He was just as proud of “unmusical” Dahlia, who never missed a performance and still managed to find the time to manage a growing boarding school that required round-the-clock administration. Family came first to Dahlia, which now meant the Grenville clanandtwo dozen indigent dependents who looked up to her like a mother.
Of the four, Heath was the only one not following his true passion. Not that he was meant to have any passions. From the moment of his conception, he had been destined to inherit the barony one day. That was to be his sole and defining duty: become as competent and successful a baron as his father.
Perhaps it was foolish of him to dream of making a name for himself in his own right. No one else expected him to be anything more than heir to his father’s title. That was enough for his mother. Enough for Society. So why wasn’t it enough for Heath?
More importantly, why should his sisters feel any different? He rubbed his pounding temples. Shouldn’t he and his mother “let” Dahlia ruin her standing if that was what she chose to do? Were lifelong passions not worth the risk?
A footman entered the sitting room with the morning post.
Dahlia and Bryony pounced upon the pile of folded missives as if awaiting a personal note from the Prince Regent himself. Camellia never glanced up from her sheets of music.
“Eighty pounds.” Dahlia rifled through her post with a happy sigh. “Not as much as I’d hoped, but any donation is better than no donation.”
Camellia nodded approvingly. “Excellent work. The post will come again this afternoon. Bry, how did you do with your correspondence?”
“My investment report still hasn’t arrived,” Bryony answered with obvious disappointment. She slid Heath a frustrated look.
“Something I can help with?” he inquired in a low voice.
Bryony sighed and shook her head. “It’ll come eventually.”
Because most men balked at the idea of doing business with a female, Heath had helped his sister invest anonymously. It had begun on a dare. Bryony had thought it would be great fun to purchase shares in projects owned by men who would never open their books to a woman.
To Heath’s surprise and Bryony’s delight, she had been brilliant at it. She quickly got out of the three percents and into the riskier but far more lucrative business of funding private ventures.
Because of his fame as a secret-keeper, her marks never bothered to ask where the money came from. They already knew Heath would never betray a confidence, and besides, the business owners and project managers needed the money too much to concern themselves with minor details.
Bryony had tried to pull out of all her investments some months ago in order to divert her capital gains toward her sister’s school. When Dahlia had refused to siphon money from her sister’s dream to fund her own, Bryony had gone through Heath to make as many small, anonymous donations as she could.
The majority of her earnings, however, were contractually tied up in fixed-timeline investments. The letter she was waiting on was likely a quarterly report detailing the progress-to-date of one of her speculative ventures. Bryony’s gift with numbers enabled her to draw accurate conclusions from such reports that even the financiers who wrote them had been unable to anticipate.
His mouth twitched. If she’d been born a different gender, she’d own half of London by now. She was probably still on that path anyway, one pseudonymous investment at a time.
And if Heath had been born a second son, or a third, or a fourth, there would be little chance of him inheriting the title. He could not wish away the barony, but nor could he shake his longing for a freedom he could never have. To make decisions for himself, rather than duty.
What would he do with freedom such as that? Would he give into his desire to sweep Miss Winfield into his arms? Lower his mouth to hers and plunder—
“What are you smiling at so wolfishly?” Camellia asked.
He glanced over at her with a guilty start, then realized her words were not directed at him, but to Bryony.
“Gossip columns.” Bryony held up a sketch with a caption beneath. “Have you seen today’s caricature?”
“Ugh, I despise them.” Camellia pulled a face. “Why do you insist on having them delivered?”
Bryony grinned back. “To see if I’m in them.”
Heath’s heart stopped. Bryony’s flippant words might be in jest, but he wasn’t so certain the idea was far-fetched.
Having a beloved family member appear in some mocking caricature was his worst nightmare. Not just as the problem-solver famed for quietingtonscandals, but as elder brother to three unwed sisters. How was he supposed to protect them from the damage a printing press could do?
He reached out a palm. “Give it to me.”
Bryony handed it over without comment and turned her attention to the rest of her mail.
Good God. Heath could not look away from the ghastly caricature. That this rubbish was sketched with a deft hand did not signify. Every visage was instantly recognizable. Not just the poor saps being mocked in the foreground. All the faces. The footman in the background was just as familiar as the salon in the sketch.
His breath caught. This wasn’t some outsider’s biting commentary on the perceived iniquities of aristocratic life. This wasLady Carlisle’s ballroom. A real place. A real moment in time. Real quotes emanating from jauntily drawn mouths.
