She shook her head, determined to regain control of her senses. “No, thank you. I’m quite well. It’s just the shock.”
“Here, take a sip of tea.” He picked up her cup and handed it to her. She took it with shaky hands and forced herself to sip the liquid if only to appease the magistrate. Her ploy must have worked because he returned to his seat.
Beside her, Aunt Marianne dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Bridget managed to say, although she still did not believe it to be true. She was sure there had been some terrible mix-up, and her papa would walk through the door any minute.
The magistrate pressed his lips together. “Do you have anyone whom I can call—a male relative—who can help—”
“No,” Bridget said, anxious to know why the magistrate seemed to be stalling. “You know very well there is no one. It’s only me, Aunt Marianne, and Papa…” Her voice faltered. She sucked in her breath. “Now, please tell us what accident has befallen Papa.”
Magistrate Hunt tugged at his collar as if it choked him. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact.
“Magistrate Hunt, please! I need to know what has happened to my father. How did he—how did it happen?” Bridget said, still convinced the magistrate had made a mistake. Once she knew the details, then she’d be able to point out that it was all a misunderstanding. Her papa wasn’t dead. Whoever had sent over that message had made a terrible mistake.
Aunt Marianne gave another loud sob and buried her nose in her handkerchief.
“I’m afraid that Mr. De Lacey”—he paused—“took his own life.”
“What?” Bridget’s stomach plummeted. She felt as though she’d been pushed off the tallest peak in Westmorland and was falling unprotected and uncontrollably down to bottomless earth.
Her aunt lowered her handkerchief and stared at the magistrate, shaking her head. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
A crushing weight slammed into Bridget’s chest as she made her harsh landing back to reality. “That’s impossible,” she said. “You must have the wrong man. Papa would never do such a thing. What explanation could there be for him to take his own life?”
“It seems he lost his entire fortune in a series of card games”—he swallowed—“including this villa.”
Bridget heard a loud gasp, but she wasn’t sure if it came from her own throat or her aunt’s.
“Villa De Lacey?” she asked, stunned. “He lost our home?”
“It was his last hope. He gambled the villa in the hope of winning back his money, but he lost it to the Earl of Westerly, whose family name is Squires.”
The room swirled before Bridget’s eyes. She was vaguely aware of her aunt sobbing beside her and of the magistrate talking, but his voicegrew distant as the room continued to whirl.
“Papa dead. Villa De Lacey lost to an earl by the name of Squires,” Bridget echoed in a whisper before everything went black.
Chapter Two
Five Weeks Later…
Mayfair, London
Nate Squires satacross from his brother, the Earl of Westerly, and wondered how two people who shared both a mother and father could be so different. Only four years Nate’s senior, Edward’s blond hair was already thinning, which made him look years older. His tall, wiry frame, pallid complexion, ice-blue eyes, and almost transparent eyebrows and eyelashes were the opposite of Nate’s thick, wavy black locks and midnight-blue eyes, which took shelter under long black lashes and dark eyebrows. Like Edward, Nate was tall, but, unlike his brother’s shoulders, his shoulders were broad and his body muscular.
Edward was a stiff man. He had a stiff posture, a stiff expression, and he lived by stiff rules. The man had been born uptight. Nate would not have cared what rules his brother chose to live by, but it irked him that he expected Nate to follow his rigid ways of thinking and living too.
“This is the last straw, Nathaniel.” His brother sat, back straight and hands intertwined, behind his mahogany study desk, upon which neat piles of books and papers were stacked. That was another difference between them—Edward liked things orderly and perfect, whereas Nate enjoyed a little chaos. It made him feel alive.
“I’ve warned you ample times before,” Edward continued in the irritatingly authoritative voice he liked to use when talking to Nate. “Your philandering and gambling have got to stop. It’s time you contributed to this family’s well-being.”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “For someone who enjoys gambling as much as you do, I find that statement quite hypocritical.”
“When I gamble, I win.” Edward assumed a look of superiority. “Unlike you.”
Nate nodded. He had to admit that Edward had a point. They both enjoyed gambling, but Nate lost more often than he won.
