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“Calm yourself. I wasn’t going to lecture you. Quite the opposite. I think it’s an excellent idea. Of course, I would prefer you performed your duties for those more able to pay commensurate to your skills. But I admire your desire to assist the poor. Your sister would have my head if I weren’t supportive.”
His father pinned him with serious eyes. “Having a source of income not dependent on the estate will be advantageous when you inherit. If I can’t convince your mother to stop her infuriating habit of buying every bonnet she comes across, I’m not sure if there will be much coin to leave you.”
“Is it truly that bad?”
“Although Montgomery saved my sorry hide from disgrace and penury with his fool-hardy wager, I’m not out of the woods. My steward has reported numerous necessary repairs, and the crop harvests didn’t meet expectations.”
He ran a hand down his face, and at that moment, he aged before Timothy’s eyes. “Running an estate requires more than simple reliance on a trusted advisor. It requires personal involvement. With an outside occupation, you will need additional assistance. My man is training his son to succeed him. But if you truly mean to devote your time to the clinic, you will want to find a secondary steward, one skilled in managing the books. That requires funds to pay them, more than your salary at the clinic provides.”
“So, either way, I’ll need money.”
“Yes. An infusion of funds to shore up things.”
The air in the room stilled. Timothy swore he could see dust motes floating in slow motion before him. A dark foreboding pressed in on him, making it difficult to breathe.
“There is one way.” Solemness filled his father’s eyes, an apology waiting to be delivered.
Timothy swallowed down the lump forming in his throat.
“If you marry a woman with a healthy dowry . . .”
Timothy shot from his chair. “Dear God, Father. Have you not learned anything from Bea’s predicament?” Although, in fairness, his sister’s situation had turned out to be beneficial for all parties. But he would never forget the pain in his sister’s eyes when she believed she would have to marry Lord Middlebury.
Yet if it hadn’t been for Bea’s untenable situation, she would never have concocted the scheme that ultimately led to her compromise and subsequent marriage to Laurence—who loved her to distraction.
His father slammed a hand down on his desk. “For your information, I’ve learned everything from that. Ever since the day you and your brother-in-law humiliated me at White’s, I’ve not sat down at a gaming table. I’ve apologized to Bea profusely.” He took a breath, his voice softening. “I’m not insisting you marry a wealthy woman. I’m giving you an option. A way to care for the estate and pursue your ambition.”
Pain shot through Timothy’s jaw as he ground his teeth. “And do you have a woman in mind, or am I at least free to do my own choosing of whom to be leg-shackled to for the remainder of my days?”
“The Marquess of Stratford has been eager to find a husband for his daughter, Lady Honoria, ever since the scandal with that commoner. He wants a titled husband for her.”
Nausea roiled in Timothy’s stomach at how aristocratic men so easily bartered or sold their own daughters for coin or prestige.
“Pay her a call. See if you two get along.”
“And the marquess would settle for a lowly viscount as a son-in-law?”
“He’d be thrilled. He’s mentioned you to me specifically. I believe his words were, ‘Dashing and young. Perfect for my girl.’”
Timothy harrumphed. Lady Honoria was pleasant enough. Attractive—enough to manage his marital duties. Quiet and reserved, she’d definitely be a biddable wife. She sounded positively, absolutely—wrong.
“I’ll give it some thought,” he answered, not sure why he agreed to even that much.
As he rose to take his leave, the image of Emma flooded his mind, and his mood darkened further.
The next day, during an unexpected lull in the deluge of patients, Timothy approached Harry in an empty examination room.
“Your Gr—Harry?”
Harry lifted his head from where he’d been filling a jar with willow bark and greeted Timothy with a smile. “Everything all right?”
“I wish to speak with you about a private matter.” Normally, Timothy would discuss his predicament with Laurence, but his friend and sister had returned to their home in Dorset after the holidays to spend some time with Laurence’s family before the new Season began.
Harry’s blond eyebrows rose. “Oh? Let me close the door.” After securing the door, Harry turned, his face solemn. “Now, what is it? You’re not ill, are you? Your ankle paining you again?”
“No. No. I’m fine. My ankle is completely healed. It’s regarding . . . a woman.”
A smile ghosted Harry’s lips so briefly, Timothy wondered if he’d imagined it. “You’ve been back in London for what—a week—and already have woman troubles?”
