Benedict exhaled sharply. This was what had kept him awake when he’d finally put away the ledgers. Because all the money in the world wasn’t going to keep families warm at night or dry in the rain. Employment was only part of the problem.
“The only suitable land I have for building on was earmarked for extending the firm, which we’re going to bloody well need to expand so quickly. The rest is wooded. It will take months to clear it.”
Oliver polished off the last of the brandy. John was drumming his fingers on his forehead—something he only did when the numbers weren’t what he expected, and he didn’t know why. “Wilde,” he said finally.
“What about him?” Benedict asked, a knot immediately forming in his gut.
“He has all that land north of the g-granary.”
“No.” Fiona and Benedict spoke as one. Turning to his wife’s ex-fiancé was not an option he wanted to consider.
Oliver, however, was nodding. “Aye, he may have the country’s largest stick up his arse, but he’s got a soul. He won’t let the village down.”
“It’s worth asking,” John said.
“I don’t want to go begging to Wildeforde for help.” The thought made his stomach roil. “Besides, I stole his bloody fiancée. I can’t imagine he’d be keen to accept an audience with me.”
“He won’t say no to Fi,” Oliver said. “Not when it’s her he’d be saving.”
Fiona paled. “Nae. I cannot.” It was a sign of just how rattled she was that she lapsed into her father’s Scottish accent. “I can’t ask him for this. Not after everything. I cannae go to him for rescue.”
John took her hand and gave it a small squeeze. “You’ve the best shot of saving every tenant south of the river.”
Fiona’s eyes filled with tears, but she gave a curt nod. “Then I guess I’m going to London.” She looked at the empty brandy bottle in front of Oliver and then crossed to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the gin.
Benedict gladly took the bottle when she was done. Wildeforde coming to the bloody rescue. Wildeforde, who would have no doubt “been enough” when Benedict wasn’t. How could it get worse?
“There’s something else we need to consider,” Oliver said, his tone darker than it had been. “The village. They’re already fired up. Tucker’s been preaching revolution to them every other night. And when he’s not addressing a crowd, he’s whispering in ears. This news could turn things even worse.”
Benedict blew out a long breath. Bringing Tucker to town was proving to be a mistake. He was a variable they didn’t need.
“I’ll talk to him. Ask him to temper his tone somewhat. Surely, he can be forced to see sense. No one wants violence.”
“And if he won’t see sense?” Fiona asked quietly.
“Then the Karstarks are on their own.”
Acceptance of her undeniable fall from grace was gradual. Amelia had cried in Benedict’s lap that morning, the first time she’d ever been held while crying, and then she’d run a hot bath and cried in there too. It hurt to see her downfall so plainly illustrated—literally in black and white, complete with captions. The printer’s ink smudged, and the paper wrinkled from a combination of steam, tears, and bathwater.
She’d had dinner in her room and cried herself to sleep before Benedict had even returned home.
The next day she’d woken, energized, and fired off two dozen furious letters—to the printer, the publisher, the illustrator, the condescending patronesses of Almack’s, and the whiny snot-nosed debutantes who owed her more loyalty. Hell, she’d even sent one to Prinny to demand an inquiry into publishing standards.
The next day she didn’t leave her bed.
Or the day after that.
Both mornings, Benedict brought her breakfast and flowers. He gave her sweet and gentle encouragement. Both nights he’d held her and talked her through all the progress the team had made toward solving the Karstark situation.
The next morning, he’d stripped her of her quilt and quite literally dumped her on the floor.Get up, get dressed, and get something done, he’d said.Find a damn project.I will not watch another woman waste away in this room.
And he’d stormed out, flinging the door into the wall as he did.
So she got up, got dressed, and found a project.
That was three days ago, and since then, the morning room had become a refuse site. Dozens of the trunks her father had sent were still in the lumber room where they’d been since they were delivered. With no house party to prepare for, Amelia had made the goal of sorting through at least one trunk a day. That should see her occupied until summer.
“Should we finish sorting yesterday’s trunk?” Cassandra asked, gesturing to the piles of hats and gloves and shoes that littered the room.
