Page 43 of Real Earls Break the Rules

She picked up her brush and returned to her work. She tried to concentrate, but found it difficult. Her thoughts kept returning to Brandon and how he hadn’t shunned her goals, or poked fun at her, or thought she was cracked. He’d understood. She stared at the painting before her and tried to focus. She needed to complete this section of canvas tonight to stay on schedule.

Her only consolation was that he appeared as distracted as she did.

He walked to the fire and studied the ormolu mantle clock. He picked up her sketchbook from the floor and placed it on an end table. Moving to his desk, he shuffled stacks of papers into small piles, his brow furrowed.

“Something is on your mind,” she said.

He dropped the papers and looked up. “It’s nothing.”

“You asked me a question, and I was truthful.”

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Something deep and tormented, but it was gone so quickly she thought it a quirk of the candlelight. He was silent for several heartbeats, and she thought he wouldn’t answer.

She’d suspected he was troubled the last time she had worked in his study. She hadn’t asked him about it then, but he’d kissed her and all rational thought had fled. She stood poised with her brush in her hand, unsure whether to return to her work when he finally spoke.

“My father was a drunkard.” His voice was low and troubled.

“Pardon?” It was not the answer she’d expected.

“Your father wasn’t the only disappointment. Mine was a sodden fool and a terrible businessman. An idiot businessman to be precise.”

Oh my. “He didn’t abandon you, did he?”

Brandon’s eyes glinted green fire. “No. But we would have been better off if he had.” He came from around the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “The old earl drank, but instead of coming home and collapsing in his valet’s care like any self-respecting gentleman, he purchased businesses. Bad businesses. Economic failures. He purchased failing mines for coal, copper, and tin, a dress shop that had suffered a fire resulting in every garment and bolt of cloth stinking of smoke, and invested heavily in a doomed shipping company with ships that had been attacked by pirates in the Caribbean. There are half a dozen more. Then there are his gambling debts. He lost thousands of pounds at the gambling hells. Over the course of the past year, I’ve worked hard to salvage the businesses I could, pay off his loans, and satisfy his creditors.”

“I’m sorry. That’s sounds like quite a burden. You should be proud of your accomplishments. Most men would call them all losses and lick their financial wounds by asking rich relatives for aid.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. “But there’s more, isn’t there? Something else is troubling you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have an uncanny ability to see beneath the surface. I don’t know if I admire it or fear it.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m an artist. I know how to look beneath the veneer to find my true subject. If you’ve reinvigorated those businesses, then what else is troubling you?”

He sighed and went to a sideboard and poured himself a drink. “I’m afraid I don’t have wine in my study, only stronger spirits. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He poured out two fingers and handed her the glass. She took a sip. The potent alcohol burned her throat all the way down, and she sputtered and coughed. “What is this?”

“Good Scotch whiskey. My father’s favorite stash. He may have been mindless in business, but he had expensive taste when it came to his liquor.” He took a swallow and candlelight glinted off the cut crystal. “You’re right. I am troubled. There’s one more business, a large textile mill that’s done nothing but cause me headaches.”

She lowered her glass. “Go on,” she urged.

“It makes no sense, really. On paper, the mill should be a successful and profitable business. Something even I would invest in.”

“But all is not well?”

He took another sip. “The mill is an economic disaster. Equipment keeps breaking down unexpectedly and the previous manager was incompetent. I was also appalled to discover the enterprise dependent on child labor. I resolved the management problem immediately as well as the child labor issue, but the faulty equipment remains a thorn in my side.”

Amelia was well aware that many factories employed children. During their stay in St. Giles, and even after, when they ran the print shop on Brutton Street, she’d witnessed firsthand the droves of children dressed in worn corduroy jackets and threadbare dresses, their complexions sickly from the unhealthy factory air, heading to work each morning.

“How did you deal with the child labor?” she asked.

“I hired a new manager and told him to eliminate it.”

“To stop the children from working in the mill completely?”

“Yes.”

It was an admirable goal that she respected, but she also suspected that it would not go over very well. Poor families depended on every member working in order to survive. She didn’t like it, but she understood it.