“Well… yes. In a manner of speaking.” He stammered and quickly dropped his gaze, as thoughshewere the viscount and he the younger sibling caught in some mischief.
“How much, James?” Evelyn asked gently. “Tell me plainly.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “Three thousand.”
“Pounds?” She knew it must be, yet some desperate part of her wished for another answer.
“Pounds,” he murmured.
Evelyn set her palms against the mahogany surface as the world seemed to reel. It was an impossible sum. They had already sold everything that could be parted with—Mother’s jewels, the paintings, the coach, several pieces of furniture, even the porcelain. Only Father’s books remained, and Evelyn could not bring herself to see those dispersed. She drew another breath, seeking composure.
“We must still have something left?” James asked in anguish. “The jewels. The paintings in the gallery? What about the pistols that make up Grandpapa’s collection?”
“All sold, James,” she replied softly. He knew it already; he was simply grasping at anything, as she was.
“Sold?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Evelyn replied. Her heart ached for him, not in anger but in sorrow. James was a good man—kind, earnest, never willing to wound another soul. The gaming tables were his weakness. For years, he had tried to win Father’s approval through a deceptive mastery of the cards, sinking deeper and deeper into play with ever higher stakes. After Father’s death and their mother’s collapse into grief, he had sought escape in the one thing he understood—cards—and others had exploited that weakness mercilessly. The result was ruinous, unpayable debt.
“But…” James’s voice broke. His brown eyes were wide with fear.
“To whom is this money owed? What has he said to you?” Evelyn asked. Her heart clenched. Her brother—so handsome, so capable—should never look so frightened.
“Sister, I cannot refuse to pay. He’ll kill me.”
“What?”The word tore from her, sharp in the room’s stillness. Her hand went instinctively to the pearl-drop pendant at her throat—a keepsake from her grandmother, a small anchor of comfort. It was the only piece of her grandmother’s that had not been sold.
“He said so,” James whispered. “If I cannot produce the money in a fortnight—he gave me only that—then he will kill me.” His face was chalk-white, his eyes dark and terrified.
Evelyn felt the breath leave her lungs. Shecould notimagine losing James. He and their mother were all she had left in a world that had grown cold and unwelcoming. She had nearly lost her own sanity four years earlier when her father died; she could not endure such devastation again.
“A fortnight,” she repeated, her mind racing. Could they borrow against the remainder of the furnishings? Against the book collection? Could they sell the house? No—the house was already mortgaged, the only surety securing the loan they struggled to repay. No further borrowing was possible. She sagged against the desk.
“He said ten days,” James added, his voice raw. “I begged four more.”
“Good,” she replied gently, though her heart felt near to breaking. “We shall think of something, James. There will be a way.”
Though she had no idea what it could be. Three thousand pounds was staggering—more than half the annual cost of maintaining the townhouse, paying staff, and feeding the household.
“I hope you are right,” James murmured.
Evelyn shut her eyes for a moment, echoing that silent hope in her heart. Then she went to the door.
“It is four o’clock,” she said softly. “I must take Mama her tea.”
“I will come with you,” James offered.
Evelyn inclined her head. James and their mother did not often spend time together; both were sunk in their own deep melancholies, and being together rarely lifted either of them. Still, company was always better than solitude. She led the way into the corridor, relieved when James followed toward their mother’s small parlour.
Mr Soames—the butler and one of only three remaining servants steadfast enough to stay despite drastically reduced wages—had already placed the tea trolley in its usual place. The teapot rested beneath a warmed cloth. Evelyn took the handles, and James held the parlour door open for her.
“Mama?” she called softly.
“Yes?” came the reply.
Evelyn’s eyes adjusted to the dim room. Net curtains veiled the grey afternoon light, and the fire cast a pale glow upon their mother’s face. She was still beautiful—high cheekbones, expressive dark eyes, thick grey hair drawn into a simple knot—but her gaze was vacant, her posture rigid in the large chair.
“Tea, Mama—and look, James is with me,” Evelyn said. Any small thing that might ease her mother’s mood was worth mentioning. Her mother had once asked Evelyn not totryto make her cheerful—it only heightened her sense of failing—but it was difficult not to grasp at any chance to lighten the oppressive sadness.
