“There are more bills than I can count on your desk,” Henry said. “If you would just allow me to open and address them—”
“Oh, those. Throw them in the fire. I’ve got a few months before it gets bad yet.”
Henry clenched his jaw. He was not yet the earl, and so his power was limited without his father’s consent, which was yet to be forthcoming.
But if they did not turn things around soon, they would be forced to lose the London house. In an attempt to repair some of the damage, Henry had instructed that no fires were to be lit in the parlour, study, or bedrooms. The house was persistently cold, but at least they were saving on coal. Same for candles: no more than ten lit at any one time. He had personally gone without new clothes and boots since the summer, and he had asked his mother to do the same, although she had refused.
At least his sisters were married and out of the house, in successful households of their own. He couldn’t like his youngest sister’s choice of husband, but there was no denying that Jacob Barrington loved her, no matter his other faults. As for his elder sister’s husband, the Duke of Norfolk—he was the only reason Henry could afford to send Oliver to Oxford, much as he hated being beholden. His pride stung, but there was nothing else forit if he was going to allow Oliver an education. And an education Oliver must have.
Henry would sacrifice just about anything to provide for his brother. Once Oliver was settled with an occupation and income of his own, the worst of his worries would be allayed.
“Father,” he tried once they were at his bedchamber door. “If you don’t give me the means to pay the servants soon, they will leave.”
“Jarvis has been in the family for nigh on forty years.”
“And this may be his last if he is not treated with respect, sir.”
His father turned the doorknob with a decisive snort. “Give me until tomorrow, my lad. It’ll turn around, you’ll see.”
Henry was not a stranger to the gamester’s habit of throwing good money after bad, but it had never frustrated him more than then.
“Let me be plain with you,” he said, following his father into the room. Daylight strained through the partially pulled curtains. “If you do not change your ways, we will lose this house and our comfortable life.”
“You have become so serious, Henry.” His father groaned as he dropped into the armchair before the fire. “Why is it so cold?”
“Because I left instructions to not build fires in our rooms unless it’s strictly necessary.”
The Earl’s eyes narrowed. “This is necessary.”
“No,” Henry said, turning as he left the room, “it is not.”
He closed the door firmly on his father before returning downstairs and finishing his breakfast. His mother had yet to rise when he left the house for the bank. Drummond’s was open when he walked through the doors at past ten o’clock, although it was clear they had not expected to see a young lord request a meeting. Nevertheless, the request was granted readily enough, and Henry was ushered into a small room with a windowoverlooking the street, and a well-dressed man whose quiet elegance denoted him as being a man of fashion.
“Mr Pickford, Lord Eynsham,” said the man, giving his hand a shake. “Come, sit. What would you like to discuss with me?”
“The state of my father’s affairs,” Henry said bluntly. “I want to know if we’ll lose the house in Grosvenor Square.”
Mr Pickford looked at him for a long, assessing moment. “Your father isn’t present.”
“No.”
“I cannot remember the last time your father saw me. Or,” he said carefully, “the last time a viscount came to the bank and did not request a meeting in the convenience of his own home.”
“Suffice to say my own home is not convenient.” And Henry did not believe in the arrogance that led rich men to make demands on the time of those less fortunate. “Can you help me?”
Mr Pickford sat at his desk. “You strike me as a sensible man, if I may say so, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
“If you demonstrate great forbearance and drastically reduce the demands made on your account, you may keep the house.”
But not the servants or the horses, Henry thought bitterly. “And if we do not?”
“Then perhaps you will last until the summer, but there is no doubt about it. If things do not change, you will be obliged to sell. In fact, I recommend that you consider the necessity of your property in Bath.”
Henry’s nostrils flared. When he was younger, his mother had taken them all to Bath over the summer, and it was there he had first met Louisa Picard, although now the world knew her as Lady Bolton.
To sell the Bath house would be to relinquish his last connection to the past. And it was foolishly sentimental, damn him, but he had no desire to do that.
