“I am holding my breath in anticipation of your finally answering a question without some commentary attached,” Tristan said, glaring. If he began smashing things, poor Beacham might expire from fright.
“Yes, my lord. In order to return all of your properties and yourself to a state of solvency, all at once, you would need approximately seventy-eight thousand, five hundred twenty-one pounds.”
Tristan blinked. “Approximately,” he repeated. At least when Beacham delivered a death blow, he did it with power and precision.
“Yes, my lord. It may be done in increments, of course, which is probably a wiser and more easily achieved course of action, but that will ultimately increase the amount of money needed.”
“Of course.”
The amount was close to what he’d expected, but hearing someone else confirm the number made it somehow worse. “How long do I have to acquire the three hundred pounds for this month?” he asked, sitting back in his old, comfortable chair.
“A week, would be my guess, or two if you manage to…wager against the right people. And win, of course.”
“I haven’t had much time for wagering, lately.” There was also the matter of being banned from White’s, where he always found his wealthiest opponents.
Beacham cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, I had heard, my lord, that you were pursuing a young lady with the idea of marriage. Given that you refuse to sell any property, that may be your only viable alternative.”
“Yes, I do have someone in mind, but she will need some convincing.”
Fate might be fickle, but it also seemed to know what it was doing. Lady Georgiana Halley had an annual income of nearly twenty thousand quid, and even without her dowry, he happened to know that she’d been investing very wisely over the past six years. All of his family’s estates would be saved within one second of her saying her vows to him. The problem was, he didn’t know whether he could convince her to say them.
His determination to make her his wife had more to do with need and desire than money, but if she’d been a pauper, his obsession with her would probably have ended with him in the Old Bailey for bankruptcy. If she turned him down…He simply wouldn’t think about that.
The solicitor stirred, and Tristan shook himself back to the present. “Thank you, Beacham. Let’s set our next meeting for Tuesday, and we’ll see if I’m in better or worse condition than today.”
“Very good, my lord.”
From the solicitor’s expression, he didn’t expect anything to improve. Tristan had his own doubts about that as well.
He would have to tell Georgiana precisely how desperately he needed her money before he proposed. They’d danced around true feelings and true issues for years. It was well past time for the truth.
The damnedest part of it all was that he wanted to marry Georgiana. When Amelia had told him about the letter and the stockings, that had become the most important item on his agenda. He needed to protect Georgiana from any rumors that might surface.
The idea of living without Georgiana was completely unacceptable. Even if it meant selling off every last damned stitch of clothing he owned, he couldn’t consider marriage with someone else. It would be she, or no one. And it would be she.
One thing he’d learned in all this mess was simple: He needed to tell her the truth, however angry or hurt it might make her. He could woo her, he knew, if he had the time to do it. She needed to see, over and over, that he’d changed.
But three months didn’t seem enough time to prove himself, much less the two days left under Amelia Johns’s ultimatum. With four brothers, two aunts, and a handful of properties all staffed by people who looked to him for the food on their tables and the clothes on their backs, he didn’t have much of an alternative.
He went upstairs to dress for the House of Lords. As he passed the open door of Bit’s bedchamber, he glanced inside, expecting to see his brother sitting by the window, reading. Instead, Robert was shrugging into a riding jacket.
“Bit?” he said, stopping dead.
His brother glanced over his shoulder at Tristan, then pulled on a pair of riding gloves. “What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Dressing.” Continuing to do so, Bit settled a blue beaver hat on his black, too-long hair.
“Why?”
The old Robert, the one before Waterloo, would have made some comment about not wanting to go out into the streets naked on such a chilly day. This Bit, though, just brushed past him.
“Are you all right, at least?”
“Yes.”
That would have to do, though Tristan wished he had time to shadow Robert and make certain he truly was all right. Following him about wouldn’t accomplish anything, however. Besides being very good at not being followed, Bit needed help, and Tristan had no idea what sort of help, or who could best provide it.
