Page 85 of The Gentlewoman Companion

“Does father know where you are?” she asked.

“He doesn’t care.” Downcast eyes and a tensed jaw wiped away his jeering malice.

She did not want to pity him, but she understood his dejection. Hadn’t she felt nearly the same way when their father had all but forgotten her? Perhaps Charles could be reasoned with. She leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. “Why not go home and revitalize the farm? If well-run, it will provide you with income enough. Find a wife and settle down.”

“I lack the temperament.” He seemed to shrink before her eyes, a helplessness she understood.

“You don’t apply yourself. You have potential to live a comfortable life if you would but set your mind to an occupation.”

“I may dedicate myself to the cause of finding a rich wife, should you introduce me to your friends.” He smirked, withdrew a grey handkerchief, and blasted his nose into it.

She hardened against him. Slothful and indulgent, who was he to demand she solve all his problems—and threaten her otherwise? Shouldn’t he suffer the consequences of his own bad decisions? Didn’t he deserve to be dragged by the moneylender to Fleet Prison? He’d created his own calamity. Let him answer for it.

He leered toward her, his face appearing more haggard up close. “I am desperate.” His voice was rough. “I am begging you. If you cannot help me, I’ll have to run, live an anonymous life with the fear of…” He rubbed his eyes. “I think they would kill me.”

Her chest constricted, her thoughts calling to mind a cherished phrase from Clarissa: “In the midst of calamity, generosity is everything.” Generosity had saved her after her Great Misjudgment; generosity was what she hoped to receive should her own misdeed be discovered. Charity was not in her nature—even the simple hand of friendship she’d extended to Miss Trelawney still rankled—but she might use a bit of leverage to strike a bargain.

“If I find a way to help you, will you leave London and return home?”

“I’ve nowhere else.” His eyes were flat and sorrowful.

“Give me the address of this moneylender. I will see to the debt myself.” She did not trust him not to gamble the money away rather than pay his debt. The heft of her mother’s brooch weighed on her lap. “Promise me you will leave London. Stop drinking. Work with father.”

He closed his eyes, his face clearing of lines. “When?”

“Within a week.” Though a year may not be enough time, should the jeweler be unwilling to cooperate.

“Two days, or they’ll have me. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow evening, I will have no other choice than to call at Grosvenor Square.”

The following evening was Lady Halverton’s salon, and Louisa must be at her mistress’s disposal. She must act immediately or risk a public revelation of her secret.

“It will be done. You’d best pack your things while I’m gone.”

Inside the carriage, she directed the driver to Lombard Street. They stopped in front of an insignificant, lopsided Tudor building. Louisa entered a small, pristine office void of ornamentation but replete with shelf after shelf of thin notebooks. A man of middling years with the round merry cheeks of a child sat at the desk perusing a ledger. The office seemed pleasant enough, but she knew how this business worked. A household, unable to pay for food, might run up their grocery bill. The grocer would eventually turn their account over to the moneylender. Over a short period, interest would run the bill from four pounds to twenty. A pitiable, common story.

Charles’s vices deserved no sympathy, but it was impossible to extinguish the familial tie that bound her to him, even when her keenest desire was to never see him again. Besides, if he kept his promise and returned to Cornwall, her worries regarding her reputation might truly disappear.

“I am Mr. Gilford. How might I help you, dear?” Like a kind uncle, his tone was sweet and clear. He possessed enough decency not to ask her name.

“I am here to pay a debt for Charles Thorpe.”

“Ah.” He smiled, a guileless grin that put Louisa at ease. He rifled through his book. “Mr. Thorpe owes…let me see.” He stated an amount fifty percent above what Louisa had expected, and she told him as much.

“The shops Mr. Thorpe frequents have become suspicious and are calling his bills. He ordered an inordinate number of silk waistcoats. I have it all here, should you like to see it.”

Louisa took the proffered ledger and perused the tidy lines detailing Charles’s expenditures. Waistcoats indeed, two dozen of them. Listed beneath the tailor and an inn were gaming dens and houses of ill-repute. Charles should be ashamed to show his face in public, yet he had condemned her.

“If I pay today, I expect a twenty percent concession.”

“Bah!” Mr. Gilford’s laugh made Louisa feel like a child. “Five.”

“Ten.”

They shook hands, and Louisa took in a fortifying breath. She almost smiled, bright with the satisfaction of having solved the problem on her own. Everything she’d learned since committing the Great Misjudgment culminated, and she refused to be ashamed of using her limited means to rescue her brother—and herself from that brother.

The church bell rang an afternoon anthem as Louisa stepped into a jeweler shop. In one sweeping scan, the man behind the counter seemed to comprehend her understated dress and absence of a chaperone. Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her chin high.

“I desire to speak with you about a particular matter,” she said.