Finnegan flung one arm over his head. “Go away.”
“No.” Brody grabbed his arm and gave it a yank.
“What the hell, Brody?”
“You have the gall to ask that of me after I’ve been called on by one of your moneylenders?” Brody muttered a curse. “Five hundred pounds is what Mr. Apcot insisted I give him. What in the name of Hades were you thinking?”
Finnegan groaned and squinted at Brody. “Can we please discuss this at a more reasonable hour?”
“It’s almost five in the bloody afternoon. So no, we cannot.”
“Fine.” Finnegan pushed up into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. An unhappy sigh followed. “You know how these games work and Mr. Apcot assured me I’d have a year to repay him.”
As if that made it any better. “If that’s true, then he’s changed his mind. Which he is allowed to do unless you have a written contract of some sort.”
“No one works out a contract while playing cards, Brody. You know that.”
“Which makes your willingness to accept the funds Mr. Apcot offered to lend you all the more incredulous. Honestly, how reckless can you possibly be?”
Finnegan’s eyes darkened. “Don’t speak to me of recklessness, Brody. You and I both know we wouldn’t be in the financial straits we’re in had it not been for your foolish spending.”
It was the same argument as always, and one that was hard to dispute. Even so, Brody felt compelled to say, “Unlike you, I stopped spending when there was nothing left and am now attempting to make money rather than lose it. But these debts you keep acquiring aren’t helping.”
“I am aware. And I’m sorry.” Finnegan climbed from the bed and padded across the floor to the washstand. “You know, I was only trying to help. I thought, if I could at least double the five hundred, we’d be all right for the next year.”
Brody pinched the bridge of his nose. “While I appreciate that, gambling with money we do not have is a risky business. We’re worse off now than we were before. Not to mention, this happened some six months ago and you failed to tell me. Had you done so, I might have found some way to prepare, but now…”
He sank into a chair that stood in one corner and tried to think of a viable solution.
“How much do we have in the bank?”
A miserable laugh rolled up Brody’s throat. “Roughly twenty pounds, most of which will have to go toward paying the taxes and our servants.”
“How about that project you mentioned?” Finnegan washed his face and reached for a towel. “A novel, I think you said?”
“We have to sell it to a publisher first. If we’re lucky, we’ll get an advance, but what if we don’t? Printing is bound to take time, so in my estimation we’re looking at a few months before there’s a hope of making a steady income from that.” Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on his thighs and stared at the floor. “I’ve considered a few other options for the immediate future, but implementing them within one week will be close to impossible.”
Finnegan rang the bell-pull and waited for the valet they shared to arrive. “One of us could marry. I hear Viscount Ebberly’s daughter, Miss Starling, has an impressive dowry so maybe—”
Brody’s gaze snapped to his brother’s. “Stay away from that woman, Finn. She’s nothing but trouble – almost wrecked Westcliffe’s life with her selfish deceit.”
“But—”
“If she becomes my sister-in-law,” Brody warned while rising from the chair, “you and I are through. Is that understood?”
“Right. Got it.”
“Good.”
Their valet, Jackson, arrived at that moment, putting a natural end to their conversation. Brody turned for the door only to tell his brother succinctly, “Don’t leave the house. Stay home. We’ll continue this conversation later. Over dinner.”
Meanwhile, he had an errand to run – one he’d been putting off much too long. He called for the carriage to be brought round – another comfort he probably ought to get rid of. With most of his time spent in London, he could easily use the hackneys when traveling longer distances. But what sort of duke would he be without a carriage bearing his crest?
He climbed inside as soon as it pulled up in front of the house and instructed the driver to take him to The Strand. Settling against the squabs, he pondered the pointlessness of the show he was forced to put on because of a title. A title that was proving to be incredibly inconvenient.
Were he a mere mister, he could get by with a maid of all works and a house one tenth the size of the one he currently lived in. He’d not have a country estate to manage either. Or be expected to host at least one ball a year.
He shook his head as the horse clip-clopped at an easy gait through the dimming afternoon light. If those less fortunate heard him complain they’d think him ungrateful, but the fact was that having multiple homes and all the expenses that came along with them was lovely when one was wealthy. If one was close to ruination, however, it was something else entirely – a burden that seemed to get heavier every day.
