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Mrs. Brownlow held her gaze. “Life is about more than just the choices we make. It is also about the chances we take.”
Chapter Twenty
Scott had met Mr. DigbyLayton only once in passing, when the gentleman had been in Nottinghamshire earlier that year, but he was easy to recognize. He had a reputation for being the most fashionable man in all of Society. Some whispers even presumed to declare him Brummel’s superior in that area. And so when, two days after Scott’s arrival at Thimbleby, a gentleman alighted from a traveling coach without a single wrinkle in his finely cut coat or a single hair out of place, Scott knew precisely whom he was.
By contrast, Scott looked less the part of an English gentleman than he ever had. He wasn’t even wearing a coat, not having one to spare and knowing how dirty his current labor would be. He’d chosen his most worn pair of trousers and intended to use them as work clothes from then on. He was in sore need of a bath and a comb.
The repairs at Thimbleby had outstripped the funds he had available, so he’d been spending his time, thus far, seeing to what small things he could without money for supplies or expertise. He and Strickland and his son were making progress on some of the small things, and that eased a few of Scott’s worries. On the matter of the house, at least.
When this gentleman, who Mater had arranged to attempt a miracle on Scott’s behalf, arrived, Scott approached him with more than a bit of trepidation. “Mr. Layton, thank you for coming.”
“Only a fool would risk the dowager’s ire by ignoring her request to assist someone she considers family.” He smoothed his sleeves and pockets a little, managing to look even more the part of a gentleman of leisure. “If she were to grow angry with me, I would be required to grovel, and groveling causes such terrible creases in my waistcoat.”
There was laughter in his eyes. This was a man who knew precisely how funny he was. Scott didn’t doubt he truly did have a love of fashion, but there was clearly more to him than that. He hoped on that list of “more to him” was a deep understanding of how to keep a hapless failure out of prison.
“We have aired out a guest room in anticipation of your arrival. You’re welcome to rest from your journey for a time if you would prefer.”
But Mr. Layton shook his head. “I suspect your difficulties are best tackled sooner rather than later.”
“I’ve been trying to do precisely that for two years now. I can’t seem to manage it.”
Mr. Layton did not look the least discouraged. “I have helped more than one person in dire straits turn their fortunes around.” He motioned for Scott to precede him into the house. “I am here to do so again.”
“You don’t mind that I look a bit worse for wear?”
“You look like a man who is doing all he can to save his inheritance. Too many can’t be bothered.”
Scott led him directly to the library, which was empty, except for a slightly wobbly desk and two mismatched chairs. It was here that Scott saw to his ongoing correspondence and, when not working alongside Strickland, sat staring at his estate ledgers, hoping to find the numbers had changed for the better.
Mr. Layton sat behind the desk, leaving Scott to hover nearby. He didn’t mind in the least. He needed help, and Mr. Layton meant to offer it.
“This smaller ledger is specific to Thimbleby?”
Scott nodded. “The other is for the entirety of the Sarvol holdings.”
Mr. Layton nodded his understanding. He opened both ledgers side by side.
Scott crossed to the window, resisting the urge to rub nervously at his neck. What if Mr. Layton couldn’t find a solution or determine a hopeful direction? What if Scott was doomed to spend the rest of his life drowning in debt he hadn’t accrued?
“Do you have a list of repairs needed for this house?” Mr. Layton asked.
“In the top drawer.”
Behind him, he heard the sound of the wood drawer scraping open, then the rustling of parchment.
A long moment passed. “Can this property be sold?”
“It can’t; it’s entailed.” Scott paced back from the window. “Sarvol House in Nottinghamshire is as well.”
Mr. Layton made a sound of understanding without looking up from the paper and ledgers in front of him. Nothing in his expression offered Scott the least bit of hope.
“Thimbleby does not appear to produce an income of its own,” Mr. Layton said.
“It doesn’t.” Scott dropped into the other chair. “There’s not enough land for farming or for sheep.”
“Agricultural pursuits are not the only way an estate can generate funds.”
“I thought about renting the property, perhaps to a younger son or a newly moneyed family looking for a house of their own.”
