This letter, though, changed everything. It told him he was loved. It told him he was wanted by his mother and, for the brief time she lived, she had loved him. It told him John had never forgotten him and had loved him all these years.
Tavis cradled his head in his hands and would have wept had he the strength to do so. Because if this letter was true, it also told him his brother was gone. If not for his stubbornness and pride, he could have reconciled with his brother years ago. His brother’s messengers had found him, but Tavis had refused to read any missives sent to him. He wanted his brother to suffer like he had all those years ago.
“What a fool I have been. All the time I wasted, and now I’ll never see him again.” Downing a hefty amount of Scotch to drown his sorrows, Tavis stumbled to his bed and passed a fitful night’s sleep.
On the morning, with heavy heart and a newfound sense of responsibility Tavis McGuire, the fifth Earl of Stanton, packed his belongings and went home.
Chapter 4
Two months after that fateful day, he found himself yelling at Mr. Coombes, his seemingly half-witted solicitor. “What do you mean they’ve all been sold?” He had come home to find his estate in near ruin and the horses in his brother’s stables—his horses—sold from under his brother’s nose.
Even though Tavis had never contacted his brother since his father sent him away, it didn’t mean Tavis wasn’t curious about his brother and his interests. Through circuitous routes, he had learned of his brother’s interest in breeding race horses. Tavis had recalled how much he had enjoyed riding with John at Aunt Millie’s. In fact, it was one of his clearest memories of his childhood and one he still remembered with pleasure. It was those memories of riding horses with his brother which had prompted him to find and buy several horses during his travels. He’d sent them back to Ballywith accompanied by a message that they were “to increase the productivity of the estate.” All were sent anonymously, of course. It wouldn’t do to appear interested in John’s affairs. He was just ensuring the prosperity of the estate should anything untoward happen to John, Tavis had reasoned at the time.
But now it seemed all the trouble he had undertaken in choosing prime breeding stock was for nothing, if what Mr. Coombes said was true. He stared at Mr. Coombes until he swallowed and pulled at the collar of his shirt. “It’s just as I said, Lord Stanton. They all were sold shortly before your brother’s death.”
He jumped from his chair and ran around the desk, carrying the ledger of the estate’s expenses. Opening the book, Mr. Coombes cleared his throat and pointed a shaky finger at last year’s expenses.
“As you can see, the estate has been rapidly leaching funds. Poor growing seasons resulting in lost crops means lost income. Furthermore, we’ve had several harsh winters and much of the livestock perished. Your brother did his best to replace the herds, but at considerable cost.”
Mr. Coombes turned several more pages to further illustrate the sad state of affairs at Ballywith. “In addition to loss of income, repairs have had to be made on tenant cottages. Additionally, two years ago there was a substantial fire in the servant’s quarters here at Ballywith. Extensive repairs were needed.”
Tavis studied the ledger for several minutes, thinking, while Coombes droned on with details of the losses to the estate. It was true he knew very little about his holdings, but his aunt had apprised him that, though his father was “an unholy prick,” the old earl was a wealthy man.
Despite his indifference toward Tavis, he had sent him to the best schools and seen he always wore the best clothing. When John had visited on those two occasions, he had been well-attired and traveled in a chaise and four. John had even had a trip to the Continent when he turned twenty-two. Tavis remembered his aunt telling him about it when he had been home on holiday that year. The old earl had also provided Aunt Millie with a generous monthly allowance so she was able to live in a modest manor with a handful of servants to care for her.
Which is why when Coombes said the estate had no more money, Tavis questioned it. Because even if everything Coombes had said was true, all those losses would in no way account for the lack of funds which now existed.
“But it was my understanding the estate had enough funds to cover such loss of income and repairs without threatening the monies tied to the estate,” Tavis stated. “So where has all the money gone?”
Mr. Coombes was nervous now. His face was flushed, and small dots of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Tavis noted all of this with increasing suspicion.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Coombes?” Tavis asked with deceptive mildness as he rose from his desk to glare at the solicitor.
“Ah, it’s just…just…” Coombes stammered, retreating to the other side of the desk, “most of the money was spent before your brother became earl.”
“Spent how?” Tavis prompted.
“Spent on repaying debts earned by your father, the third Earl of Stanton. Before he died, he had racked up considerable gaming debts, severely limiting the spending abilities of the estate.” Mr. Coombes sank into the chair and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.
“Is there more, Mr. Coombes?” Tavis asked, noting the increased agitation of the solicitor and the sickly pallor on his face.
“Before dying, your father told my father, Mr. Coombes, Senior, who was your father’s man of business, that he’d be damned if he left a penny of his money to go to feeding and housing the two most worthless sons in all of Scotland.” Mr. Coombes finished in a rush and braced his hands on the arms of the chair almost as if he were ready to push off and run if Tavis showed any signs of displeasure at the news he had just relayed.
Seeing the other man’s agitation, Tavis yelled, “Calm down, man! I’m not going to run you through for delivering a message from the old bastard.” Mr. Coombes relaxed, though his eyes remained wary.
Raking a hand through his hair, Tavis turned his back on Mr. Coombes to stare out the window. It figures. Father had to find some way to torment me beyond the grave.
“I assume John did what he could to regain the funds.”
“Yes, my lord.” Coombes cleared his throat again. “And I have explained to you the problems plaguing the estate since your brother took over.”
“In detail, Mr. Coombes.” Tavis moved back to the desk and sank into his chair, where he proceeded to prop his legs on the desktop. Laying his head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes. With his thumb and forefinger, he pinched the bridge of his nose in a desperate attempt to ward off the pounding headache he felt forming. “Which is why he sold the horses, I presume.”
There was a long pause in which Tavis heard the nervous rustling of his solicitor. Tavis cracked open an eye and glared at him.
“Not quite, my lord.”
“Explain.” Tavis was curt and he knew it, but damn it! Trying to get information out of Coombes was about as painful as running through a briar patch naked. Which he had only ever done once. When he had been drunk. Even now, Tavis winced at the memory.
But Mr. Coombes had begun. “Your brother was approached by a man named Lord Westby about a month before he died. Westby told your brother he was in possession of an outstanding note belonging to your father.”
“How much? The note. How much was it for?”
“I believe it was for five thousand pounds,” Mr. Coombes stated. “Lord Westby assured your brother he was willing to forgive the note for the top four racers in the stables.”
Tavis’s legs dropped to the floor, and he jumped up in clear agitation. “What? Any one of those horses would have easily covered the amount of the note plus a healthy amount of interest, too.” He began to pace, frustrated by this new turn of events.
“Well, yes, it’s what I told your brother, Lord Stanton. Though he was fair gone with grief for his wife and ill himself, your brother realized it too, but Westby was insistent. He said he’d take those horses in exchange for the note and his guaranteed silence on a delicate matte
r.” Coombes trailed off and flushed deeply. If possible, he looked more nervous than he had ever been.
“What delicate matter, Coombes?” Tavis had stopped his pacing to stare at his flustered solicitor.
Though still agitated, the man continued. “Lord Westby told your brother he was in possession of information, sensitive information, damaging to the memory of your father and to the continued legacy of the earldom of Stanton.”
“Such as…” Tavis prompted.
“Such as information about some of your father’s activities during the war.” Coombes started drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Lord Westby claimed he had several pieces of incriminating information that indicated your father had engaged in treasonous activities during the war.” By the time he had finished, Coombes’s voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
Tavis stilled and peered at Coombes. “Did he say what kind of activities, Coombes?”
“No, my lord,” Coombes replied. “But your brother saw Westby’s evidence, and it was damning enough for him to agree to Westby’s terms.”
Resuming his pacing, Tavis began to think. So the old man had been a traitor, the rat bastard. He smiled humorlessly. Apparently I was not the only one he betrayed. It comforted him on some level to know his father’s treachery had not been limited to him. No, he had betrayed his family and his country, and now Tavis was left to clean up the mess. God, if Westby were to talk…
“Where are the papers Westby showed my brother, the ones incriminating my father?” Tavis strode to his desk and began rummaging through the mass of papers his brother left him.
He heard Coombes’s quiet voice cut through his frantic searching. “There are no papers, my lord.”
“What?” Tavis looked up in hope from the pile of papers he had strewn across the desk. “Did John burn them, then?” The solicitor remained silent. “Thank God. Then the only ones who know besides Westby are you and me.”
Mr. Coombes shook his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me, my lord. When I said there are no papers, I meant your brother never possessed them.”
The implications of what his solicitor said began to sink in. “Then if John never had them, then who?”
Mr. Coombes pulled at his collar again and swallowed, but he looked Tavis in the eye when he said, “Westby, my lord.”
Tavis sat and lowered his head to the desk contemplating the myriad of problems he had been given upon returning home. He almost wished Mr. Alfred T. Coombes had never found him despite the revelations he’d learned about his family. If only Coombes had been a week later, he would have moved on already, and these problems would belong to someone else and not him.
“My lord?” Coombes’s tentative voice interrupted Tavis’s dark musings about his untimely arrival in Tavis’s life. “There is one more thing. Your brother must have told Westby he was dying and he hoped you would be coming home.” Tavis heard Coombes shuffling around for something. Soon a crisp white envelope was shoved under Tavis’s nose from where it still lay on his desk.
“Westby found me, right after he left your brother, and gave me this to give to you.” Tavis heard the door close, signaling Coombes’s departure, and sighed, the harsh sound echoing in the now silent room. Thank God Coombes was gone. Tavis didn’t think he could handle any more bad news. He honestly thought he might have needed to kill Coombes if he’d said one more thing in his stuffy lawyer’s voice.
Reeling from the news he had just learned about his brother, his finances, and his wretch of a father, Tavis walked to the sideboard with letter in hand and poured himself a generous amount of scotch. Then he chose a comfortable seat near the fire and opened up the missive from Lord Westby.
Two lines were scrawled across the fine paper in a bold, slanted hand.
We have matters to discuss. Come see me when you return.
Westby
Tavis crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire. He watched it until the flames had licked away the last of the paper. Even after the fire burned down, Tavis sat before the cooling embers, thinking late into the night.
At the break of day, Tavis was packed and on the road headed to London.
****
After an arduous four-day trek across Scotland and down to London, Tavis wanted to find Westby as quickly as possible. He stopped at his new London townhouse to change and eat before departing again to begin his search. Throughout the remainder of the day and most of the following one, Tavis wondered what role Westby had actually played in this whole mess. There had to be a reason Westby maintained possession of the incriminating papers that had caused John to give away their horses for the paltry sum of five thousand pounds. Tavis was determined to find out why.
It wasn’t too difficult to find Lord Westby with a few questions at the clubs most gentlemen frequented. After a day of inquiries, Tavis had been introduced to Lord Westby at White’s. The two of them met for lunch, and it was while dining that Westby’s intentions for keeping the documents were revealed.
“I want you to marry my middle daughter, Stanton,” Westby stated over drinks.
Tavis spluttered and wiped his face with his napkin. “I beg your pardon?”
“My daughter, I want you to marry her. You do that, and I’ll give you the papers about your father.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Tavis blurted out, more than a little shocked at Westby’s daring. Something had to be very wrong with his middle child if he was willing to blackmail a peer of the realm into marrying her.
Lord Westby’s face mottled in anger. “I’ll have you know there is nothing wrong with my daughter. She’s lovely and intelligent and too fine for the likes of you.”
“Then why me?” Tavis was truly incredulous. Even though it had been less than a month since he inherited his title, matrimonially minded mothers had been throwing every eligible female under the age of thirty at him. Having Lord Westby do the same was a little surprising, but not out of the realm of normal.
What surprised him was the man felt he had to use blackmail to coerce someone into marrying his daughter. That usually didn’t happen. “I repeat, what is wrong with her?”
Westby had calmed himself, and his face no longer appeared to be the deep puce of rage. “I said she is a very lovely young woman, and she is. Accomplished in languages, riding, and household management.” He paused, and Tavis swore he saw the man squirm in his seat. “She has a tendency to be a little outspoken, is all.” Westby refused to look Tavis in the eye, a sure bet he was hiding something more. “Some people find it off-putting.” Westby picked up his glass and swallowed the remainder of his drink.
“So off-putting you need to blackmail someone into marrying her?” Tavis queried.
Westby poured another drink and downed it in one gulp. “She just needs a strong hand. Someone who won’t take offense at her odd ways. That’s why I thought of you.”
Tavis was dumbfounded. He had never met Lord Westby before today, so it was unlikely Westby knew anything about him.
Seeing his confusion, Westby continued, “I knew your father, you understand? He rarely talked about you, but when he did I could tell there was no love lost. One day, about five years ago, he told me you had joined up, sent to the Continent to fight Bonaparte. He was proud of you, though he was reluctant to admit it.”
If there was one thing Tavis knew with certainty it was that his father had never been proud of him a day in his life. In fact, he remembered the day he left for the Continent. He had come to London to meet his regiment before sailing off. Deciding to visit his father had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. If he died, he at least wanted the old man to know. Tavis had found him in his offices at Parliament. After he told his father he had bought a commission, the old earl said, “You’ll probably screw that up, too, and be sent home in a pine box within a month.” That being said, the old earl had waved him out of his office and slammed the door behind him.
The old man must have believed Tavis would be killed within a month,
because a batman awaited him at the docks before he shipped out. All his batman had said, a man by the name of Jeremiah Meeks, was that his father thought he could be of service to Tavis during the war. This one act had given Tavis hope his father did not completely hate him. However, he still remained skeptical that at any point the old man came close to admitting pride in him.
His doubt must have shown on his face because Westby held up his hands and crossed his heart.
“It’s the truth,” he slurred, sounding a little drunk after having downed three glasses of fine whisky in rapid succession. “An’ that’s when I started to follow you. On the quiet, like, that is.” He poured another glass, a little unsteadily this time. “I took note of battles you had led, skirmishes you had won.” He leaned in closer to Tavis, his foul breath too close to Tavis’s nose. Tavis tried not to pinch his nostrils, so he held his breath instead. “I know people, you understand? People in high places. They would mention your name, casual-like, at White’s or in Parliament. They said you were making a name for yourself in the army.”
Westby sat back in his chair, taking his foul-smelling breath with him. Tavis let out the breath he had been holding, but Westby wasn’t done. “An idea began to form.” Westby tapped his temple with his forefinger and leveled a squinty-eyed stare at Tavis. He hissed out in a low voice, “You could help her break the curse.”
Tavis straightened and took note of Westby’s blathering. “What curse?”
Westby must have realized he had been talking too freely because he backtracked. “No curse. I didn’t mean curse. I just meant you would be strong enough to overlook her directness and find the sweet woman inside.”
Tavis was intrigued and, if he were honest with himself, a little flattered. It wasn’t every day he met someone who had followed his career on the Continent as it appeared Lord Westby had. For him to think Tavis would suit his daughter… Tavis mulled on that. Westby had said she was off-putting and prone to directness. Maybe it wasn’t such a compliment, after all, to be thought a suitable mate for his daughter. Still, he reasoned, he needed a wife, and he needed to get his hands on those documents incriminating his father.
Little White Lies Page 3