A smile crept over Priscilla’s face, despite her concerns. “I am not sure I would ever be able to argue with your mother.”
Charles laughed, and it was a true laugh now, his whole face lighting up. “Well, you can see my predicament! But do not worry, please, Priscilla. I…I meant what I said. I will break my engagement.”
She could feel the truth in his words, knew that he meant it. The knot of concern that was twisting in her stomach loosened.
“Thank you,” she said. “I cannot tell you what it…knowing that you will honor your promise to me. I knew you would, but I know it is complicated.”
Charles sighed heavily and finally drained his coffee cup. “Complicated does not even encompass it, Priscilla. And now, my apologies, I have another appointment.”
He stood up quickly, and Priscilla once again almost knocked over her chair in her haste to mimic him.
“Until next time,” he said, and this time instead of merely bowing, he reached out and kissed her hand. The place where his lips had touched hers seared like a brand, marking her as his own.
Her whole body flamed with desire, but there was nothing she could do. Not until they had said vows before a vicar would she allow herself to descend to that sort of decadent pleasure again.
“Good day,” said Charles, and then he was gone.
Priscilla stood, the bustling of the coffee house filling her ears. Her smile lingered. Her future husband: Charles would be her husband, and they would be so happy together.
“Ah, Miss Seton!”
She turned around to see Miss Ashbrooke beaming with a knowing smile on her face.
Priscilla hesitated. Could Miss Ashbrooke, society’s great matchmaker, have seen Charles kiss her hand? Would she think anything of it? Everyone knew they had been acquainted for so many years…
“Miss Ashbrooke,” she said, curtseying.
“It appears that you are without company, a dreadful situation for a young lady,” said Miss Ashbrooke smoothly. “Here, let me rescue you.”
Without waiting for a response, she sat in the seat Charles had just vacated and smiled.
“And how are you, Miss Seton? I have to say, as a professional matchmaker, I am surprised that your mother has not called on me. You must be what, four and twenty?”
Priscilla lowered herself slowly into her own seat and prepared for a very tedious ten minutes. “Yes, Miss Ashbrooke, four and twenty – but I have no desire to –”
“Oh, you are not the oldest on my books, not by a long shot,” Miss Ashbrooke said breezily, ignoring her completely and picking up a slice of cake. “My word, this stuff is good, isn’t it? I always come to Morgan and Fenning’s whenever I am in town, my cook can’t do cakes properly.”
Priscilla smiled weakly. Miss Ashbrooke was unlikely to desist until she said everything she wished to say.
“And I saw young Orrinshire head out just a moment ago, what a fine gentleman, and one of my triumphs, too.”
Now Priscilla was paying attention. “I-I was not aware that you were involved in the engagement of Charles – of His Grace, and Miss Lloyd.”
Miss Ashbrooke took a large bite of cake and closed her eyes in pleasure before she swallowed. “Oh, yes, I was the primary go-between, between the mothers, you know. And my goodness, what a woman Lady Audley is.”
Priscilla smiled wryly. “Yes, I know.”
“And Miss Lloyd is such a treasure!” Miss Ashbrooke trilled. “I adore her, you know, and it was going to be quite a task to find a gentleman suitable, but thankfully Orrinshire came on the market, and so of course, I had to have him before anyone else snapped him up.”
Priscilla’s smiled faded. She had never envied Charles his fortune, his title, or any of the splendors that being a duke offered. Not when your life story was written for you. Not when a gentleman could make few decisions on his own without a lady such as Miss Ashbrooke making them all herself.
“You know, I have a few gentlemen in mind who would appreciate an introduction with you,” Miss Ashbrooke said with a smile. “There, you would like that, would you not?”
“I would not,” said Priscilla firmly. It was time to take this conversation in hand. “Who are you meeting here, Miss Ashbrooke?”
It was a wild guess, but thankfully it hit home.
“A Miss Lymington,” Miss Ashbrooke said smartly. “One of them, anyway, their father has not yet informed me whether he wishes to engage my services for all of them. There are four, you know, and three of them currently out, which is a rather shocking thing, but I am informed the elder two are twins, and really, one cannot treat them differently.” The woman sighed. “I should go and secure a table for myself at the earliest convenience, the place is filling up! Thank you, Miss Seton, and be sure to tell your mother that there is plenty of space for you on my roster. I am short on ladies.”
She rose, leaving behind nothing but crumbs, curtseyed low, and wandered over to the other side of the room.
Priscilla sighed. That had been a fortunate escape. After not running into Miss Ashbrooke for almost a year, she had now encountered her twice in the last two weeks. It could be a coincidence, or perhaps her mother had had a word with the matchmaker…
It was not until she had allowed her coffee to cool for another ten minutes and finally finished it, and the fruit cake, that she realized something had been missing in her conversation with Charles.
In all their conversation about breaking his engagement to Miss Lloyd, Charles had not actually stated that he would then marry her.
Chapter Thirteen
The fifteenth year since the debt was accumulated saw interest rates increase by half a percentile, overtipping the land mortgage by a not inconsiderable amount. The damage to the original debt, therefore, cost the estate in the year of 18—a total of four hundred pounds, seventeen shillings…
Charles rubbed his tired eyes and put the letter down. Exhaustion filled his bones. He could barely tell whether he was reading the letter correctly anymore. Fifteenth year, half a percentile increases, mortgages, debts…
He was not a stupid man, he was sure of that. He had managed to graduate, and he had always told himself it was a lack of effort that meant it had taken him five years, and not three, at Oxford.
Perhaps he should have paid more heed in the lectures, which included numbers. He had never found them easy, and even when written out in words here, it was challenging to take them in.
The candle on his desk flickered, threatening to gutter. Charles sighed and rose, walking around the study to a cabinet on the other side. In one of the drawers were the candles, and it took but a few moments to have another one lit.
The increase in light did nothing to soothe the itchiness in his eyes. It had been a long day, full of boring meetings and long discussions.
Bankers, lawyers, solicitors…he was sure they were all very clever, but what he needed was someone to explain the damn thing in plain English.
The first candle guttered for a final time and burnt out. The study dimmed once more, throwing flickering shadows onto the paneling.
Charles sighed heavily. This was hardly conducive to concentration. With his mother dining at the Axwickes, he had locked himself away in the study as soon as he returned from London, and that was…what, two hours ago? Three?
A quick glance at the sash window startled him. It was pitch black. Even in the earlier afternoons, they were experiencing as they moved through autumn, he had not expected it to get dark so quickly.
The drawing room. That would have a blazing fire, more than enough light to make out these damned letters, and then he could stretch out on the settee and wait for dinner to be called.
His legs felt heavy as he walked down the corridor. What a day. The damned horse throwing a shoe, that awkward encounter with Priscilla in the coffee shop, then meetings after meetings, appointments with all sorts of dry old crusty gentlemen who had naught but bad news.
It was with relief that he fell into the settee an
d closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his toes. Finally, some comfort after a long day.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” said Hodges smoothly. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Charles had not even heard the butler come in, but then, wasn’t that what a finely trained servant was for?
“A drink.”
The butler coughed. “Any particular drink, Your Grace?”
Charles sighed, bringing one of the letters closer to his nose to inspect some of the columns of numbers. “Anything.”
He had not cracked the seemingly mysterious code within the table of numbers before Hodges had appeared once more by his side. In one hand was a glass of port, filled right to the brim. In the other was a plate of cheese and biscuits.
Charles frowned as he dropped the letter into his lap. “You do not think this will spoil my appetite for dinner, Hodges?”
The man cleared his throat. “The dinner gong was rung two hours ago, Your Grace. It was rung thrice, and when you did not appear at the table, we assumed you were too engrossed in matters of the estate.”
Charles blinked. “Goodness, are you sure?”
“It is almost nine o’clock now, Your Grace,” Hodges said politely, gesturing at the clock over the mantelpiece.
Charles glanced at it. It was ten to nine. “My word, you are right. Thank you, Hodges, I had not noticed… I was a little lost in paperwork. The biscuits and cheese are most welcome. You may go.”
Charles looked at the letters scattered across the settee, his lap, and in some cases, where they had slipped onto the floor.
Well, much as he hated to admit it…his mother had been right.
He laughed bitterly in the silence of the empty room as his hands picked over the letters. Why did he even doubt her? She had never been wrong.
What a shame that, of all situations to be right in, it was this one.
Ignore it as much as he wanted, he could not deny the truth in these papers.
His questing fingers found the letter he was looking for, and as Charles brought it up toward his face to read, he sighed deeply. Not what he had wanted to hear from Mr. Green, his personal banker.
To Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire, Baronet of Edinburgh,
Your Grace,
I regret to inform you that the Orrinshire Estate continues in dire financial straits, despite the efforts of this bank to inform your mother of the danger of profligate spending and inattention to the mortgage on the property.
The debt to the bank is now at thirty thousand pounds, all placed on the property on the Orrinshire estate, Scotland, and London. Inadvisable borrowing on the part of your grandfather and then father have unfortunately been coupled with poor investments that have not given the return expected by your ancestors.
After conversations with your mother seven years ago, four years ago, and last year, it is the opinion of this bank that a cash injection into the Orrinshire estate by means of matrimony is the only surefire way to prevent reclamation of your assets by the bank.
I must be plain, Your Grace. Unless twenty thousand pounds is found by the end of the year, then it will be impossible for the bank to sit by. We will need to take Orrinspire Park to satisfy the debt upon the estate.
I am at Your Grace’s leisure to discuss this in more detail, should you wish it, and can provide evidence and documentation of the accumulation of these debts.
Should you wish to bring an accountant or advisor to said meeting, that would be most agreeable.
I remain, as ever, your most humble servant,
Mr. Colin Green, Esq.
Charles brushed his fingertips across the carefully ordered letters.
Mortgaged to the hilt. Charles could not understand it – this was what happened to other people, families with gamblers, drinkers, rascals in the family line. Look at poor Axwick. It had taken him years to repay the debts his father and brother had accumulated.
But the Orrinshires? His father had died when he had only been fifteen or so. He had not known him as a man, not had some of those more serious conversations.
They had thought there was all the time in the world.
His eyes darted back down to look at the letter once more.
I must be plain, Your Grace. Unless twenty thousand pounds is found by the end of the year, then it will be impossible for the bank to sit by. We will need to take Orrinspire Park to satisfy the debt upon the estate.
He sighed. So this was what his mother had meant. It was hard to deny that marriage to Miss Frances Lloyd and her twenty thousand pounds would put a huge dent into the mortgage and give the bank reason enough to delay any embarrassing actions.
He could just imagine what the papers would say if the Dukedom of Orrinshire lost its southern estate.
A log cracked in the fire, making him jump. He could almost believe he was completely alone in the house.
Charles rubbed his eyes wearily. How was this possible? Proliferate spending? True, he had happily allowed his mother to manage the estate without ever looking at the numbers. What did a young gentleman just about to enter into society care about percentages, interest rates, and borrowing?
That same disinterest had continued, though, hadn’t it? He thought ruefully of his time at Oxford. He had not cared then either, more interested in leaving home properly for the first time, tasting the first fruits of freedom.
Before he had left for his Grand Tour, he and his mother had not even discussed the financial affairs of the estate. It had just been assumed, by then, that she would continue to take care of everything.
If only he had asked. Charles balled his hands into fists, so furious at himself, he hardly knew what to do. If he had just taken two minutes to ask about…debts, maybe?
Damn and blast it. He did not even know what to ask; he was so ignorant.
He should have found out. He should have known months ago, years ago, perhaps, that bad harvests and even worse investments had brought the Orrinshire estate to its knees.
Something rumbled, deep and low. Charles glanced at the window, curtains pulled together. It had not felt like a thunderstorm earlier today.
The noise grumbled again, and he almost laughed. It was his stomach. Well, he had not eaten for almost ten hours; no wonder he was hungry.
The plate of cheese and biscuits had been placed on the settee by Hodges, and Charles fell upon it, giving his famished stomach some relief.
Marrying for money. Even the thought disgusted him as he drank from the glass of port. He had always looked down on ladies who had done so, even if he had not said anything. It was so vulgar, coarse, even.
And now he was forced into the same position.
What choice did he have? If Mary had lived, bless her, perhaps she could have married well to a gentleman willing to lend him the money.
No, he was faced with absolutely no choice. He would have to marry Miss Lloyd.
Charles felt sick to his stomach. What a cad he was. He was the worst kind of gentleman, throwing promises out that he could never keep to.
What had he done?
“I…I meant what I said. I will break my engagement.”
If he had known then what he knew now…he would certainly never have told her that, let alone made love to Priscilla.
He had to tell her. She could not continue thinking he was going to propose to her once he had broken his engagement to Miss Lloyd. It would be the most difficult conversation of his life.
Perhaps, and his heart twisted at the very thought, he could avoid her for a few more days. Allow distance to grow, emotions to settle…
What was he thinking? Priscilla was hardly going to forget about him.
The wedding – his wedding – was ten days away. She needed to know that he was going through with it, even if it was the end of their friendship.
But how could he live without her?
“That is a rather serious face,” said a voice behind him.
Charles almost spilled port all dow
n himself, ruining a very expensive shirt. He knew that voice.
Priscilla was removing her bonnet and placing the ribbons inside it with a look of cheerful mischief on her face.
“H-How did you – did Hodges not see you?”
“Of course not,” Priscilla said airily, removing her spencer jacket and placing it with her bonnet on an armchair. “I wished to see you, and no butler was going to get in my way to stop me.”
The words were spoken in jest, a joyful tilt to her voice, and she smiled as she stepped around the room and stood before the fire.
Her words tore at his very soul. Was he going to let a money concern destroy his happiness? Their happiness? The best happiness he had ever known?
The letter from the banker was still in his hand. Echoes of the conversations he had had earlier that day repeated through his mind.
“Quite a serious amount of debt, Your Grace.”
“We assumed you knew, or we would have alerted you to the danger years ago…”
“…mortgage payments exceed value of the property…”
“Without an advantageous marriage, Your Grace, we cannot see…”
It was not a small amount of money. He was risking the loss of their southern seat, the dignity and honor of the Orrinshire name, and he would be pulling the whole family name down with him if he did not do something to restore its fortunes.
His grandfather and father may have chosen selfishness, but he could not. He would not allow their mistakes to ruin him.
What a shame he could not work for a living. The thought put a wry smile on his face. There were plenty of bluestockings he had met in Oxford who had argued the only choice they had was to marry a fortune. They wished to work, to earn their own living, beholden to no one.
Wasn’t he in that same position?
Priscilla turned to face him, the fire warming her back. “You look miserable, Charles.”
“You cannot stay too long,” he snapped, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “It is late.”
Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7) Page 13