Page 190 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“All our assets were in that one canal.” The steel in her mother’s backbone was to be admired. That or Tam needed to check who she bought her corsets from, because they were a genius. Her mother was bolt upright when Tam was sagging like a wet cloth.

“How could you be such an idiot?” Lionel fumed.

“Watch your tongue!” Their mother’s eyes flashed. “Be respectful to your father.”

Tam restrained her scoff of disbelief. Lionel did not.It looked like all her other siblings were so shocked they’d stopped functioning, like automatons with their winders held still.

“This, naturally, will change some things,” her mother said in a stretched voice. “Thomas, Nigel, you will be leaving Eton. Helena, you will also be schooled at home from now on. Lionel—”

“Leave me out of this,” her elder brother growled. “I don’t need anything.”

“And Tam.” Her mother gave a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. We cannot finance your studies any longer.”

She’d known, from the beginning of this conversation. Three good things today was impossible. It was a darn two again, and one terrible thing. The end for all her aspirations had always been the merest slip of the knife away and it had happened. It had been sheer kindness and luck that her parents had agreed to her becoming a doctor.

Attemptingto become a doctor. Tears prickled behind her eyes.

“Boys,” her father said in a deep voice. “Let us allow the women to grieve in peace, and we shall consider the financial implications for the future.”

Oh wonderful. Yes. Let the men deal with the finances, since her father had done so well thus far.

What a disaster. A heart-stopping, cancerous, life ending, terminal bleed out of a problem that probably could have been fixed with a regular washing and care if her father had just told anyone. But no, he had to keep it all to himself. Lionel’s jaw clenched, as furious as she was, and just as helpless. Her two younger brothers looked mainly confused.

The men of the family filed out, probably to drink the brandy they didn’t technically own anymore, leaving her mother, Helena, and her sitting staring into the crackling fire. The house was already decorated for Christmas. A tall conifer in the corner of the room, presents piled underneath. Tam wondered vaguely if they’d return them. The poor tradespeople who wouldn’t get paid, all because her father had decided on putting all their money into a railway rather than the five percents and a dozen companies, like a normal person.

“Tam, Helena, you are young ladies with considerable charm.” Her mother had her hands clasped in her lap, holding onto a life that was water, spilling out. “When the men of the family cannot solve the problem, it is up to the women to step forward.”

“No.” Tam could see where this was headed. “Helena is too young.”

“I’m sixteen!” Helena protested instinctively. She clearly didn’t understand being too young would be a good thing.

“Which is far too young to marry,” Tam snapped. “You don’t want to be pushing out brats before you’re seventeen. Believe me.”

“Well, you’re too old,” Helena replied with a sharply raised eyebrow.

Her mother took a deep breath. “Your sister has a point, Helena.”

Helena pouted.

“But equally, Tam, that means you are the best placed to help this family,” her mother added. “You need to marry. Quickly, before the rumors of our bankruptcy spread. And you have to marrywell.”

Tam nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to actually say the words. Not yes. By nodding she could try to pretend for a few more minutes she was going to qualify as a doctor and be happy.

That she wasn’t going to have to do what she’d sworn, aged seventeen when she’d debuted, that she wouldn’t.

“I understand,” she said under her breath. “I will do my duty.”

“The Winchester’s annual Christmas Eve ball is tonight. You’ll need to find a husband, Tam,” her mother said, eyebrows pinched together and mouth downturned.

Oh no. Not this.

Tam had attended the Winchester’s annual Christmas ball every year since her debut and it was, admittedly, the least objectionable part of the social calendar. The Winchesters never bothered about rank, and always had plenty of men to dance. But invariably Atticus Rabgent, Duke of Newton was there. He was as rude and rakish as he was handsome and eligible, which was saying quite a lot. Although he was fifteen years older than her, they’d met in the year she’d debuted as he was arriving in society after a Grand Tour of all of Europe. She’d taken an instant dislike to him, mainly because men that attractive didn’t deserve to be aristocratic as well. His sarcastic tone and bored air had made it all the more tedious that she seemed to find him at every social event she attended.

“You need to find a man rich and generous enough to save this family. Fund your brothers’ education and your sister’s debut.” Her mother nodded, as though it was that easy.

Swallowing was dry, so dry. Firewood dry. Cotton dry.

His Grace would be certain to notice that instead of being aspiring to be a doctor, she was attempting to snag a husband. She’d failed at the first one; she couldn’t fail at the second.

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