She opened the folio and saw columns of increasingly depleting funds. Her heart wrenched so tightly she almost hunched over. Her breath was tight.
“No wonder he is selling the house,” she slid the folio to Cedric. “He’s spent it all on clothes, a new phaeton, gifts for his mistress, and gambling.”
“I am ever so sorry,” James said, his face falling.
She shook her head. “This is not your fault, Mr. James. But I am grateful for your help.”
He finished his coffee and stood. “I will try and get more records for you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you again, Mr. James, and I hope you have a safe journey home.”
As he bowed and left, Ariadne circled the desk, and she sat on the edge of his chair and gazed down at the folio, at the red marks of continuous deductions.
“I cannot believe what my scapegrace uncle is doing to us,” she whispered.
Tracing a finger down the line, Cedric said, “Your uncle does not have the slightest inkling of money management or restraint.”
Ariadne was on the verge of tears. “We need to intervene, immediately.”
He flipped the folio closed and wrapped an arm around her. “First thing tomorrow, I will be at the bank and getting these official records.” He said. “And then, we’ll straighten this business out.”
She stared at the folio, horrid images of her mother and sisters suddenly out on the streets or in a poorhouse flashed before her eyes, and a cold sensation crept up her spine.
He turned to her, “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” she responded immediately. “Why would you think I did not?”
“Then believe me when I say your family will not be unseated from your father’s house.” His grin was damned well diabolical. “I have something special for your uncle.”
While flickering a timepiece out, Cedric noted the time and glanced out the window of Almacks. Over his shoulder, her heard Lady Fairbrook turn to her daughter.
“Ariadne?” Ophelia wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as she stepped into the meeting room. Her mother looked mystified. “What is going on here? Why did your husband summon us all to London, post-haste?”
He kept his attention on the door while in the back of his mind, admiring Ariadne. The gown she wore was another creation of the modiste on Bond Street, an exquisite dress of emerald silk embroidered with floral sprigs.
The neckline was square and low but tasteful, leaving her shoulders bare, and the sleeves were two delicate puffs. The bodice fitted closely to her nipped-in waist before flaring into full skirts down to her half-boots.
What is she going to do? Lie, tell her the truth, or hedge?
“It is because we know about the situation with the house, Mother,” Ariadne said plainly.
Her mother’s face went pale and tight. “I—I—How did you know about that?”
He saw when her eyes skipped over her mother’s shoulder and to her sisters, who were filing in. Isolde looked tired, as if she had not been sleeping well at night, and he wondered why.
Is she going to tell her about what Isolde told her?
“Does it matter, Mother?” she asked as she touched her hair. Her dark hair had been parted in the middle, soft braids dangling over her ears and woven into a coronet at the back of her head. “We know now.”
The door opened again, and waiters came in, armed with platters of sweet confections, sandwiches, teapots of strong, steaming tea, and coffee, and set them on the table.
Behind them, a man with wheat-colored hair came in, dressed in a new tan suit with a bronze waistcoat and the glint of a fob chain in his breast pocket.
Thaddues Hargrave looked around the room, his eyes narrowing. “What is this about? Why are my sister-in-law and my nieces here?”
“Sit, and you will find out,” Cedric said as he dropped a folio on the table.
Hargrave gave a reluctant bow and took a seat across from Ophelia. “Ophelia.”
