Your cousin,
Graham
Graham rang for his butler, Mitchell. “Have these dispatched immediately by messenger. They must reach their destination today.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man took the missives and departed, closing the door behind him.
Only a few moments had passed before there was a knock at the door again.
“Come,” he called, and Mitchell appeared just inside the door again.
“A gentleman to see you, my lord. Mr. Silas Rothwell.”
Graham’s chest tightened. He’d been dreading this visit, but hoped the man might take a bit more time. But from the letters he’d already received, he could tell that patience wasn’t the man’s strong suit. “Show him to the morning room. I’ll be along shortly.”
When the butler departed, Graham allowed himself exactly thirty seconds to panic. His pulse raced as he considered what he would even say. Forty-five thousand pounds. His dissolute cousin hadn’t left any funds available. Only properties, a couple of which were already mortgaged. He needed more time to sort through it all and determine what he would do.
He straightened his shoulders and made his way to face the blackguard his cousin ran up gambling debts with. The man who had become Graham’s problem he didn’t want nor ask for.
Rothwell stood with his back to the door, examining a landscapepainting. He was younger than Graham had expected, perhaps in his thirties, with a silver streak in his hair and the slimy look of someone who’d never done honest work.
“Lord Powis,” Rothwell said without turning. “How delightful of you to receive me.”
“Mr. Rothwell.” Graham kept his voice level. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, I think we both know why I’m here.” The man finally faced him, his pale eyes riddled with amusement. “I trust you’ve had time to prepare my funds given the notes I hold?”
“I’m still reviewing the estate records. These matters take time—”
“Time?” Rothwell scoffed. “My lord, your cousin’s debts have been accruing interest for months. So I have reached the end of my generosity. And I am out of time to wait.”
Sweat gathered at the base of Graham’s neck. “I understand the urgency. However, liquidating assets of this magnitude requires careful consideration—”
“I don’t care how you get my money.” Rothwell cut him off as he moved closer. “I wonder, does your charming betrothed know your situation? Lady Diana, isn’t it? You’ve done well for yourself to be sure. And quickly, too. I’m sure her dowry will be a nice start to paying me what I’m owed.”
The threat struck him. Graham’s hands clenched at his sides, willing himself not to plant the man a deserved facer. “Stay away from her. She is hardly your concern.”
“On the contrary. Until I have my funds, everything is my concern.” Rothwell smiled, showing too many teeth. “But I’m a reasonable man. Shall we say… three weeks? That should give you sufficient time to arrange matters.”
Three weeks. His wedding was in a matter of days, and then he’d have to quickly do what he could to raise the funds and expedite the sale of his chosen properties. “And if I cannot—”
“Oh, but you will.” Rothwell adjusted his gloves with deliberate care. “Because the alternative would be most unfortunate for your new family. The Earl of Snowdon has such a sterling reputation, even if his son used to be a frequent patron at the tables before he went and fell in love. It would be tragic if you were the one to bring that perfect family to their knees before theton… and your pretty little wife left as nothing but a cast out widow.”
Graham’s vision blurred with fury. “Keep your threats directed at me and leave my betrothed and her family out of this.”
“Then I shall expect my funds.” Rothwell moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “Three weeks and not a day longer, my lord. I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”
And with that, the man was gone, leaving Graham to contemplate what he must do next.
He wasn’t even certain if he could close a sale on a single property in that amount of time. And likely not at a loss.
His hands shook as he reached for the crystal decanter on the side table and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. The liquid burned his throat, but it helped steady his nerves enough to think clearly.
He returned to his study on unsteady legs and collapsed into the chair behind the desk. Graham buried his face in his hands. He should call off the engagement. If it wouldn’t ruin her and her entire family, he would. But it was far too late for that.
He would find a way out of this mess and ensure she never had cause to worry. He had to.
There was little he could do until the details of his holdings were made available to him. He needed a distraction from the mounting anxiety of the walls of his circumstances closing in on him. Graham stood and wandered to the bookshelves lining the study, hoping to find something—anything—to take his thoughts off his impossible situation.
