Chapter 1
London, April 1825
Well, this is a damned mess.”
John winced as Edward, Duke of Wildeforde, dropped the stack of papers he’d been reviewing onto the duke’s orderly desk.
Itwasa damned mess. Every aspect of Walter’s passing had been a nightmare—from his drunken plunge over the edge of the king’s pleasure barge into the filthy Thames to the discovery of his cast-aside account books that showed that he, Viscount Harrow, had run the estates into the ground.
“I’m glad to have you home, finally,” Wilde continued. “But I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
John didn’t share his friend’s sentiment. He wasnotglad to be home. Had his brother not died, leaving John with the title and estates, he’d have been perfectly happy in his tiny shack on the edge of the American wilderness. He would never have returned into the jaws of London society if he’d been given a choice.
He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends of it. The extent of his brother’s folly became more and more apparent each day. “I can’t understand it. They kept lending him money. What p-p-possessed them?” John winced at the stumble of his words. Thinking of Walter made his chest tighten and tongue trip over itself so that he once again felt like a scrawny, stuttering outcast about to be ridiculed.
Wilde showed no sign that he noticed John’s faltering. “Your brother hid his situation well. There was not a whisper of money troubles amongst our circle.”
“Of course not.” John shouldn’t be surprised. Walter had always been the charming brother. He’d used his good looks and silver tongue to maneuver every situation to his benefit. No doubt each person he owed money to assumed they were the only person to whom he was in debt, and that it was a one-off—a loan made in an exceptional circumstance that was no fault of Walter’s at all.
The accounts were clear. Walter had lived as though he were flush, yet he’d not spent a cent on anything he should have.
For the past three months, John had been traveling from one estate to another, fulfilling his blasted duties. He beheld the same sight over and over: farmers’ cottages in terrible states of disrepair, fields unsown, wages unpaid, and the viscount’s houses stripped of artwork, furniture, and silver tea sets. The books presented to him by haggard estate managers were in equally poor condition, so full of red ink they resembled a slaughterhouse.
Walter had completely bankrupted the Harrow estates and then died, leaving John to manage the fallout.
“Can any of the estates be sold?” Wilde asked.
“No.” Damn the bloody entail. If he could sell even one of them, he’d be able to prop up the rest for long enough to find a solution. Now every move, every breath, took him one step closer to his own bankruptcy.
“And the money you had personally, before your brother’s death, the income from your steam trains and Fi’s matches?”
John looked at the ceiling as if there were an answer somewhere behind the chandelier sconces. “If I sink every cent I have into it, there’s enough money to fix the worst of the problems—patch leaks in the tenants’ roofs, purchase enough seed that we could sow next season, pay back wages to the staff. But there’s not enough money to support everyone who relies on Walter—me—until the next harvest. And there’s not enough blunt to satisfy all the debts he racked up in town. They are considerable.”
The thought of hardworking tailors and other folk having to absorb a loss to their business because of his brother’s irresponsible decadence made John’s stomach roil.
“I can loan you money.” Edward opened his top drawer as if to satisfy the issue then and there. “It won’t be enough to put everything to rights, but it will pay off his debts here in London and tide you over for a few months.”
John shook his head. He didn’t want Wilde’s handout. It might ease the pressure in the short-term, but it wouldn’t solve the real problem. It would only put strain on their friendship when, in six months, he would still have no way of paying off the debt.
“I’d rather not.”
Wilde frowned but nodded and closed his drawer before leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. “There is one surefire way to raise the blunt you need. And to raise it quickly.”
John straightened. He would accept any solution that didn’t include borrowing more money.
“Marry an heiress.”
His split second of hope sputtered like an engine out of steam. “That’s not an option.” He tried to keep the frustration from his tone. It wasn’t Wilde’s fault John was in this mess. He was just trying to offer a helpful suggestion. But the thought of being forced onto the marriage mart was nauseating.
Finding a wife would require wooing one—throwing himself headfirst into a whirlwind of balls and dinners and long walks through Hyde Park with women who would, no doubt, be whispering behind his back, mocking his stutter and his awkward small talk, and wishing he was his handsome and charming brother.
Even if John survived the process, he couldn’t bear the thought of having to share a life, a house, and a bed with another person. He preferred his solitude and always would.
His friend raised an eyebrow. “You’re a viscount now. From an ancient and well-respected line. The cits and Americans will line up for the chance to make their daughters Lady Harrow. A decent number of thetontoo, at least until they discover how deep in the hole you are.”
“I c-can’t.” His heart raced at the thought of it. “I’ve only returned to England to settle Walter’s affairs and ensure responsible stewards are in place. Once I’m out of this mess, I’ll be on the next ship back to Boston.”
No, marriage was not in the cards. He would need another way to raise the blunt.
