A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6)

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A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 15

by Shirley Marks


  “Yes, yes.” Freddie knew all that. “Go on.”

  “As I said I was waiting for her and I saw somebody out there, coming toward the house.”

  “Somebody?”

  “There was a rig and two horses and a driver too, I think.” Trevor narrowed his eyes in thought. “But the fellow, the one coming to the house . . . you know, using the servants’ entrance, not the front door . . .”

  “Who was it?” Because the identity of the visitor must have been the key to Trevor’s unrest.

  “He came right toward the house, in ma-direction.” Trevor grabbed hold of Freddie’s sleeves holding him fixed to the spot he stood. “I clearly saw his face. It was Sturgis.”

  Thomas Sturgis . . . His father’s valet.

  The humming and spring, and whatever joy Freddie had experienced minutes before, had gone, and with it, no doubt, a more somber expression emerged.

  “Good God, Thomas is here?”

  “What is he doing here? Is he here to see you? How did he know this is where you’d be? Who sent him?” If only Trevor would have taken a moment to listen to his own questions, he would have known the answers were all too clear.

  The Duke of Faraday, Freddie’s father, that’s who’d sent him.

  Was Thomas looking for Freddie? A valet did not seem the proper person for that task. A Bow Street Runner or a private detective might have been a better choice. Still, why send his valet? And for what purpose? It was yet to be known. Of course, Freddie could be certain that he somehow played a part in the valet’s presence.

  “Did he come into the house? Where is he now?” Freddie planned to intercept Thomas before he could speak to anyone else, although he feared it might already be too late for that.

  “I don’t know. I ran when I recognized him and went to find you.” Trevor, now that he had it all out, began to tremble.

  “All right, all right.” What was Freddie to do? “Don’t worry, I’ll find Sturgis. You go on and wait for Clare.” Clearly his friend was shaken and probably could use a good stiff drink to settle his nerves. “Have her read you some poetry.”

  “Yes, some poetry,” Trevor repeated. “And perhaps a glass of sherry, maybe. Whiskey might be preferable.”

  “Good idea. Now off with you.” Freddie sent him on his way.

  Freddie decided that if Thomas had entered the household and asked his questions, he would soon realize he had not found the whereabouts of the Earl of Brent. When the valet exited, Freddie would have his chance to snatch him. Freddie retrieved his scarf and greatcoat before stealing outside through the back parlor door—careful that it remained unlocked for his return—to the precise position where he could watch the comings and goings of the house.

  Rosalind left the parlor on her way to the kitchen where Clare would soon return. While passing her father’s study, she heard two men’s voices.

  This was odd.

  She slowed to listen. One was her father’s but the second was not known to her.

  When the study door opened, she dashed around the corner and watched the visitor head to the front door and let himself out.

  Rosalind moved to the study door and peered inside. Her father sat at his desk cradling his head in his hands softly moaning in despair.

  “What have I done? What have I done?”

  “Father?” Rosalind could see that clearly her father was upset and stepped into the room. She closed the door behind her with a soft click.

  He lifted his head to look at her. “Good God, Rosalind . . .” Grief and remorse laced his words. “Woe is me, oh, woe is me! My dear, your father is a dreadful bounder. A cheat! I cannot—” He buried his head in his hands again.

  “Oh, Papa, whatever it is cannot be as bad as all that.” Rosalind and her parent had never seen eye to eye on most things but she could never imagine him a bounder.

  His refusal or inability to answer, Rosalind did not know which, puzzled her. She had never seen her father in this frame of mind. The wailing, the despair, it was very unlike him.

  “Does it have anything to do with that man who just left?”

  “That man?” Mr. Harris’s head lifted again. “Did you see him?”

  “The man who only now left the house? Yes.” She recalled the unfamiliar visitor. “He’s not from around here.”

  “That man . . . oh, he was . . .” Mr. Harris fumbled at the papers on his desk rather absently until he laid his hand upon what he must have been seeking. “Your father is in trouble, my girl.”

  Rosalind moved to the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. “Here.” She placed the small glass between his hands before him. “Do calm yourself, Papa. Has he brought bad news? It cannot be as bad as all that, can it?”

  “I do not know how it could be worse!”

  She noticed a parchment clutched in her father’s hand. “Is this causing you pain?” Rosalind pulled the letter free and smoothed it.

  “Don’t read it.” His voice, filled with pain and anguish, pleaded.

  Rosalind ignored him and directed her gaze to read the handwritten letter before her:

  Mr. Harris,

  As you are the steward of Penshaw Manor, I write to you this courtesy letter to notify you of my son, the Earl of Brent’s, pending arrival to the estate.

  I realize you must take direction from him as he is the legal owner but as the original purchaser and his father, I have concerns on his behalf and would like to make his recent financial difficulty known to you so you can take the appropriate measures as needed.

  His Lordship may ask, at a moment’s notice, to see monthly and annual reports for land profits and rents collected, as well as estate maintenance and expenditures. You might also wish to have on hand the production/expense, cost, and asset reports as well as a list of all equipment, stock, and land holdings before the sale and since the estate’s purchase. The monthly/annual of household accounts, staff wages, and expenditures for the last two years might prove useful for his perusal.

  For Lord Brent to extricate himself from his current debts, I cannot see any way other than ordering the estate to drastically economize over the next few years as well as sell off some of its holdings, all to be determined by His Lordship.

  Duke of Faraday

  The Duke of Faraday suggested the estate to economize? The estate had nothing. There were no expenditures much less any money spent on maintenance, and she had no idea if there was ever any profit, and was equally unsure if the estate made any money at all.

  “Is His Grace serious? Lord Brent expects to come here to collect money to pay his debts?” Rosalind knew her father ran the Penshaw estate as best he could. There simply was nothing here. “It is laughable! I do not understand why you feel bad, Father. None of this is your fault.”

  “Oh, my dear, dear Rosalind. If you only knew.” Mr. Harris had downed his sherry and returned to the sideboard to refill his glass. His hands were shaking quite badly; the liquid sloshed over the rim of the small glass when he tried to pour.

  Rosalind laid the letter on the desk and went to help her father. She moved him away gently and completed the task easily. She handed the drink to him and he swallowed it in one gulp.

  “I don’t know what to do, my dear. I simply do not know what I am to do.” He began to pace in the small room.

  “Do? What can you do? There is no money to give him. Does the estate earn anything? Surely His Lordship can see for himself, you send him monthly reports.”

  “Ah . . . but there’s money . . . there was money,” he confessed in a whimper.

  “What?”

  “Plenty at first but not so much nowadays.” He moaned in sorrow. “I am such a weak man.”

  “Where is it? Where did it go?”

  “I wrote His Lordship every month, sent the reports as I ought. He didn’t respond. He never responded, not once.” He gave a weary sigh, recounting the past. “There was no direction as to what should be done. No orders for the staff, the property, or the estate. He didn’t care
. So I stopped sending them.” Mr. Harris shrugged. “I used a bit of it. What was the harm? It was just sitting there.”

  “You took the money?” Rosalind gasped in fright.

  “No, no . . . I was just borrowing it, only a little, and had every intention of paying the sum back.”

  “Tell me you did not— You could not—” Rosalind dreaded what he was about to say.

  “It’s gone, it’s all gone.” Mr. Harris nodded. Each nod becoming more pronounced. “I’ve lost it, lost it all. My girl! And now he is to come here. I cannot face him! How am I to tell him that I have gambled all His Lordship’s money away?” The man then dissolved into tears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three sets of footprints marked the snow to the back of the house. The fresher ones of Harry and Clare along with the sled they used came from the east. The older set, coming from the lane, were that of one man. The visitor Trevor had seen.

  Freddie looked down the lane and heard a team of horses and saw some sort of transport moving slowly away. Clearly, the driver was keeping the horses moving and had every expectation of picking up his passenger before continuing on.

  Taking cover in the snowy shrubs, Freddie waited. With his scarf wrapped around his head and neck for warmth, he still shivered and expected it would not take long for Sturgis to make his inquiries and be sent on his way.

  Just as Freddie suspected, it only took a few minutes before someone emerged from the front of the house. The figure’s stance and gait looked familiar, and he called out, “Thomas? Is that you?”

  “Lord Brent?” Recognition widened the valet’s eyes.

  “Shhh . . . don’t call me that. Come here.” Freddie waved Thomas away from the house toward the snow-covered shrubbery off to the side. “Down here.” He motioned that the valet squat low as not to be seen. “Come down here, with me.”

  It took the valet several attempts at bending his knees to reach the low level that Freddie had attained. The stern examination of Freddie’s scarf-wrapped head to his lack of gloves garnered raised eyebrows from the newcomer.

  “What is Your Lordship . . .”

  “Shhh . . . I said don’t call me that.” Freddie glanced about for any onlookers who might have overheard.

  “Er . . . how would you suggest I address you . . . sir?”

  “Sir is good, or you can call me what everyone else does: Mr. Freddie.”

  “Mister Freddie?” This was said in a highly disapproving manner. “Very well. The D—”

  “No!” Freddie silenced the valet and waved his hands.

  “His Grace, the Duke—”

  “No, no. Not that, either.”

  “Your father,” Thomas continued, with that being a reference that would be correct and tolerated without giving away Freddie’s social position, “has sent me to find you at Pensh—”

  “Ah!” Freddie silenced him again.

  “—hoping to discover your whereabouts.”

  “Now that you have found me . . . what?”

  “I have a letter.” He unbuttoned his outer garment, presumably to retrieve said letter.

  “Wait, not here.” Freddie waved. “Come with me.”

  “Sir, I believe—”

  “Shhh—” Freddie hushed him and motioned for him to follow.

  They avoided the lesser used, but more noticeable, front door and entered the house from the back by the parlor door. Looking carefully around each room and corridor they moved through, he led Sturgis up the back stairs to his bedchamber. He opened the door and in they went. Freddie made it a point to bolt the door behind them.

  He unwrapped the scarf and removed his coat with his seminumb fingers. Sturgis placed his gloves in his hat and unfastened his heavy coat.

  “Shall we be seated? Warm yourself.” Freddie gestured to the two chairs near the hearth and they both sat. “All right. Now let’s hear it.”

  This was the moment of truth. The first moment, Freddie surmised, of a very long line of moments of truth to come, and none of them, he also expected, would be pleasant.

  “I was sent to learn of your whereabouts, or your direction, and, if I was able, to deliver this missive from your father.” Thomas drew a folded letter from his jacket and held it out.

  Freddie eyed the missive cautiously before taking possession. He had no doubt it contained bad news, very bad news. He would rather not read it now but with Sturgis before him, Freddie really had no choice and felt compelled to proceed.

  He broke the seal and pulled the pages open and realized there were three full sheets; his father must have been very angry when he penned the following:

  Frederick,

  I must convey my deepest disappointment in your recent behavior. I have been inundated with letters and demands regarding your debts from your gaming, lodgings, merchants, and other miscellaneous monies owed by you. Regretfully, I have refused all payments on your behalf.

  In your hurry to leave Town, you neglected to pack and/or collect your effects from Fenton’s. The management have generously released possession of your belongings and have been kind enough not to make a scandal of your departure. I have instructed Sturgis to collect your luggage from the hotel and return it to Worth House, leaving the bill unpaid, and for you to settle. However, your other creditors, and fellow gamesters, may not be as thoughtful and upon your return you might find your reputation has suffered.

  I have received no less than a dozen peers informing me they are in possession of your vowels. They wish, as you can imagine, to be paid at the soonest opportunity and request your direction, which I am happy to say, I could not provide, in all honesty. I did not, nor will I, settle any of your debts, and leave such matters for you to manage for yourself.

  Since you have not returned to Faraday Hall, nor landed at any of your sisters’ or various family members’ doorsteps, I made the leap in thinking that perhaps you might have headed to Penshaw Manor. I am persuaded by the duchess that a bit of rustication in the country might provide some clarity for your present circumstance and in time, perhaps a solution to your situation may present itself.

  If Sturgis is fortunate enough to locate you, he has transported with him several trunks, providing ample wardrobe for your stay.

  I have no knowledge of how much your accumulated monies and earnings from your estate will help cover your debts since the running of Penshaw has been left totally in your hands. You can expect the usual allowance paid to you on the next quarter day and not any time before.

  I can also presume I am not aware of the extent of the amounts you owe. It is my suggestion you pay off your duns before solicitors, your debtors, and various other agents arrive at your doorstep. It is only a matter of time before they find you.

  Faraday

  Freddie looked up after he had finished reading the letter.

  He was right. His father was right. Freddie’s debts were Freddie’s responsibility. As the landowner, it was his obligation to run the estate, care for the tenants.

  All of it weighed upon him.

  The single most important person’s name was not even mentioned nor was she known to His Grace. But Freddie clearly understood that for even a chance at attaining that single most important person’s esteem, he needed to settle all of his debts, make amends to his tenants, and rebuild the house he wanted to make his home.

  It was far easier said than done, and the doing of it would take years. Freddie could bring himself to tears if he dwelled upon it for long. It was best not to think of the number of items on the list but to simply begin. When he reached the end he could then turn to Rosalind, if she was still there, and if she wanted to have anything to do with him.

  He could not blame her if she did not.

  He would prove to his family, his friends, his tenants, and himself that he was up to this task. He had planned to do this from the moment he stepped into the dilapidated building and learned that it was Penshaw Manor.

  And he would, by God, because if he could not then he would ne
ver be able to face himself in the looking glass again.

  As for Rosalind’s acceptance . . . that was a decision she would have to make on her own.

  Rosalind had hoped not to meet anyone on her way from her father’s study to her bedchamber. She bolted the door as not to be disturbed, then let her tears flow.

  All their lives were now ruined. She could not prevent bitter thoughts from racing through her. Staggering to her dressing table, Rosalind sat before the looking glass and could not bring herself to gaze upon her reflection.

  These last few years, after the sale of the property, she’d denounced the Earl of Brent but now she knew he could no longer shoulder the entire blame. Yes, he had been an absentee landowner but his steward, her father, could have done something. There were funds to help the tenants, and to steal money for that use would have been far more understood than to take the money only to gamble it away.

  How could any of her family face their friends and neighbors again? She felt so ashamed. There was no way she could have known he’d done this, then she chided herself, for she should have guessed.

  And she would have to tell Freddie. The sense of guilt overwhelmed her, as if she could have somehow made a difference. He’d grown fond of the tenants over the last week. Might he blame her for being her father’s daughter?

  And worse yet there was Clare. Her forthcoming betrothal to Trevor might be called off. Rosalind wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  What if the news of the scandal were to make it to London and Lord Rutherford’s ear? Would he oppose the match and forbid his son to ally himself to their family? Clare would be crushed.

  Rosalind passed through a myriad of emotions ranging through anger, fear, shame, disgust, and disappointment. But it was clear what she felt for her father now bordered on hatred.

  Thomas Sturgis had managed to retrieve several of Freddie’s trunks and convey them into Thistles without anyone’s knowledge. Apparently this was accomplished by, as Sturgis put it, the daily “ebbs and flows of the household.”

 

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