It was crass to think about money—smelling of the shop, people said. Criminal nonsense. People were always keeping children, especially girls, in ignorance of things they really needed to know. If she had daughters, she would neglect their embroidery before she neglected their understanding of the household accounts and the sources of their income.
As a girl she had dreamed of love, of course. Her own parents had loved each other. That, however, was unusual, and she knew that few of the marriages she saw about her, even the happy ones, had been love matches. People could rub along together well enough, be comfortable with each other, without love.
The only thing that would make a marriage intolerable would be some dreadful failing. But Penworth did not appear to be a drunkard or a reckless gambler or cruel or vicious in any way.
Except that he was a rake. The whole reason for this disaster was that he had been sneaking out of Lady Hadlow’s room. Therefore, it would be foolish of her to expect fidelity.
She thought about that for a minute.
She knew that fidelity was not precisely rampant in society. Adultery was probably more common. She didn’t like it, but she could probably live with it. Or, if it became unbearable, they could live separately. That was common enough too.
At least he had tried to be kind. He had done his best to ease her fears.
And look at the way he had come to her aid when Aunt Craddock and Corinne were carrying on in their idiotic fashion! That gloriously ridiculous scene he had enacted, so outrageously overacted. To say nothing of the way Aunt Craddock and Corinne had looked, the both of them standing there like fish with their mouths hanging open.
She laughed out loud just thinking of it.
Laughter. There might be laughter in her future. There had been precious little of that in Uncle Craddock’s house. She had not realized how much she missed it until that scene he had created.
Then there was that kiss. The memory of it made her knees weak, so she sat down, putting her fingers to her lips.
She was not at all sure what to make of the kiss. She had felt as if she had fallen off a cliff and was floating through the air.
Did kisses always make one feel like that? That had been her first one, so she was not sure, but she thought that it might have been unusual in its effect on her. Judging from the look on his face, it had been something of a surprise to him too. She would have to think more about that later, but she suspected that enjoying kisses would be a good thing in a marriage.
She had also enjoyed the way it felt when he held her. He was so solid, somehow, so strong. When she leaned against him she felt safe. Her head seemed to belong against his shoulder.
And his smile. How could she have thought he was not handsome? His smile was glorious. When he smiled, she thought it quite possible that she stared at him like an idiot. Perhaps this attraction was important.
And perhaps she was simply behaving like a ninny.
Was her thinking getting muddled because she had never before had a handsome young man pay attention to her?
This was dangerous. She had to maintain control of herself, of her emotions. She had to remember that he was marrying her as a matter of honor, not of love, and if he was treating her well, it was because he was a kind and honorable man even if he was a rake. She must not expect more.
But she couldn’t help it. Her future might hold both laughter and comforting embraces. She was not quite sure what she was feeling, but she thought it just might be hope.
Chapter Eleven
In which Mr. Craddock makes some plans of his own
Craddock looked around Grogan’s office approvingly. It was slightly shabby, not on one of the best streets in York, and there was more than one entrance, offering privacy for clients who might not want their visits to be known.
He also looked at Grogan approvingly. Although he had done business with the lawyer for years, it was always by correspondence. Discreet correspondence, of course. Grogan was never so foolish as to ask why a piece of information was requested, or why a particular individual’s indiscretions should be investigated.
The chubby little lawyer beamed cherubically across the desk. Craddock felt a twinge of envy at that smile. He would have found it very useful in the way of business. Many men would automatically trust a smile like that.
Not Craddock, of course. What he trusted was that the lawyer would always act in his own best interests. As would Craddock.
“Now, I’ve no desire to know why you want to know about gentlemen with such specific qualities.” Grogan continued to beam. “And I’ll not ask. What I don’t know, I can’t say, eh?”
“But have you found any? That’s the question.”
“Oh, aye, there’s no lack of penniless lairds in Scotland, and no lack of fools among them. If they weren’t fools, they’d not be penniless.” Grogan chucked. “And if they ever had any canny relatives, those departed long ago.”
“And might you be prepared to part with a name or two?”
Grogan’s smile turned reproachful.
With a sigh, Craddock took out his pocket-book and removed a number of banknotes. He handed them to Grogan, who examined them carefully and then leaned back with a contented smile.
“Well, now, there’s the Laird of Auchinburn. He’s outlived all his relatives and spent every penny he’s ever had. The brass to repair his roof would be right welcome.”
Craddock frowned slightly. “Outlived all his relatives. Does that mean he’s an old man?”
“That he is. Seventy, if he’s a day.”
“No. His wife would be a widow too soon.”
Grogan tilted his head and Craddock realized he had given a bit more information than he’d intended.
“Well, then, you might want to consider…” Grogan offered several more candidates before he served up Sir John Comyn.
“He’s the last of his family,” Grogan said, “so there are no relatives to ask questions, and he has a castle up about two days west of Inverness.”
“Inverness?” Craddock liked the sound of that. “That’s way up in the north, isn’t it?”
Grogan nodded agreement. “And a bit inaccessible as well, so you’re not likely to have many visitors dropping by.”
Craddock liked the sound of that even more. “He needs money?”
“Hasn’t two groats to rub together. There is one thing, though.”
Craddock’s face dropped. This one would have a flaw too.
“He’s reputed to be a bit wanting,” Grogan said, his eyes watchful.
Craddock hardly dared hope. “Wanting. But not legally incompetent?”
“Not that anyone’s said, but then, there’s never been anyone to ask.”
Perfect. “You might write to him then…” Craddock broke off. “He can read and write?”
“Well enough to sign a contract,” Grogan assured him.
“Well, then, you might write to him and suggest a meeting in Edinburgh. And then I’ll need you to draw up a wedding contract for him to sign.”
The two men smiled at each other in perfect harmony.
Chapter Twelve
In which our hero settles into his title
Penworth looked with horror at the piles of ledgers and boxes of papers that the footmen were carrying in. Mr. Middleton, the Penworth family solicitor, oversaw the proceedings, directing each pile to be placed in precise order in Penworth’s library.
“Really, Middleton, would it not have been simpler for me to visit your office?”
Middleton looked appalled at the thought that a marquess might put himself out to simplify life for a solicitor. “Not at all, my lord. You will be far more comfortable here at Penworth House.”
Philip doubted anyone had ever been precisely comfortable in this relic he had inherited along with the title, the castle, and half a dozen other estates. Shabby could be comfortable. Shabby pretension was not. He sighed and followed the attorney into the gloom of the library, gloom that all the lamps and candles i
n existence seemed powerless to dispel.
“You understand that you inherit none of your grandfather’s personal property. That goes to your grandmother. However, all of the entailed property as well as the title belongs to you,” Middleton began.
Philip smiled at that. “I would hardly have expected anything else.”
Middleton looked uncomfortable but did not answer. Philip’s father had been the fourth son, disowned when he had had the temerity to choose his own bride, a girl of good family but no fortune. She was not the very well-dowered heiress the old marquess had chosen for his son.
The fifth marquess had given his unsatisfactory son no further thought. There were, after all, three other sons and two grandsons ahead of him in the succession. Unfortunately, the two grandsons had died, one in a drunken brawl and the other in a duel. Then came the fever that had swept through the village of Penworth and into the castle itself, carrying off the three remaining sons. The old marquess had lived only long enough to realize that his heir was now the offspring of the disinherited son and his despised wife. It had probably been that prospect that brought on the apoplexy that killed him.
Philip hoped so.
The communication from the solicitor describing all this in suitably judicious phrases had reached Philip in India. It had taken a while for him to decide whether or not to return to England. He enjoyed his life in India, and had expected to stay there, even after Greystone and Whyte left. Then Greystone had written, urging him to return, and there was an irony in the situation that he found irresistible.
When his father died, Philip and his mother had had nothing. She had taken him to Penworth in hopes that his grandparents might do something for him, but the old marquess had refused to even see them. They had left immediately and made their way to Greystone. His mother’s cousins, the Lamarches, might have been nearly as penniless as the widow and her son, but the welcome they offered was as warm as that of the Tremaines had been cold. That was a debt Philip could never repay.
Meanwhile, to take everything where he had once been denied anything gave him an unholy satisfaction.
It had soon become apparent, however, that “everything” consisted mainly of debts. The only problem was to sort out which debts belonged to the entailed estate and which were properly considered part of the late marquess’s personal estate, and so belonged to the dowager.
“Tell me, Middleton, did the old marquess leave his widow anything except debts?”
Middleton hemmed and hawed a bit, but finally decided that no, other than a few bits of personal jewelry, perhaps an objet d’art or so, there was nothing.
“And her jointure? What of that?”
“There was an estate that was to have provided for her but…” The attorney’s voice trailed off.
“But what?”
Middleton sighed. “But it was sold off years ago to pay some gambling debts—I am not certain whose. I urged your grandfather to make some new provision for his wife, but he kept putting it off.”
Philip looked at the attorney for a minute. “If you are trying to keep me from thinking ill of him, it is a futile task. He was a selfish, arrogant despot. I despised him when he was alive for the way he had treated my parents, and I feel no need to soften my opinion simply because he is dead.”
Middleton flushed slightly. “I understand, Lord Penworth.”
Philip wrinkled his nose at the title, but did not protest. There was a moment of silence between them, then Philip smiled slowly. It was not a kind smile. “Am I correct in assuming that my grandmother is now dependent on me? On my generosity?”
“I fear so, my lord.”
“Well, well, well.” Philip’s smile grew broader, but no more kindly. Then he noticed that the silence was beginning to make Middleton uneasy, so he turned back to business. “Well then, let’s take a look at what I have inherited. Is it nothing but problems?”
“No, my lord, truly,” Middleton assured him. “With a bit of care, and perhaps some investment in the properties, this could be the wealthiest marquisate in the country.”
Middleton began with the assets. The Tremaines lived either here in Penworth House in London or in Penworth Castle in Dorset. The other properties were rented out. The rents from the Dorset estate came next. The total struck Philip as more than enough to support the Tremaines and a dozen other families, so he looked for a record of the estate expenses to see where the problem lay. He asked Middleton for it, and the solicitor looked embarrassed again.
“This is what I meant. There have been no disbursements for improvements on the estate for several years now,” he said.
“None?” Philip asked. “What a remarkable estate, where nothing needs repair or replacement.”
“I did not say nothing was needed,” said Middleton carefully.
Philip heaved a sigh. “Enough of this. Just tell me plainly where the money went, what is available, and what is owing. I cannot go forward until I know where I stand.”
Middleton also heaved a sigh. He sat back and looked at the new marquess. “Very well, let me speak plainly. Where did the money go? Gambling, for the most part. Women as well. Your uncles and cousins were not noted for an abstemious life. What is available? Virtually nothing at the moment. I used the rents that came in before your arrival to pay the interest on the mortgages since that seemed the most urgent expense. That has left no more than a few hundred pounds. What is owing?” Middleton shook his head and gestured at two boxes on his right. “I cannot give you an exact total. Thousands, certainly. I think those are all the bills, but I do not guarantee it.”
Philip stared for a moment and then gave a short laugh. “Caught in my own trap. Well, we might as well get to work.” He reached into the first box and pulled out a handful of papers.
After an hour or so, Philip’s contempt for his Tremaine relatives had only increased. Tailors provided suits of clothes, but their bills were never paid. The same was true of boot makers, hatters, and drapers. Philip took some satisfaction in noting that the more fashionable clothiers—the ones to whom Greystone had taken Philip when he returned to England—had for some years ceased to extend credit to his relations. Middleton pointed out that clothing bills for his uncles and cousins could be considered personal rather than estate expenses, and so not really Philip’s problem.
“But if you are correct, the dowager is not in a position to pay them either, and unless she has changed greatly in the past dozen years, she would not pay them if she could.”
Middleton could only agree.
“In that case, pay them. I see no reason why a tailor and his family should suffer because of the Tremaines.”
Then there were the chandlers and coal merchants, the butchers and bakers—these all had to be paid. Still more infuriating was the fact that the servants had not been paid. One of the footmen was sent off to the bank to fetch back wages for the London servants and a draft was dispatched to the steward at the Dorset estate to cover the wages there.
“I assume you have been paid?” Philip asked Middleton. “Do not be embarrassed. Since you had to handle the money, you would have been a fool to fail to collect your own fee. I prefer not to deal with fools.”
Middleton bobbed his head in agreement, but was nonetheless embarrassed when he passed over the next problem.
“Well, well, well.” Philip stared at it for a few minutes. “Six bastards.” He looked at Middleton. “Who were the mothers? Do you know?”
“One was a vicar’s daughter. Three were servants in the house. The other two were ladies. Poor, but ladies.”
“None with the power to refuse or with the family to insist on marriage. Yet if any of my uncles or cousins had had the decency to marry the mothers, one of those poor little bastards would be sitting in this chair instead of me. I wager any one of them would have been more to my grandfather’s taste.” He shook his head. “Set up annuities for the mothers and trusts for the children. Enough to provide an education for the boys and dowries for the gi
rls.”
Middleton gave a cough. “I feel I should point out, my lord, that once again you are under no obligation…”
That earned him an angry glare. “Those children did not ask to be born. Bad enough they will have to go through life labeled bastards. They need not be penniless bastards. But arrange to have someone conscientious administer the trusts. I do not know if the mothers are injured innocents or avaricious harpies, and I want to be sure the money is used for the children’s benefit.”
When Middleton looked startled at that last comment, Philip responded with a sour smile. “You think me cynical? Surely you have seen enough in your profession to know that ties of blood do not always mean ties of affection. Have you never known a son disinherited when he would not be of financial benefit to his parents?”
Middleton flushed yet again. Honesty, honor, responsibility, even kindness—these were not qualities he associated with the Tremaines. If Peter Tremaine had been like his son, Middleton thought, perhaps he had been disinherited because his virtue was a reproach to the rest of the family.
It took days, but eventually they sifted through to the bottom of the bills. The merchants’ bills were settled. The mortgages were paid off. However, the rent on the houses that housed the current mistresses—his grandfather’s and his uncles’—would no longer be paid, and the women in question had been so informed.
The orders for numerous pieces of jewelry had been cancelled. No doubt the women for whom they had been ordered would be disappointed.
In addition, any gentlemen who expected Philip to pay off the vowels his relatives had signed so often and so casually would also be disappointed. If they wanted to be paid, they could apply to the dowager. As far as he was concerned, there was no family feeling here to make him desire to protect his relatives’ posthumous reputations. He did, however, return the deed to an estate that his cousin Cedric had won from a young sprig just up to town. That cousin in particular had a reputation such that the honesty of the game was almost certainly nonexistent. If the dowager objected, she was welcome to take it up with him.
A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS Page 7