Your loving servant,
George
He refolded the letter, put it in his desk drawer with the numerous other letters he’d written to her over the past eight months, and locked it. It was time to stop hoping for something that could never be. News of his family’s demise had spread quickly through theton,so he had no doubt she knew of his new circumstances. Would she understand why he’d had to leave her so abruptly in the middle of his near-proposal? He didn’t know how he’d ever face her again. Would she even speak to him after his ill-treatment of her?
George sighed. Bright sunlight flooded his study, but it did little to cheer him up. His mood was more aligned with rain and dark clouds these days.
A knock on the study door interrupted his brooding. “Come.”
Peters, the butler, walked in. “My lord, these came for you.”
George took the letters from the silver salver.
“Do you require anything else, my lord?”
“Yes. I could use a fresh pot of tea.”
“I’ll see to it right away,” Peters said, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
“Now what?” George asked as he picked up a letter and ripped open the seal. The first was an invoice from the tailor, the next from the bootmaker, and the third from his mother’s modiste. They were all from last year, and he was shocked his father hadn’t paid them before embarking on that fateful trip. Perhaps he’d thought to deal with them when he returned to London. George would never know.
He let the invoices drop onto his desk. They amounted to hundreds of pounds in unpaid balances, and there wasn’t enough money left in the estate coffers to pay them all. Who should he pay first? Or should he send a little to each of the tradesmen? He hoped only to delay paying the tradesmen. He would not be one of the nobles who shirked his duty to pay his bills. He needed help, but none of his army buddies—Wolf, the Duke of Wiltshire, Richard, the Marquis of Evans, or Jon, the Earl of Hartley—were in London at the moment. He wondered if any of them planned to come to Town this Season. The last time he’d seen his friends was at the funeral of his father and brothers this past August. And that had been no time to talk about estate business.
He wasn’t typically shy about asking for help. He doubted the duke and his lovely duchess would come to London because Wolf had written to him over the winter, telling him that Mercy was with child and they were staying at the duke’s country estate. And he knew Jon had no plans to come to London ever. That left Richard and Helena. Would they come for the Season? He decided the best course of action was to send a note to Evans House with the added instruction to deliver the letter to where ever Evans was residing at the moment.
Evans,
Greetings! I wasn’t sure what your plans were about coming to London this Season. If you’re in Town, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could advise me on some estate issues. Send a note around when you’re free.
Hutchinson
He sanded the letter, folded it, and set it aside for Peters to post. It was time to try to make sense of the estate’s expenses. He pulled out the ledger and looked over the entries. His father evidently had let the estate manager go when funds became scarce, and there was no one left who knew the estate well enough to advise him. He would have to muddle through and try to make sense of everything on his own. It was a daunting task.
Chapter 2
Miss Lydia Weston tried hardto stay out of her father’s way. Robert Weston was exceedingly grumpy these days, and nothing she did seemed to please him. When she didn’t secure a match last Season, he’d sent her to Bath with her aunt, Mrs. Agnes Kennedy, for the summer. It had been a glorious summer. She’d been on top of the world, in love with the most perfect man for her. She adored Lord Spenser with every fiber of her being, and his kisses had set her body on fire. Then it had all come crashing down, and her life would never be the same again. She’d hoped the pain of that fateful day would eventually subside, but it hadn’t. She doubted it ever would.
She was reading in the morning room at the back of the Weston townhouse when the housemaid, Lillian, came to fetch her.
“Miss, your father wishes to speak to you,” the maid said.
Lydia looked up from her book. “Where is he?”
“In his study, miss.”
“Thank you, Lillian. I’ll go see him immediately.”
The maid curtseyed and left the room.
Now what?
It was never a good thing when Lydia’s father summoned her out of the blue. The only time he ever paid her any attention was when she checked the ledgers for Weston Textiles. She’d had an affinity for numbers since she was a young child, and when she was fourteen, Thomas had finally recognized her talent and tasked her with making sure the ledgers were balanced every month. It was a small thing, but it meant the world to her because up until then, her father had barely spoken to her. He’d never visited her in the nursery, and when her youthful enthusiasm waned, she’d stopped asking for him. It had been a hard lesson for a young child to learn that her parent wanted nothing to do with her. Her father blamed her for her mother’s death. It was illogical, of course, but she’d learn to accept the fact that Thomas would never love her. She would be forever grateful for the day her Aunt Agnes came to live with them. Agnes showered her with love, without which her life would have been lonely indeed.
There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. Lydia walked to his study and knocked on his door.
“Come.”
“Papa, you wanted to see me?” she asked, walking into the room.
