A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “The fighters must be paid. They must be.”

  “Cynssyr has made the prize money good. Along with Aldreth, Bracebridge, and Thrale.”

  Someone would have had to. No gentleman would allow fighters to go without prize money duly fought for. Not with the risks they took and the enjoyment everyone found. It simply wasn’t done. “Do they know who was responsible?”

  “One Arthur Marsey was holding the money, and at the moment he’s not to be found. Aldreth and Bracebridge are searching for him now. They fear foul play.”

  “Mr. Marsey?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d done her best. She’d tried to warn Captain Niall, and now she could only hope Marsey was found and the missing money recovered. “Terrible news.”

  “But enough of that. I was tired of hearing of it five minutes after Aldreth told me. Now, you came here to tell me something. What is it?”

  Lucy gave a wry smile, and then, to her surprise, the words she’d rehearsed slipped out, cool as water in the morning. “I have decided,” she said, “to move out of The Cooperage.”

  “Oh.”

  “If all goes well, I shall do so by the end of the week.”

  “To?” Mary rearranged several of the papers on the desk.

  “Little Merton.” She loved all her sisters, but she and Mary were the least alike, and when they were children, the most often at loggerheads. Mary had all the determination Lucy had lost over the years, as if her sister had gathered the will and nerve that had deserted Lucy. If her sister thought for even a moment that Lucy was persuadable on this, her cause was lost.

  Mary stretched out a hand for hers. “Lucy. Darling. Why?”

  “Can you really ask that? I only tell you now to be sure you can take in Emily in time. You know why. You know that if I am not there you must look out for Emily.”

  “Of course we can. Of course. But come live here. With us.” Mary took her hand. “I was planning to ask you in any event. Aldreth and I should be so pleased if you did. Both of you. You ought to. There’s no one for you here in Bartley Green, but in London? So many gentlemen approached Aldreth about you. Despite everything.”

  “Yes, that. Despite that.” She frowned. “Do you think any of them would have continued in their interest once they learned about my marriage?”

  “It would not matter. Not to a man who loved you.”

  She laughed. “It would, Mary. You know it would. It does matter.”

  “With Aldreth and Cynssyr as your relations? I think a gentleman would overlook quite a lot for that, even without his emotions engaged.”

  Lucy returned her sister’s level gaze. This was something, looking at Mary despite the sag in her stomach, her dry throat, and the thud of her heart against her ribs. “Thank you, Mary, for your kind words. But my mind is made up.”

  Mary gave her hand another squeeze. “There’s no reason you can’t find happiness, too.”

  She’d memorized the points she needed to make. “No one will think it odd that a widow does not remarry.”

  “Please, please.” Mary’s lips thinned. “An unhappy marriage does not mean you can never be happy. Don’t shut off the possibility because you were unhappy once.”

  From within her she found more words, and it was astonishing that the house did not come crashing down around her shoulders when she broke her years of silence with the sister whose opinion she feared the most. “You and Anne are so certain my marriage was a disaster, but it wasn’t.”

  “You did not have to marry him.” Mary stood too quickly. “If only you’d waited, Aldreth would have put everything right. Instead, you went off on your own. Without a word to anyone until it was too late.”

  “I loved him, Mary.”

  “No. No, I know you did not.”

  “Not at the start. You owe a debt to Devil—”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “A debt. For stealing away with my sister? I refuse to pay that debt.”

  “Whether I loved him at the start or not, my husband paid for your wedding.”

  “He did not.”

  “He did. Papa sent him the bills for your wedding party, and he paid them without a word of complaint. A stack of them an inch thick, Mary. From the stationer, the milliner, the confectioner, the butcher. He paid for the roses, the ribbons, and all the decorations.”

  “Aldreth paid Papa’s debts.”

  “If he did, he paid new ones or perhaps the ones for which there was no paper. Devil paid the mortgages and everything for which Papa had a dunning letter. Mary, please. I do not wish to argue.”

  “You ran away. You ran away and married that man when you did not have to.”

  “It was Papa’s idea. All of it. Because Devil was rich.”

  “No.” She closed her eyes. “I cannot believe it. I cannot.”

  “I am moving to Little Merton, not Timbuktu. I came here to tell you good-bye and to make certain you and Anne would step in to look after Emily. You know Papa shan’t, and I will not leave her there with him. We cannot leave her alone.”

  Mary walked away from the desk. “Has it been that awful at home?”

  “It’s been worse, you know that.”

  “You should have said something.”

  “Why?”

  “My heart breaks to think you’ve been unhappy and never said a word to any of us. We know what Papa is like. Anne or I both expected you would tell us if you needed help.”

  “You underestimate Papa. Aldreth and Cynssyr keep him on a short leash, Mary. It’s better than it was before they stepped in. Of course. But he’s found ways to avoid their management of him, and they cannot stop him from spending money meant for bills on something else. Or taking the money they mean to be for Emily and me.”

  Her sister took a step toward her, then stopped. “Oh, Lucy, poor Lucy. You should have told us.”

  “Even so, how could I be happy at The Cooperage after what Papa did? You know my meaning. Could you live with him again with any hope of happiness?”

  “No.” Mary licked her lower lip. “No. No, I could not.”

  “I want to be away from there, and I am asking now for your help. Take care of Emily.”

  Mary came close enough to take her hand. “Aldreth and I would be glad to have you with us. You know that.”

  “I do. I do know that. But I had rather live on my own. A little cottage away from Bartley Green. You’ll look after Emily, won’t you?”

  “You know we shall.”

  She smiled, and it felt like the first true smile since she’d come back. She’d done it. Saved enough to live on her own. Her new life would begin, and she hoped it would not be too much to think that Thrale would be a regular caller.

  CHAPTER 34

  Thrale stood in the driveway with Sinclair, Aldreth, and Bracebridge, admiring the gleaming phaeton that Sinclair’s young groom had just driven from the carriagemakers to The Cooperage. The lad sat with one foot propped high on the floorboard, a hand draped over his knee, grinning ear to ear.

  “They’re a fine pair. Finest I’ve ever handled. And the phaeton? Smooth running. Nary a bump all the way here.”

  “Did you pace them?” Aldreth smoothed a palm over the right-hand horse’s sleek hide. “How fast?”

  “If I had, milord, I wouldn’t confess it.”

  “A guess,” Thrale asked. The pair were beauties. And the phaeton. A sweet conveyance, no question.

  “Well, milord, my guess is they’d do a mile in four minutes. Maybe less. Post to post.”

  Sinclair walked around the phaeton, examining the work, running a hand over the crimson lacquer. He inspected the horses, grinning as broadly as his groom. A new phaeton required new horses, and yes, Sinclair had bought a matched pair the color of ink and had them delivered to the carriagemaker’s.

  “Excellent work.” Bracebridge smoothed a hand over the boot. “Who did you say made this?”

  “A fellow in Little Merton.” Sinclair continued his circuit around the phaeton. “As good a
s any a man can get in London.”

  Bracebridge nodded. “I daresay.”

  Sinclair came around and clapped Bracebridge on the shoulder. “Take them down the road and back, why don’t you?”

  The other man shook a curl off his forehead. “You needn’t ask me a second time.”

  The groom hopped down, and Bracebridge jumped up. He took the reins in one hand and curled the other on the whip, though he left it seated for now. The groom shaded his eyes from the sun. “They want an easy hand, milord.”

  “I’m gentle as a lamb.” He pointed at the groom. “Don’t you forget it.”

  Sinclair clapped his hands. “Wait until His Grace sees them. Ten to one, he’ll want to buy them off me.”

  The front door of The Cooperage opened, and Lucy and Miss Sinclair came out. Thrale couldn’t look anywhere but at Lucy. Ever since the outcome of the battle she’d been radiant. There’d not been time to see her alone yet, but soon, he hoped. Pray it was soon.

  Miss Sinclair fairly skipped straight to the horses. “Oh. Oh, aren’t you handsome?”

  “Girls, my girls,” Sinclair said. “Have you heard the news? Lord Thrale has invited us to Blackfern.”

  Miss Sinclair glanced at Thrale but kept a firm hand on the bridle. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, my lord, for the invitation.”

  “We’re to leave straight away. Did you hear, Lucy? Warn the servants you’ll be needing all your finery.”

  Thrale recognized Lucy’s blank reaction. What’s more, he knew that underneath that serene beauty, she felt the barb. He understood better now why Cynssyr and Aldreth were so cool toward the man.

  “Yes, Papa. Fair warning shall be given.”

  From the phaeton, Bracebridge glowered. “I mean to give my valet the same warning.”

  Miss Sinclair shot the earl a grateful look, but Bracebridge paid no attention. She devoted herself to stroking the nose of the lead horse, not looking at anyone.

  “Does that not sound a most excellent plan, Lucy?” Sinclair said. “A month or two at Blackfern?”

  She met Thrale’s eyes then glanced away. “I’m told the black ferns are a rare sight, is that not so, my lord?”

  “Exceedingly rare, ma’am.”

  Miss Sinclair addressed the horse. “I wish I’d brought sugar for you, you beautiful creature. Do you mind, my lord? I can fetch sugar from the kitchen and be back before you know it. May I?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Bracebridge replied. “Ask your father. They’re his cattle.”

  “Papa?”

  “As you like, my dear.”

  Miss Sinclair grabbed her skirts in preparation for a dash back to the house, but the groom pulled two lumps of sugar from his pocket and held out a hand for Emily to take them. She did, with a thank you.

  Meanwhile, Lucy had gone still. Thrale’s heart followed suit. “What do you mean, Lord Bracebridge? The horses are his. Are they not yours? The phaeton, as well.”

  “No, Mrs. Wilcott.” Bracebridge tipped his hat at Lucy. “Don’t be thinking I’m more fashionable than I am. The cattle are his and the phaeton, too.”

  Lucy turned to her father, and Thrale knew this moment was headed nowhere pleasant. “Papa?”

  “My lord,” Sinclair said to Bracebridge, with no acknowledgment of his elder daughter’s distress. “Why don’t you take Emily for a drive? Go along, my dear.” He gave a too-hearty laugh. “Up you go, there.”

  “I should like that very much.”

  “Don’t drive too fast, my lord.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Though he looked none too happy, Bracebridge extended a hand to assist Miss Sinclair up. No one said anything as the earl directed the phaeton to the road, Miss Sinclair at his side.

  “Papa.” Lucy turned to her father. “A new phaeton?”

  “As you see.” He pointed at the driveway.

  “Did you pay for it, Aldreth?”

  “No.”

  “My girl.” Sinclair flushed. “An it happen, I paid in full. Not a penny in arrears. No need to ask others to see to furnishing my stables.”

  “In full?” She rested a hand on her upper chest. “How?”

  Thrale’s foreboding increased. “I assume he put money on Clancy, Mrs. Wilcott. I know Cynssyr did. He won enough to buy himself ten new phaetons.”

  “Did you, Papa? I thought you wagered on Granger. What changed your mind?”

  “Now, never you mind. I never said I only took odds on Granger.”

  “Crafty man,” Aldreth said, slowly.

  “Yes.” Lucy examined the tips of her shoes. “That is happy news, Papa.” She gave them a smile of fragile perfection. “While we wait for Bracebridge to return with Emily, you’ll come in for tea, I hope?”

  “Of course.” Aldreth gave Lucy a kiss on the cheek. “But you’ll find we all wish our maiden voyage in your father’s fine new rig.”

  “Yes.” She bobbed her head and returned to the house. “Yes, of course.”

  At his first decent opportunity, which did not come until after Bracebridge brought Miss Sinclair back to the house, Thrale went inside. He found Lucy in her room, on the floor beside an open wardrobe. Her head was bowed, and she had one arm around Roger’s neck. A lock box was beside her. Empty.

  She shoved the box away from her, hard enough to break one of the hinges when it rolled. “Every penny. Gone.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Was disaster too strong a word for the tea that had been served to his guests? No. It was not. Which was why Thrale was waiting in his office for his butler to make an appearance.

  He and his guests had gathered for tea after their walk to the waterfall. The scenery there had impressed everyone, and he had basked in their appreciation. God knows there was nothing much beautiful about the house. His father had left the waterfall alone, and its beauty made up in some small measure for all that was uncomfortable and drear in the house.

  Nothing could compensate for the tea. Debacle was too kind a word. The service was slow in coming, the water was not hot enough. The tea was weak. Edible was the kindest word to describe the food.

  He hoped Flint could save him from worse disasters looming. If he had not sent his valet on ahead with the the luggage, what worse conditions might have awaited them? The house might not have been habitable.

  During tea, Cynssyr had politely wondered if he might send for his chef, who must be bored in London, with no one to cook for. At the time, Thrale had been standing by the window staring at the dust clinging to the window glass. He’d been remiss. Not just that, but a deliberate miser. He’d resented his father so thoroughly he’d starved Blackfern.

  He thought of The Cooperage and Rosefeld and saw with clear eyes that his home had gone too many years neglected. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence that in refusing to follow his father’s path, he’d done an equal wrong. He’d accepted the duke’s offer of bringing Jubert from Town, and the duke, bless his soul, had gone immediately to a desk to write the instructions.

  During the painful years of retrenchment after his father’s death, he’d been forced to reduce the staff to numbers his income could tolerate, but he had never, with the improvement in his fortunes, allotted more resources to the house and grounds.

  While Thrale waited for his butler to make an appearance, in vain it began to seem, he felt the oppression of what he’d let happen here. He never entertained when he was in residence at Blackfern. He refused to because that was all his father had ever done. And here he was, breaking that resolve and finding himself paying double for his sins.

  Now, he saw not the restraint and economy required to repair the title, but a monument to resentment. His father’s excesses were gone, that dreadful mix of the Byzantine, the Rococo, and Chinoiserie, and where the expense had not been funded from the entailments, he’d sold what he could wherever he’d documented his right to do so. He’d replaced all that with the opposite. Every painting his father had acquired had either been sold or packed up and stowed in the attic. C
arpets had been rolled up and stowed away, statues, busts, all the artifacts from his father’s tour of Arabia discarded, auctioned off, or boxed up.

  He stared out the window of his office long enough to come to terms with his failings. He had much to remedy here. A great deal to atone for. His butler appeared at last, and when the man stood stone-silent, Thrale understood the man expected to be let go, like as not without a character.

  “My lord.”

  “You and the rest of the staff have done what you can with inadequate resources. Please let them know I appreciate their hard work.” He gave a curt nod. “Their efforts and yours will be amply reflected in the upcoming quarter’s wages.”

  The man’s astonishment cut to the bone. “Thank you, milord.”

  “Is the kitchen fit for supper or ought we to dine out?”

  “You may dine in, my lord. We’ve laid in provisions sufficient for your visit.”

  “Pray God, the duke’s chef will come from Town as soon as travel conditions permit. His name is Jubert. Let the cook, whoever that might be, know Jubert will run the kitchen once he is here. Ask him, please, to learn what he can from the man.”

  “My lord.”

  “Hire whomever else you need. Bring down anything in the attic that will give this hulk some soul.”

  “Milord.”

  “I maintain that an excess of gilt is never in good taste.”

  “No, milord.”

  Thrale nodded. “Good day, then.”

  With that, he was alone in his office, once his father’s. The space was as dreary as the rest of the house. In here, he’d had the walls stripped to the plaster and all his father’s personal possessions taken away. A single lamp sat on the desk. The blotter was unused. There was nothing of his father in here, and nothing of him, either.

  With a grunt, he left the room, and then the house, and even outside he saw nothing bright. Nothing to catch the eye and make one think here is something of good taste.

  He strode down the driveway, and what he saw told the tale of his failings. The gravel was sparse and the road rutted. By some miracle of oversight, he’d not ordered the destruction of the lime trees that lined the drive. His father had put those in, too. Well. He would leave them be. The trees never did anyone any harm.