Page 19 of The Mad Marchams

“Are you sure your name isn’t Cassandra?” Colin asked.

Olivia chuckled and pointed at the chair set beside his father’s. “Go and sit down and behave yourself.”

Colin took his designated seat and turned to his father. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“I hear you’ve brought some American home with you.”

“Yes, I got her in a gift shop at the airport. She’s very cute.”

“Are you involved with her?”

Colin sat back and studied his father. “With all due respect, what does that have to do with you?”

“You’re my heir. Marrying the right kind of woman might be the making of you.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Colin said heartily. “But who’s to say Mabel isn’t that woman? It’s not like this family haven’t made a habit of marrying Americans.”

“That was several generations ago and those women were heiresses,” the earl said stiffly. “I doubt the same logic applies to some girl you met at the airport.”

“I didn’t actually meet her at the⁠—”

“And I doubt she’s worth any money.”

“Careful, Father, your mercenary side is showing,” Colin said softly. “And, for the record, you have no right to interfere in my personal life.” He gestured toward the desk. “Now perhaps we should listen to your solicitor.”

Two hours later, Colin was still sitting in the library staring at the now empty desk. Before she’d left, Olivia had given him a sympathetic hug, and her business card, which he was still clutching in his fingers. His father had departed on Edward’s arm, the aura of defeat in the slump of his shoulders and his bowed head. He hadn’t even bothered to talk to Colin as the bad news rolled over them both, offering neither excuses nor condolences for the appalling state of the family finances.

There was a gentle tap on the half-open door and Mabel looked in. “Are you okay?”

Colin shook his head.

She came in and closed the door behind her. “That bad?”

“Worse.” He shot to his feet and began to pace the threadbare carpet as Mabel took his vacated seat. She beckoned for him to continue. “I thought I’d already seen all the accounts but apparently, I only saw the ‘good’ ones.”

“You might as well let it all out. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone.”

He swung around to look at her. “I don’t even know where to start. The absolute and compete fustercluck of incompetence, mismanagement, and damned near delusional magical thinking is hard to fathom!”

“Okay.”

“The thing is, it’s not bloody okay, and I’m not sure how the hell I’m supposed to fix it!”

“I hear you.” She nodded.

“And my father had the audacity to sit there and tell me it’s my problem now, and how much he’s looking forward to not having to worry about anything in his golden years while I run myself into the ground trying to fix his appalling mistakes.”

“That really sucks.”

He stopped beside her chair and scowled at her. “Is this supposed to be helping?”

“Not really. I’m kind of channelling my therapist right now. She never actually answers a direct question and just makes soothing noises until I run out of things to beat myself up about. But I bet getting it all off your chest is helping you.”

He sank down beside her and took her hands in his. “I’m so totally and one hundred percent screwed here, Mabel. Everything in me is telling me run back to America, start a new life, and forget all about this place.”

“There’s nothing stopping you,” she pointed out. “You could tell your father you’ll do everything in your power to save the estate and never actually do a thing.” She shrugged. “What’s he going to do about it? He’s hardly in a position to argue.”

“You’re right,” Colin said slowly. “All I’d have to do is make some noise about big plans, show him some paperwork, maybe fix the bloody drains, and call it done.”