Andyet.
He sank into the armchair. “When I went to Drummond’s and spoke to Mr Pickford, he led me to think we had until the end of the summer before we risked losing this house.”
“An old bore,” his father said with distaste.
“Nevertheless, he has a certain knowledge of our situation, do you not agree?” Henry folded his arms. “I’ve been gone a week. How do things stand?”
“You cannot take that tone with me.”
“Have you lost a great deal at the table in that time?”
The Earl’s nostrils flared, but his silence was answer enough. Never mind; he would find out the truth from Drummond soon enough.
“I will be addressing myself to the accounts and bills from now on,” he said. “It seems if they are to be handled, I must do it. And if you have any objection, perhaps you should try addressing them yourself.” He rose. “I’ll see myself out.”
It was almost noon when Oliver knocked on the door of the study, by which time Henry had ample time to discover the depths of their ruin.
His father had been to see moneylenders, and the repayments were looming. These were accounts the bank was not aware of, no doubt, as they did not rely on a withdrawal, but it certainly meant they were in a pretty pickle.
His head pounded and his vision swam, and he contemplated all the ways he could think to resolve this disastrous mess they were in.
So far, all he could alight on was to sell their London home.
Oliver’s sandy head poked through the door, and he entered the room with a sullen cast to his mouth. He was built along his father’s proportions, tall and sulkily handsome, but he had inherited his mother’s brown eyes—the only child to not have the Beaumont blue.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he said as he took a seat. “Mama said you were in the country.”
“And so I was,” Henry said. “But I returned early.”
Oliver folded his arms. “Of course you did.”
“I’ll save you the lecture,” Henry said dryly, recalling Louisa’s words.If you speak to him as a man, as an equal, expressing the reality of your situation, perhaps he will find his own way forward.“No doubt you wouldn’t attend me anyway.”
“Then what am I in here for? Father said he would see to my debts.”
For the first time, Henry looked at his brother as a fellow adult, albeit one more concerned with others’ opinions. He was dressed in the height of fashion, shirt collars high and pointed—a little too much for Henry’s taste, but then he had never been a proponent of fashion—and his cravat tied flamboyantly. But there was a serious cast to his merry brown eyes, the hint that one day he would steady down if given the chance.
Henry sincerely hoped he would.
“Let me be frank,” he said, laying all his cards on the table. “The position we are in is close to ruinous. We have more to repay than—oh, than even Miss Winton’s dowry could cover.”
Oliver looked momentarily interested. “Is that the lady you’re going to marry?”
“No,” Henry said shortly. “But until recently I was considering it. How much did you lose?”
The sulkiness returned to Oliver’s expression. “Father already said he would repay it.”
“Father is applying to Nathanial. I would rather have the sum so I know what numbers we’re dealing with.”
Oliver sent Henry a quick, embarrassed glance. “Play was a good deal deeper than I had realised.”
“Badly dipped, are you?”
“Four thousand.”
With some difficulty, he kept his expression neutral. “I see.”
“Nathanial can afford to pay it,” Oliver said.
