Augusta had to think on that. She had never paid much attention to such matters in her interactions with Dr. Pinkton. Slowly, recollection came to her.
“No, but his uncle is. He is a baron of some land up north, I believe, though it’s very modest.”
“Hm,” Reginald said, though whether in approval or disapproval, she could not tell. “Well, see to it that if he calls again, I meet him properly. I have always been permissive, but even I cannot withstand strange men calling for my sister whilst I am out.”
“You are well understood.”
“Good.” Finally, he took his leave.
Damned Dr. Pinkton, Augusta thought.I’ve told him not to come here without writing me first.
To be fair, if he had written in the past few days, she likely would not have known. She had not read any of her letters in a while. This recent focus on reviewing her old textbooks and notes had quite shaken her from her rhythm, all usual responsibilities lost to oblivion.
It took a few moments of chiding herself before Augusta could attain the will to stand. Once her feet hit the cold wooden floor, though, a renewed energy washed over her. It was not enough to put her in good spirits regarding the ball tonight, but it was enough to assure herself that she could get through it with grace.
She called for a bath. Her maid, who had gone many days now without orders from Augusta, hastened with several other servants in order to craft a bath as quickly as possible, even bringing in oils and perfumes that Augusta could not recall ever purchasing.
Real magic, those ladies were, especially when they had been so long ignored by her. Such was life, whenever she fell back into her studies.
Once alone, she slipped into the water, wincing slightly at its heat. No matter - she would not be in here long. She had a dinner to attend. More importantly, she had to find a way to slip out of the house and pay Dr. Pinkton a visit tomorrow.
Chapter Two
Sebastian Brightwater was as typical a gentleman as any. Educated, having taken a tour of the continent in his twenties and now settled into managing his family’s country home, he notably enjoyed tours of gardens and listening to music, especially the violin. He had stuffed away every bad thing that had ever happened to him, and adeptly so. It would be difficult to identify him in a crowd if it were not for the soft curl of his blond hair and the intensity of his blue eyes.
Tonight, those eyes were closed as he rested his forehead in his hands, his elbows propped against his study desk. Before him fanned out a swath of legal and financial papers. Not one of them was good.
The only acceptable thing on his desk was his whisky, which he drank with abandon. He’d found it in his father’s liquor cabinet, the bottle already half drank, another piece of business that the godforsaken viscount had left unfinished when he’d fallen asleep a fortnight ago and never awoke.
Debts. So many of them. No singular one was enormous or insurmountable. No, it was not one single death blow that his father had dealt the family’s finances over the years. It was a thousand tiny stab wounds over a long period of time, until finally the beast was slain by sheer exhaustion. Not that it mattered how big or small the debts were; in the end, the effect was the same.
The Brightwater family was completely, irrevocably fucked.
He’d always known his father was a reprobate. There’d been many reasons why Sebastian had fled to Oxford at the first opportunity, but his father’s presence had been high on the list. He’d spent his years thereafter avoiding London whenever he knew his father was here gallivanting. He’d spent the past few years up north with his mother and sister, and did not return to the city until news of the viscount’s sudden death reached him at the Derbyshire estate.
But it wasn’t until now, with it all on display in front of him, that he realized just how ill-suited his father had been to control anything, let alone the entire family fortune. He thought of his sister at the country home. She would never have a dowry now. Likely never marry. Both she and his mother would have to vacate the home and stay with a friend until they could scrounge up enough money for meager quarters.
Even after he evicted his father’s mistresses from their homes and sold the houses off, the family would only loosely avoid abject poverty.
Sebastian had always been quite apt with numbers. Tonight, it did not matter which way he crunched them; they remained against his favor.
He could borrow some, for a short time. His own reputation was good enough that he could get by on goodwill. But there was not enough time to pay off even those debts before the creditors would get antsy. Not to mention the damage it would do to his trustworthiness in the long run. A short-term solution that would forever harm his attempts to do business, should he have to turn to trade one day.
He ran his hands through his hair again, surprised that clumps of it had not started to fall out at this point.
He needed a drink, a cigar, and good company to settle his senses. Though he would have to give up his membership at Reynold’s soon in order to preserve the extra funds, he had already paid his dues for the following month. He might as well enjoy it now, while he still had it.
With a jolt of newfound energy, he pushed away from the desk and called for his carriage.
*****
Two hours later, he was several whiskies deep into conversation with his friends and feeling no better about his misfortune.
It was a trio of them, seated in the overstuffed chairs by a fire, a pack of cards opened in front of them but with no game having commenced. Sebastian sat in between Reginald Browning and William Bancroft, two of his better chums from his childhood and subsequent Oxford days. They’d been there for him then. As predicted, they were here for him now.
“He really left you in such dire straits, then?” Browning asked quietly, conscious of the other men engaged in their own games and conversations nearby.
Sebastian nodded. “Worse than dire. Dire implies hope of the situation turning around.”
