbed the base of his neck as he waited for an invitation that was obviously not forthcoming.
“What is it? Is Miss Fairfax unwell?” His throat went dry. He pushed past the butler, despite any risk of contagion to himself. A humorless smile curled his lips. What risk? He’d already planned not to continue the family line. A timely demise was probably the best he could do for the Carlisle estate. “Sarah? Are you ill? It’s Oliver. Where are you?”
Hesitant shuffles sounded from behind a tri-paneled embroidered screen. After a fraught moment of silence, she threw herself, sobbing, into Oliver’s arms.
Er, sort of. They were separated by an extra fourteen inches of…belly.
He stared at the top of her head in dawning horror. Pregnant. No wonder he hadn’t seen her about Town. She couldn’t leave her home. This was a hundred times worse than simple mourning. This was—
“Edmund’s baby,” she choked out brokenly, looking up at him with huge bloodshot eyes above puffy black circles. She probably hadn’t slept since she got the news. Either piece of news.
Bloody hell.
“How—? When—?”
“Bruges,” she supplied, smiling through her tears. “He had one day of leave shortly before you were all sent to Waterloo, so I met him in Bruges. It’s supposed to be the Venice of Belgium, and it’s ever so lovely. Edmund and I…Edmund and I…We were to be married!” She wrenched herself from Oliver’s arms and thumped down onto the closest chair, her sobs in her throat and her face in her hands. “I was meant to have him forever, and now all that I’ll ever have is his bastard baby!”
“Don’t—” talk like that, he had been about to say. But she was right. Damn. He thought back. They’d gone to Waterloo in early June, and it was now early January. Seven months. Sarah Fairfax was unwed and pregnant by a dead man. At two-and-twenty, her life was over. Oliver sank into the chair opposite her and reached for her hands. “Who knows?”
“The servants, of course. My parents. And now you.” She glanced up at him with a wry smile. “Why? Are you going to offer for me? Another couple months and I’ll have one pip of a dowry.”
Oliver groaned. The only thing keeping him from doing exactly that—rescuing his best friend’s pregnant bride by whisking her to the closest altar—was that he couldn’t be assured of a roof over his own head in two months’ time, much less be able to provide for a grieving widow and a newborn child. He released Miss Fairfax’s hands.
He wasn’t like Ravenwood, who believed marriage was only for couples in love. Balderdash. Oliver had never experienced love of any sort. He well understood that life demanded one be more pragmatic than idealistic. So did Miss Fairfax, or she wouldn’t have made her jest-that-wasn’t-wholly-a-jest. She’d known Oliver her whole life. Rushing in to save her was exactly the sort of thing he was prone to do. This time, however, his hands were tied.
Wait a minute. His foot began to bounce in excitement. Ravenwood was the answer!
That stick-in-the-mud was flush with blunt. He probably stuffed his mattresses with pound notes. Ravenwood might not give Oliver the time of day, but he could be trusted to keep a secret. With a small loan, Miss Fairfax could take an unplanned holiday in the countryside. Sarah was too proud to accept charity, but once Ravenwood agreed to help, Oliver would do his damnedest to convince her. If she gave the baby away somewhere far in the north, London would never be the wiser.
His blood rang with excitement. Perfect! If he could convince her to take the money—and Ravenwood to offer it—Sarah could have her old life back by this time next year. Oliver tilted his head toward her, but something stilled his tongue.
She had stopped crying. Her eyes and cheeks were still red and every part of her body swollen, but her breaths quieted as her fingers curved over her round stomach.
It…twitched?
She glanced up at him with a little disbelieving laugh. “Hiccoughs, Oliver! The little scamp is bouncing about my belly with hiccoughs.”
Oliver’s answering smile was more automatic than genuine. Once again, he was too late to save her. Miss Fairfax would never give away Edmund’s baby. She would never have her old life back.
None of them would.
Chapter 6
The morning after Grace had danced with the Duke of Ravenwood and the Earl of Carlisle—whose offhand confession that he’d preferred being plain Mr. Oliver York had sounded surprisingly sincere—flowers began to fill the parlor. But the only bouquet she’d clutched to her thumping heart was also the simplest, and the only blooms to arrive without an accompanying note. She didn’t need a signature to know whom they were from.
Jasmine. Same as her bath soap. She buried her face in the blossoms and smiled.
Lord Carlisle was off her list of potential husbands, of course. Wrong for her at every turn. Titled. Ex-soldier. She wouldn’t be able to trick him into letting her go, nor manipulate him into thinking it was a good idea. He was too smart for that. Too strong. Too sure of himself. She smiled despite herself. He had every reason to be arrogant. He was handsome. Clever. King Triton, surrounded by a sea of guppies.
Worse, she liked him. He looked into her eyes and saw more than she wanted him to see. She might not want to let a man like that go, and she definitely wouldn’t wish to hurt him.
No, her plans had not changed. If anything, her resolve had doubled. She needed a malleable, forgettable, not-too-bright suitor, who wouldn’t mind waking up without his bride. From the dozens of vases peppering the parlor, she’d even managed to pluck a number of possibilities.
The next step was seeing how quickly she could bring one of her maybes up to scratch. One week? Two?
She hated being this desperate. If her grandparents had half a heart, they would send for their sick daughter themselves, rather than waste precious time forcing Grace to dangle from their strings. All they ever said was, if your mother wants our forgiveness, she can come beg for it herself. How? Mama was so sick she couldn’t make a pot of coffee, much less sail across the ocean! But Grace’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
Not for the first time, she fervently wished her father were still alive. For her mother’s sake, and for her own. Grace had just started to toddle when he’d been violently stolen from them. She’d been so young that she couldn’t recall his face, his smell, his laugh. It wasn’t fair. Nothing in life was fair. All she could do was get married, get the money, and take the first boat home. Back to a place where nobody laughed at her manners or her accent. Back to her friends, her life, and her mother.
&
nbsp; At the next soirée, Grace spent the first half hour conspicuously sipping a glass of punch in strategic locations throughout the gathering, giving her targets plenty of opportunity to solicit a spot on her dance card. Not that she planned to do much dancing. She didn’t have time to fritter away on actual fun.
There was no way to know which suitor was the most viable without conversing with each of them. She intended to spend each set taking turns about the frigid garden until she froze solid.
Taking strolls about the ballroom would be warmer, but much less private. Chaperonage was fine—welcome, actually—but she didn’t need the gossips overhearing her nosy questions about the state of each gentleman’s pocketbook, or how quickly they could envision themselves at the altar, or if the wife could be presumed to give him the freedom of his own pursuits thereafter.
After an hour and a half of wracking shivers and chattering teeth, Grace could no longer feel her toes. Or her fingers. Or her nose. She was forced to spend the fourth set indoors. It was a country-dance, which would waste an interview opportunity but at least let her stamp a bit of sensation back into her frozen feet. She rubbed her arms and took her place next to Mr. Isaac Downing, who she hoped might become a suitor.
Another wallflower, a bluestocking named Jane Downing, had invited Grace to tea the day before. Upon hearing they would both be attending the same soirée, Miss Downing’s elder brother had politely asked if she might save him a dance. This was Grace’s chance to see if his interest was more than merely polite, without probing so hard that she alienated her sole potential friend in the entire country.
Due to the interchanging nature of the swirling pairs upon the dance floor, she would only be able to speak to him in hasty snatches before the steps required him to briefly partner the female of the pair opposite them, as she would be partnered by the male.
