He grimaced at the reminder that he had now stepped into his father’s shoes, something he hadn’t anticipated doing for another decade or more.
“You needn’t worry, Master David … we’ve taken pains to preserve him as best we can with ice. And, well … flowers help.”
Mentally counting the days that had passed since his father’s demise, Wren’s journey to London, and David’s delayed return, he cringed. While he was certain Mrs. Moffat and the staff had done the best they could, he had no desire to set foot inside that room.
“I’ll see to Mother first.”
“Of course, of course. Dinner will be ready soon, but I suppose after such a long journey you must be hungry. Can I send for refreshment?”
“I can wait for dinner.”
He headed for the drawing room then, avoiding another glance in the direction of the chamber holding his father’s corpse. It was another matter he must attend to, and quickly, but his remaining family required his attention. The darkened corridor held the odor of mildew, which meant there was a leak nearby. The floor runner was bare and worn, and his boots echoed on the boards beneath, rendering it all but useless.
The door hung open a crack, and when he pushed it wide he found three women shrouded in black and clustered on a sofa.
His mother came to her feet first, crossing the distance between them with a ragged sob. “Oh, David … thank God!”
David hardly registered her face—tight with strain—before she was in his arms and sobbing against his waistcoat. She was thinner than he remembered, trembling as if shaken by a mighty wind. He tightened his hold on her and rested his chin atop her head.
“I came the moment Wren delivered the news. We were beset by trouble on the road, but I’m here now.”
His sisters came next, throwing themselves into the widening arc of his arms. Three watery pairs of eyes peered up at him from faces ravaged by grief—his sisters’ a deep brown, his mother’s the same vibrant blue as his.
Theodora Graham was where he had inherited his own looks, though at the moment, her classical beauty and riveting eyes were made dull and lifeless by sorrow. Her deep olive skin held a concerning pallor, and a few wisps of silver hair had begun to show at the edges of her lace cap. They hadn’t been there the last time he had visited, striking David with just how fast time seemed to be passing him by.
Petra and Constantia were identical twins who had inherited nothing of Theodora but her swarthy skin and thick head of black hair. Aside from that, they were matching mirror images of their father, with soft pleasing features. Mourning garb made them look older than their twenty-one years.
Was this what his neglect had caused? David had thought himself doing the right thing, sending his monthly bank drafts and telling himself that the money was being put to good use. But the shabby state of the drawing room and the outmoded attire of his mother and sisters told him otherwise. While he had been living in opulent excess, enjoying a never-ending string of soirees, dinners, and nights on the town, his family had been scraping together whatever existence they could manage.
“He called for you before he went,” Petra said, clinging tight to his arm. “We told him you were coming but might not make it in time. And he said—”
“He had faith in you,” Constantia put in, finishing Petra’s sentence that uncanny way of siblings who had shared a womb. “He knew you would take care of us, David.”
He held Petra as she began to weep, burying her face in his shoulder. His mother’s chin trembled, and her eyes brimmed with a fresh wave of tears. In the depths of those blue irises, he found the same hope he’d heard in the voices of his sisters. It was the same expectation Mrs. Moffat had leveled at him. The weight of such responsibility was already bearing down upon him before his father was buried, before he’d even opened a single ledger to take stock of their financial situation.
As the man of the house …
The housekeeper’s words echoed in his mind, reminding him that every duty befitting that of a landed gentleman and head of a household had just been thrust upon him. His own grief had been compressed, pushed into some deep part of him until he could get home. But now, as he blinked back tears and swallowed through a throat burning with grief, he realized it would have to wait. The time to grieve his father wasn’t now, with his mother and the twins looking at him as if he were their savior. He wasn’t certain he would ever have that time for himself, because now there was work to be done and there were hundreds of people counting on him—from his mother and sisters, to the servants of the manor, down to the tenants who worked land that now belonged to him.
The man of the house, Mrs. Moffat had called him. Funny; just now, he felt like a lost little boy.
Chapter 2
“News of the death of gentry landowner, Mr. G has reached London, forcing the ton to part ways with one of its darlings. The young Mr. G will likely be short on time to spend social-climbing now that he’s inherited a crumbling country pile. One does wonder when a marriage of convenience might follow. This writer would be willing to bet a proper period of mourning will not have passed before the gentleman has nabbed himself an heiress.”
-The London Gossip, 4 December 1819
His father’s steward was a charlatan. After only a few days at home, David could clearly see the signs of Gilbert Wren’s perfidy. How had his father gone about blind to the truth for so long? David might not be the smartest of men, nor had he always been the best at managing his own funds. However, when considering how much money he had sent home over the years, there was no reason for the house and farm to be in such a sorry state.
Burying his father had been the first order of business, which he had achieved with a small, modest funeral. Now he could see for himself that things were not as they should be, he couldn’t return to London and leave his family to fend for themselves. As well, there was the threat of scandal in London and his promise to lay low. So, he had set about taking control of the family holdings.
With each passing day, David grew more aware of how woefully unprepared he was to accept so much responsibility. He spent the first few days after his father’s burial in Mr. Wren’s office. Stuffed into the cramped space near the back of the house—which suffered from a terrible draft and an irking dampness—he had pored over the steward’s ledgers and records. Wren was a meticulous man, having kept all of David’s correspondence, as well as a record of each bank draft he’d sent. Three hundred pounds here, five hundred there … and after a particularly lucrative contract in which a duke had paid him to pleasure his duchess while he watched, three thousand pounds. It all amounted to an astronomical amount of money, which ought to have the estate running smoothly and generating income for his parents and sisters to live on.
“Your father made a number of poor decisions with the funds, I’m afraid,” Wren told him. “He insisted on investing a large sum into some scheme or another. Only, it turned out that the man he trusted with the money was a thief. He never invested it at all, and the money was lost.”
It sounded like something his father might have done, so at first David did not question it. He had made a number of poor choices himself, which led him to servicing women for funds. However, the deeper he dug, the more confused he became, and the more he began to realize that Wren had been the real problem here.
The steward’s records showed purchases for much-needed materials for repairing the mill, mending fences, and sprucing up tenant cottages. Only, the amounts spent had not been nearly enough, and David suspected the supplies hadn’t been of the best quality. However, Wren insisted that everything had been done on his father’s orders.
The man was so confident in his ability to pull the wool over his eyes that David was content to allow him to go on thinking he’d managed to get away with it. It was a common fact of David’s existence that most people didn’t think he possessed anything between his ears but air. Perhaps he had not made the highest marks in school, and he certainly did not help matters wi
th his propensity of making a joke of absolutely everything. It could now work to his advantage that the steward thought him an imbecile. If Wren really had embezzled funds meant for his family, David intended to see him prosecuted. He could not do that without evidence, and it would be easier to gather proof if Wren went on thinking him oblivious.
When the steward was dismissed for the day, David interviewed what remained of the household staff and searched his father’s things for any hint to what had gone on in his absence. The house once boasted an army of maids, footmen, and gardeners, but many of them had been let go over the years. They were now down to a butler and housekeeper, two footmen, two chambermaids, a cook and a scullion, a stable groom, and a single ladies maid shared between his mother and sisters. It was a pitiful staff for a house of this size, which meant keeping most of the rooms closed off. The gardens and grounds were overgrown and unsightly, and the west wing was on the verge of collapse.
The cook reported receiving a pittance with which to purchase food to feed the Graham family, while the chambermaids had gone long stretches of time without pay. Those who complained had been dismissed, and others simply left after deciding not to countenance shabby treatment by their employer any longer. The house’s most costly objects d’art had been sold off piece by piece, and once those were gone his mother’s jewels had been the next to go. Tenants complained of miserable living conditions, and those who petitioned Wren for help were put off by either empty promises or cold dismissal.
And just where had his father been as the estate began falling down around his ears?
Drinking, according to Caruthers and Mrs. Moffat. The faithful servants had been reluctant to speak ill of his father, but David assured them he wanted the truth—however difficult it might be to hear.
“Mr. Graham grew morose in his final years,” Caruthers told him. “I often overheard him lamenting that he’d let you down, sir. He would leave a tarnished legacy for his only son, and you would come to hate him for his ineptitude.”
“I never resented him,” David replied. “He inherited an estate that was already on its last leg. He did his best.”
“He was ashamed that he’d reduced you to something as common as work,” Mrs. Moffat added. “That he and your mother and sisters must live on your charity … he loathed it, he did. Drove him to the bottle.”
It had been difficult to keep a straight face after hearing that. He had been very cryptic with his parents regarding the occupation which earned him the funds to send home. They had not delved beyond his fabrications, likely because they hadn’t wanted to admit their only son was driven to seek employment to support his family. A gentleman did not sully his hands with actual work, and it had probably been a relief to have David so far away in London. It was easier not to have to tell their friends and neighbors that their son had wasted a gentleman’s education on a lowly job.
David had a difficult time remembering the details of his last visit home, as he’d spent much of it carousing. He had been invited to a string of dinners and card parties, and a rather persistent widow intent on having him warm her bed. Between keepers at the time, he had seized the chance to do what he pleased for a change. Had he been so absorbed in his own affairs he hadn’t noticed his father becoming a drunk right before his eyes?
“The accident,” Mrs. Moffat hedged. “No one will say it and I beg your pardon, Master David, but …”
“Go on,” David urged.
She traded glances with Caruthers, who picked up where she left off. “He fell off his horse … you knew that. Broke his neck. But, the decanter in his study was empty, and I’d only just filled it that morning. Your mother and sisters don’t imbibe strong drink, sir, and Wren doesn’t partake when he is here. There is only one person who could have emptied it.”
“Christ,” David muttered, resting his head in his hands. “He had to have been absolutely soused. No wonder he lost his seat. I’d wondered …”
His father had been a country gentleman familiar with every horse in the stable. There was no reason for him to have died in such an accident unless the horse had been spooked … or, the rider had been dipping too deep.
It all made sense now. If his father had taken to drink, it would have been easier for Wren to steal from them. The fiend had likely been taking advantage of his father’s trusting nature for years, and began ramping up his efforts once he realized he could get away with taking more.
The final shred of proof came as David rifled through a stack of journals from his father’s study. He’d been reading over them since his arrival, but had found mostly dull tidbits regarding matters of the estate. His father had kept a record of everything, from tenant disputes to crop yields. However, he was convinced that the truth would reveal itself if he kept sifting through the meticulous records.
His mother entered just as he reached the volumes covering the past few years. David glanced up to find her approaching him with a tray, a shaky smile on her face. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, her white-streaked dark hair hanging down her back. Without her caps or pins, that voluminous hair made her look younger, softening the sharpness of her features.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said while placing the tray near his elbow. “You have been working so hard. I noticed you didn’t eat much at dinner.”
On the tray, he found a teapot with two chipped cups in saucers, as well as a sparse offering of biscuits.
“You could never be a bother, and this looks wonderful. Thank you.”
She poured the tea, squeezing a wedge of lemon into his. David sipped and turned the page as she slid a biscuit onto his saucer. When he glanced up at her again, she’d taken the chair facing his father’s desk, her own cup held in both hands.
No, not his father’s desk. His desk. Remembering such details was going to take some getting used to.
“Your father was so fastidious about his records, wasn’t he?”
His mouth twitched with a smile that never quite manifested. “He was. Did you know he named the lambs? Every lambing, he would tally how many had been born … and he gave them names.”
His mother chuckled, giving a little shake of her head. “I did not know that, but am hardly surprised. That sounds like my Noel. Are you … looking for something in particular?”
He paused, a biscuit halfway to his mouth. “Why do you ask?”
She peered into her teacup. “I did my best, David. I truly did. But you know how your father was. He claimed my place was as lady of the house, and I shouldn’t worry myself over matters of the estate. He disliked being made to feel as if he didn’t know what he was about.”
“Yes, I remember. I don’t think he meant to imply that you did not have the head for the numbers.”
“No, only that it would shame him as a man to admit he didn’t have it all well in hand. But I did try … when he would listen to me. I managed to get through to him on occasion, but never when it came to that man.”
“You mean Mr. Wren?”
“Yes. You’ve noticed it, too … the discrepancies in his records?”
“You noticed them?”
She raised her chin and gave a delicate sniff. “Do you know how easily a hat pin can be used to pick a lock? The day after your father’s death, I went into Mr. Wren’s study and read through his account books. I saw the letters you sent and the amounts that were enclosed. It would have been enough to at least get us out of debt. The profits from the farm would have taken care of the rest.”
That was precisely what he’d thought, and it didn’t surprise David that his mother had come to that conclusion as well. She was smarter than his father had given her credit for.
“When I said I was glad you are here, I didn’t only mean so that you could be a comfort to us, David. I knew you would see what your father could not. I realize Noel’s death was sudden and you didn’t expect to inherit so young, but we need you. Not just the twins and I, but everyone who relies on our lands for their living.”
> He knew that well enough. The mountains of ledgers and reports stacked around him served as proof.
“I will do my best,” he mumbled, flipping another page in the journal with a sigh. “There isn’t much here for me to work with, and what we need is an influx of funds from … somewhere. I will manage it. I can let go of my townhouse in London, sell off some of my things.”
“And Mr. Wren?”
“Will be dealt with the moment I have … proof.”
His half-eaten biscuit dropped to the desk as a line in the journal caught his eye. He took up a pen and dipped it in the inkwell. Under his mother’s watchful eye, he circled the passage that had sent alarm bells ringing through his mind.
She leaned forward to watch him scan the page, finding another entry and circling it, as well.
“David? What is it?”
“I’ve found something, I think. Wren kept records of the money I sent, but so did Father. I don’t think the man counted on that, otherwise he would have never … well, I’ll be damned.”
She didn’t bat an eyelash at his coarse language, standing to round the desk. David was frantic, his jaw winding tight as he circled line after line of his father’s handwriting.
“This doesn’t add up,” she said, echoing his thoughts. “The amounts Mr. Wren recorded are easily two or three times what your father has written here.”
The page snapped as David turned it, his movements stiff and jerky from the rage winding through him. He’d had his suspicions, but here it was right in front of him: proof that his father’s steward had been stealing from them for years.
“Son of a … apologies, Mother.”
“Oh, hang niceties. If you will not say it, I will. That bastard … damn his eyes!”
David’s pen flew over the page as his gaze caught sight of the figures. At times, the funds were barely enough to keep the family fed and the hearths stocked with wood. It was no wonder the house was crumbling around them and the farm had been nearly bankrupted.
Taming of the Rake (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 4) Page 4