Wager for a Wife Page 3

  He carefully unwrapped the painting from its cloth and was immediately thrust back in time. There was his beautiful mother, young again, sitting in an ornate chair, with William at her side and his father standing behind her, arrogant swine that he was. William had begged his mother to have it painted so he could take it with him to Eton, and by some miracle, his mother had gotten his father to agree. William’s mother had done her best to shield him from his parents’ increasing hostility toward each other, but William had sensed that much was wrong within their family.

  And then she had died.

  He ran a single finger gently over the image of his mother before rewrapping the painting in the cloth and placing it back in the drawer. Perhaps one day he would be able to look upon it with objectivity and not with stabbing pain and anger, but not yet.

  The maid, Sally, arrived then with the tea tray. He thanked her and sat near the window to drink it. From what he’d observed so far, the manor was in better condition than he’d expected, but then, he’d expected it to be entirely derelict. Perhaps he had misunderstood the tone of Mr. Heslop’s letter. Perhaps the viscountcy’s assets weren’t in a dire state after all. Perhaps—despite his father’s costly vices and decades of finessing those vices into an art form—things weren’t as bad as he’d feared.

  It struck him that his father’s steward was not among the employees and servants he had greeted earlier. That wasn’t a particularly promising sign; granted, the man may have simply tired of dealing with his father and gone on his way.

  Well, he would have his answers soon enough. This afternoon, in fact. He decided to spend the rest of the remaining hour before luncheon in his room unpacking his belongings rather than asking Grimshaw or the new footman to do it. He’d always seen to such personal needs himself, and there was plenty of other work for the others to do without his adding to it.

  Besides, it might be the last time he would have an hour of peace and quiet to himself for a while.

  * * *

  At precisely two o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. Heslop, a man of middle years, arrived from the village and suggested to William that they adjourn to his lordship’s study. As a boy and even as a youth, William had never been in his father’s private rooms and had been in the study only when his father was meting out punishment—not that William had required much discipline growing up. Or maybe he had, and his mother and the servants had hidden that fact from his father whenever possible. At any rate, William had eventually learned to pay special attention to the sorts of activities his father had praised and those that had merited a caning, though there had not necessarily been anything amounting to consistency.

  William doubted his father had actually spent much time in the study himself. He had left most things in the care of his steward, whose small office in the back of the house near the kitchen underscored the type of priority his father had placed on the day-to-day running of the estate. Today, the study was surprisingly tidy—the desk straightened with papers neatly arranged on top. His father had been meticulous in many ways—his appearance, for example—yet erratic and impulsive in others. He would have considered anything having to do with income as beneath him, unless it had to do with spending that income. William had never been able to understand him.

  Stop crying, boy. You will never win if they can read your face.

  “Would you care for tea?” he asked Mr. Heslop. “Or a brandy, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” the solicitor replied. He sat and leaned his leather letter case against the leg of his chair. “I hope you will forgive me,” he continued. “I’m afraid I allowed myself certain liberties of access to your father’s papers upon his death. Because of the disarray I saw here when I arrived, I also brought in my clerk, who assisted me in putting things to rights.”

  That sounded more like the father William remembered. “You could not have waited until I arrived?” he asked.

  “Perhaps, but as it took a few days for us to locate your whereabouts and then write to you and wait for your return, I judged it prudent to act. There are unusual . . . ah . . . circumstances at play here that required thorough legal examination in order to address them in the most expeditious and beneficial of manners.”

  The man was talking as convolutedly as he wrote. “You are speaking in riddles, Heslop. Let me be frank—I received very little instruction in estate management growing up; I believe it is because my father had little interest in it himself and felt it beneath him, so he delegated the responsibility of the estate to his steward. Additionally, I was estranged from my father for several years, as you are already aware, having had no connection to him at all after the death of my mother.” William paused to let those words sink in before continuing. “In short, it would be a service to us both if you were to cease worrying about offending my sensibilities regarding my father and speak plainly.”

  Mr. Heslop heaved a sigh. “That is a relief to hear, your lordship. Very well, then; let us proceed.”

  They spent the next several hours going over the estate’s books and papers, and William, who had always thought himself rather clever, soon realized just how lacking his education as a titled landowner was. He shook off the resentment he felt anew toward his father and focused on the numbers he was reading.

  He and Mr. Heslop reviewed livestock quotas, earnings and losses from the home farm and the various tenant farms, repairs, and drainage costs. They went over servants’ wages and pensioners’ allowances. They added incomes and subtracted debits. In spite of himself, William’s eyes began to swim, and his head ached from the rows and columns and pluses and minuses.

  And then Mr. Heslop picked up a sheaf of papers from the corner of the desk and placed them in front of William. William thumbed through the first few pages before sitting back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, unwilling to believe what he was seeing.

  Mortgages. They were mortgages—plural—made against the estate.

  Viscount Farleigh, William Senior, had mortgaged the estate to the hilt, and now those debts belonged to Viscount Farleigh—that would be he, William Junior, lucky chap that he was.

  He thought of Grimshaw and Matthew and Samuel and Mrs. Holly. He thought of Mrs. Brill and Mary and the other servants, few though they may be, and the loyal tenants who still remained on Farleigh land, and what a blow these massive debts would mean to their wellbeing.

  “How could my father have allowed this to happen?” he asked. And yet William knew how, remembered how his father had been.

  “As best I can tell, while your father was concerned about personal debts of honor, he was markedly less so about debts owed to institutions and merchants, whom he considered beneath him, if you’ll excuse my bluntness. It also appears your father’s steward took his cues from your father, in that he was more concerned about seeing to his own welfare and skimming from the books than he was to the overall success of the estate. As long as your father had what he wanted—”

  “He didn’t care about anything else,” William said.

  “Quite so, unfortunately.”

  “The steward?”

  “Long gone, I’m afraid. Our inquiries have led nowhere.”

  William nodded, expecting as much. “What is to be done?” He asked the question rhetorically, expecting no real answer from Mr. Heslop. He fully appreciated now why the solicitor had taken the time to thoroughly explain the gravity of the situation to him, knowing William was a young man of a mere twenty-four years with no practical experience upon which to rely.

  “I have pondered that question daily since your father’s passing,” Mr. Heslop replied, removing his reading spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. “There are several critical repairs needed about the estate and the home farm. With good management, Farleigh Manor would be able to meet her own obligations within a year or two; after that, it might provide a decent income or even better than decent. Were it not for the mortgages . . .”

  “Were it not for the mortgages, which put any chance
of success out of reach,” William said, finishing the solicitor’s sentence. “We have no options, then, do we?”

  “Well, there are a couple of small unentailed properties that can be sold that will help reduce the mortgage debts, if you’re agreeable. Their sale won’t clear the debts, mind you, not by half—but at this point, anything will help; however, it would reduce the overall size of the viscountcy holdings significantly.”

  “I’m agreeable. I don’t care about the size of the viscountcy holdings; I care about the people affected by my father’s behavior. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get the debts resolved and the manor and its people thriving again.”

  The solicitor cleared his voice. “That is good to hear, your lordship, for that is where the unusual circumstances I spoke of earlier come into play. There is a particular detail I have been holding back that might be the key to resolving the mortgage debts and seeing Farleigh Manor ready to thrive again.”

  “Then tell me,” William said, leaning forward in his chair. “You have spent the whole of the afternoon pointing out in great detail the dire situation the viscountcy is in. And then you tell me there is an answer? Why this drawn-out exercise? Why not simply point out the answer and let’s be on with it?”

  Mr. Heslop shook his head while he straightened the mortgage documents and set them aside. “If only it were that easy, your lordship. I needed to impress upon you the critical nature of your situation first. Yes, the sale of the unentailed properties will help the situation, but they will not resolve the majority of the debt or see to the repairs needed here at Farleigh Manor or to the basic funds necessary for running the estate. I said the detail I spoke about might be the key to resolving the debt. I did not say it was a simple matter. Quite the contrary, in fact. But it is, I believe, your only hope—the slimmest of hopes, if I may be frank.”

  “I cannot know that without being told what it is,” William remarked pointedly.

  “Very well. It will be up to you to decide how to proceed anyway.” He picked up his letter case and removed a folder, then opened the folder and removed a document. And then, with great deliberation, he handed the document to William.

  William read the words written on the document before him. He read them again and then a third time. “What the devil?” he exclaimed, looking up at Mr. Heslop.

  “Precisely,” Mr. Heslop replied.

  Chapter 2

  “I think I shall set up a florist shop right here,” Alex said to Louisa when he entered the main drawing room and saw the numerous flower arrangements and bouquets displayed there. “Every variety of bloom in every conceivable color is in this room. I could make a fortune, and there would still be enough flowers left over that no one would be the wiser.”

  What Alex was jokingly implying was very nearly true, Louisa conceded. The number of bouquets she’d received in the days following the Wilmington ball had gone beyond her wildest expectations. She understood now what people meant when they spoke of an embarrassment of riches.

  “They’re certainly lovely to look at, and the scent in the room is heavenly,” Mama said as she sketched one of the arrangements of roses to use as a needlework pattern. “These yellow roses are particularly stunning. Who are they from, Louisa?”

  “I’m not sure.” She opened the card accompanying them. “Oh dear,” she muttered softly. In a louder voice, she said, “They’re from the Baron Moseby, Mama.” She still felt a bit guilty about the way Lord Kerridge had dealt with the poor man at the ball—but really, the baron should have gotten the hint before then, especially when one considered that he was more than triple her age.

  “That old goat!” Alex exclaimed.

  “Who’s an old goat?” Anthony, who had walked into the drawing room right at that moment, asked.

  “Moseby.” Alex waved his hand in the direction of the yellow roses. “Thinks he’s one of Louisa’s suitors.”

  Anthony snorted. “Didn’t he try to woo you once, Mama?”

  “While it is true I knew him in my debutante days,” she said, “he did not try to woo me. He was married to his second wife at the time. I’m sure he is not nearly so bad as his reputation would suggest—”

  “He most certainly is, Mama,” Alex said, cutting her off. “There was this one time I happened to see him near Drury Lane with a certain—”

  Mama silenced him with a gesture. “He has only ever been gracious to me, Halford,” she said. “So have a care, if you please.”

  Anthony’s and Alex’s eyebrows rose, and Louisa threw her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Mama rarely used Alex’s title when the family was alone, and Louisa wasn’t so naive as to misunderstand her reason for using it this time.

  “Certainly, Mama,” Alex said, bowing deeply to her, making her chuckle in response. Alex was such a charming scoundrel; he got away with all sorts of things all the time. His charm worked this time too. “In future, only the most sugary words shall escape my lips when referring to the Baron Moseby.”

  “Unless he tries to court our sister in earnest,” Anthony said. “In which case, I shall very sweetly challenge him to swords or pistols.”

  “Precisely, brother dear. And I shall sweetly agree to be your second,” Alex said.

  “Good heavens! As bad as all that?” Mama asked, aghast.

  “At the very least,” Anthony assured her.

  “Perhaps I shall sketch the orchid by the window instead,” she said, flipping the page of her sketchbook. “Louisa, I give you permission to decline any offers of courtship from the Baron Moseby.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Louisa said, still attempting to hold back a giggle.

  “Ahem.” Gibbs cleared his throat discreetly to gain their attention. “Excuse the interruption, but the Earl of Kerridge is here to see you, Lady Louisa. I put him in the blue sitting room.” He handed Louisa the earl’s calling card.

  Louisa’s humor vanished, and her heart began to flutter. “Please invite the earl to join us here,” she instructed Gibbs.

  Alex whistled through his teeth once the butler departed the room. “What a coup. Aylesham’s heir, no less. Who would have thought it of our baby sister?”

  “I wouldn’t have,” Anthony said. “At least it isn’t Moseby though, thank goodness. You certainly picked the highest plum from the aristocratic tree, Weezy. Is this overwhelming array of horticultural perfection his doing, then?”

  Louisa could feel her cheeks heat up—drat her tendency to blush easily. “Don’t call me Weezy. I’m not five years old anymore. And to answer your question, some of the blooms are from him but not all, or even a majority of them.” There were two arrangements from the earl that she knew of: the large urn of red roses that had required two footmen to carry into the drawing room and the rare orchid her mother was now sketching near the window.

  She dashed over to the gilt mirror hanging on the wall and patted a loose curl back into place. Her cheeks were too pink, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  “It goes without saying that I expect the two of you to be on your best behavior for your sister’s sake,” Mama said. “You look fine, Louisa. Sit down.” She set her sketchbook aside.

  Louisa dutifully perched on the corner of the sofa.

  “If it goes without saying, Mama, then you needn’t have bothered saying it,” Alex replied. “Ah, Kerridge, here you are. Welcome.”

  The Earl of Kerridge bowed over Mama’s hand and then moved across the room to bow over Louisa’s. He was a handsome man, Louisa thought—tall and slender, with a thick shock of hair the color of mahogany. He had taken her driving in Hyde Park twice since the night of the Wilmington ball.

  “May we offer you tea, Lord Kerridge?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She nodded to Gibbs, who then left the drawing room. “Please, be seated.”

  He sat in a chair directly opposite Louisa, and the five of them proceeded to chat about the usual things—the weather, the Parliamentary session, the weat
her . . . Louisa tried to concentrate on the conversation, all the while terrified one of her brothers would refer to her as Weezy (a terrible incarnation of her name, if there ever was one) or Lady Cumulus or any one of the myriad other embarrassing nicknames they had conferred upon her over her lifetime. Eventually, the tea arrived, and Mama poured for everyone. Louisa made a mental note that Lord Kerridge preferred his tea with cream and no sugar.

  She managed to finish her tea without spilling on herself, in spite of the trembling of her hands. Afterward, her brothers eventually paid heed to the subtle gestures Mama had been giving them the entire time and excused themselves from the room.

  “Lady Ashworth,” Lord Kerridge said when Anthony shut the door behind them, “would you mind very much if Lady Louisa and I had a few minutes alone together?”

  Louisa’s heart was beating so loudly she was surprised no one else could hear it. She looked from her mother to the earl and back again to her mother, who rose gracefully to her feet and smiled. “Perhaps I shall go see if Lord Ashworth would like to take a break from meeting with his steward for a few moments. I am certain he would enjoy seeing you again.”

  “Thank you, Lady Ashworth. A conversation with Lord Ashworth would fit with my plans nicely.” He turned his gaze on Louisa, giving her a steady, confident look that suggested he thought she was already his for the asking.

  Was she? The earl was handsome and wealthy and heir to a duke—a matchmaking mama’s veritable dream—and he was about to propose marriage; Louisa was sure of it.

  Was he her dream?

  He must be. She enjoyed his company and found him attractive, and of all her suitors thus far, he was her favorite. She had even allowed him to kiss her. It had been a brief and respectful kiss, but despite its brevity, she’d been aware of his lips on hers, the smoothness of his freshly shaven skin, the scent of his cologne.

  It had been her first kiss; she had no other experience with which to compare it. And it had been enjoyable. It had made her feel . . . something. A bit daring, perhaps. More womanly—which was an odd thing, really, since she’d always been aware of her female nature, even when she’d been a hoyden of a child, climbing trees and swimming and horseback riding and chasing after her infernal brothers.