“Very well. I’m not an unreasonable man, but I should warn you that most of the terms stipulated are non-negotiable.”
Why invite me here at all if my fate is already sealed?
Whitcombe glanced at Charles’s hands, then let out a huff and handed the paper over. Charles read the first paragraph and inhaled sharply.
The dowry was thirty thousand.
Whitcombe’s lips curled into a cold smile.
“Yes, I thought you’d lose some of your scruples on discovering how much you’re selling yourself for. But you should read to the bottom before you claim total victory.”
Charles lowered his gaze to the page once more, then paused.
You sly bastard.
Whitcombe’s smile broadened.
“Drink your brandy, Devereaux.”
Charles handed the paper to John, then picked up his glass.
John let out a low curse. “I’ll be damned.”
“I rather think it’s my sister who stands on the brink of damnation,” Whitcombe said. “Which is why I’ve sought to protect her as much as I can.”
Charles sipped his brandy, and the liquor burst with flavor on his tongue. The man may drive a hard bargain, but at least he wasdiscerning enough to know a good brandy from one that rotted a man’s insides.
Whitcombe leaned back and folded his arms. “You cannot accuse me of being ungenerous,” he said. “I’ll even throw in a case of that brandy as a wedding gift.” He picked up his own glass and took a sip. “Thirty thousand is a substantial fortune. But, as you see, one-third of it will be invested in an annuity in my sister’s name. She may draw an income or capitalize it as she sees fit, and in the event of her death, it shall be split equally between you and her children.”
Herchildren?
Devil’s breeches, was the girl with child? Surely Whitcombe would have forced the culprit down the aisle at the point of a pistol. No respectable duke would expect Charles to become father to another man’s brat. It was a cruel twist of the law that ensured that if a man had a natural child, he could not recognize it as his heir. But if his wife bore another man’s child…
He shuddered at the memory—his father bellowing in anger, Mother’s pleas, and the sickening crack followed by the sight of her pale-brown eyes staring at him while he watched the spark of life flicker and die…
“Devereaux?” Whitcombe’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Are you finding this interview tedious?”
Swallowing a mouthful of brandy to cleanse himself of the memory, Charles shook his head.
“Then I’ll continue,” Whitcombe said, an edge to his voice. “The remaining twenty thousand will become yours—ten on the date of your marriage and the final ten to be granted to you as and when I deem it appropriate, provided certain conditions are met.”
Isn’t marrying her enough of a condition to impose on me?
John eyed Charles’s hands. “My master wishes to know what conditions must be satisfied in order to release the final ten thousand.”
“I have two,” Whitcombe said. “The first is that no derogatorycomments with respect to my sister’s status must pass your lips, or”—he glanced at Charles’s hands—“be communicated in any other fashion.
Her status? So, shehadbeen ruined by another.
“And the second?” John said.
“That you consummate the marriage as soon as possible. Preferably the wedding night.”
The brandy caught in Charles’s throat and he shuddered with convulsions. He let out a cough and spluttered droplets over the desk.
Whitcombe shook his head. “Not how I expect my best brandy to be savored.”
Charles set his glass smartly on the desk, and Whitcombe’s eyebrow twitched.
