Page 77 of West End Earl
Endless days of travel loomed ahead, but at least he’d see Phee again. He had to believe that newspaper announcement was false. Anything else would be beyond imagining.
Perhaps by the time he reached Olread Cove, he would have some idea of what to say. Apologies seemed inadequate given the events that had taken place.
When the appointment with Eastly rolled around, Cal was ready to have an end to this disastrous bet and all future feelings of obligation.
Higgins announced his father’s arrival as Cal sat in the drawing room reading the death notice in theTimesfor the thousandth time. “Show him to the library. I’ll be there momentarily. After my father takes his leave, please tell Nelson I’d like to see him. Thank you.”
As a child, Cal had never seen his father working in the library. That had been a place for drinking with his cronies, not going over estate business. Eastly wouldn’t make the connection, because he wasn’t what one would call a deep thinker, but Cal wanted to end this in the library. Although not a bibliophile, he appreciated the room as his place of work. And he’d sacrificed sleep over this past week doing that work, right at that desk, attempting to figure out a solution to his father’s irresponsible behavior. It seemed fitting, then, that this would be where Cal delivered his verdict.
“Good morning, Father. Thank you for meeting me so early.” Well on noon now, but given Eastly’s puffy face and red eyes, he’d been out late. Not a surprise. Cal didn’t shake his hand or dispense niceties. With determined strides, he went to his desk and gathered the stack of ledgers. “You may take these with you when you go. I have all the information I need from them.” Cal handed off the books, then leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “Essentially, the paths for getting out of the situation you find yourself in are limited but not impossible.”
Eastly stared at the ledgers as if he’d never seen them before. “Where did you get these?”
“I took them from your desk last week. Now I’m returning them. Try to keep up, as I don’t have much time to devote to this today. Let’s discuss your options. As I see it, you can renegotiate the terms of the bet with Rosehurst. Perhaps refuse the horse and he will forgive the financial debt, then you both go on your merry way. That’s the best-case scenario. If Rosehurst insists on payment, you’ll need to sell the unentailed properties. With the loss of theWilhelmina’s cargo, there isn’t a viable option for paying this debt without heavy liquidation on your part. Living with an allowance and practicing economies will allow the coffers to heal with time. If you like, I can manage your finances and investments, and with a little luck you’ll be comfortable sooner. However, I’ll only do that if you agree to a personal budget. The first time you exceed your allowance, I’m throwing the whole thing in your lap and walking away. If at any point the tenants suffer due to your ineptitude, I’ll wrest away full control of the estate’s finances, and if you don’t like it, you can take me to court.” An empty threat when Eastly would probably win that lawsuit, but a court proceeding would be messy. Disastrously scandalous to the family, because every last one of Eastly’s secrets would be published in the gossip rags when Cal tried to establish the marquess’s incompetency.
His father blinked, then donned his persuasion mask. “Now, Son, I don’t know why you went to all this trouble. Once you and Violet marry, this entire conversation is moot.”
“I’m not marrying Miss Cuthbert. I said that at Lakeview. You fail to realize that my marital status is not currency for you to spend. My eligibility as a bachelor is not something you can trade on. I’ve cleaned your messes for long enough. That ends now. I’ll help manage the finances of the estate, because there are people who depend on us for their livelihood—but only if you live within an allowance.”
“I’m a grown man, not some green lad. Allowance, indeed,” his father huffed.
Cal shrugged, a blessed emotional disconnect he’d never had before sliding into place. He had more important priorities now. In the end, Eastly would make his own decisions, and Cal would protect their tenants. With any luck, he and his father wouldn’t be at cross-purposes. “That’s entirely your choice. I can’t force you to see reason. Just like you can’t force me to marry Miss Cuthbert. My life is my own. I won’t be stepping in to save your hide anymore.”
His father stared at the stack of ledgers in his hands. “Sell everything?”
“The properties, yes. You aren’t to the point where you need to strip the house of furnishings. But if you expect to weather this, you must liquidate your assets and regroup. Now—” Cal clapped his hands once and straightened. “I must be going. You might have seen in the paper that Emma is now a widow. I’ll be leaving to go to her within the hour. While a latent thread of paternal love might inspire a desire to see her, I must insist you let me handle this initial time of grief. She will write when she’s ready for your visit. I may not see you for a time, so be well, Father. If you want to take me up on my offer of financial management, send a note around to Higgins, and he will get word to me. Good day.” They’d never been much for familial gestures of affection, so Cal squeezed his father’s shoulder as he walked by, then left his sire standing in the middle of the library.
“Son?” Eastly called when Cal reached the doorway.
“Yes, Father?” He turned.
“Are you quite serious?” Eastly appeared a bit mystified by the whole conversation, and Cal smiled with unexpected sympathy. It would be a shock to suddenly have to face consequences at such an advanced age.
“Quite serious. Get word to Higgins if you need me. But now I must go.” Whatever Eastly did was his decision. As he’d said, he was a grown man—and no longer Cal’s problem.
In the hall Cal met the butler. “I trust you to see him out when he’s ready. Could you send Nelson to the gold drawing room? And do you know if Kingston has finished packing?”
“Kingston is nearly finished, milord. I’ll send in Nelson.”
Once Cal determined that there was no news from Milton, he would be on his way. A tiny voice in his mind worried that the newspaper announcement might be true. He firmed his jaw and shook his head. Those doubts would cripple him if he considered them for too long. No, Phee would be fine. She was healthy, living in Olread Cove, and soon he’d see her and indulge them both in a thorough grovel.
He had a lady to win—and in the process, he would find out what on earth she was up to.
Chapter Twenty-Six
If she’d known beating the hell out of something would be this intensely satisfying, Phee would have learned to bake earlier.
“You must be gentler with the dough, Miss Fiona,” Mrs. Shephard began, only to have her words cut off by the solidwhackof the rolling pin hitting an unsuspecting lump of pastry.
“This is why the last attempt resembled modeling clay, Phee.” Emma used less tact, but she didn’t appear as concerned as their cook.
Phee shot Emma a grumpy look. “Do you want pie or not?”
“A truly exceptional pie is all in the crust. One needs a soft touch to achieve that perfect flake.” Bless Mrs. Shephard—she was still trying to teach them a few kitchen basics. The woman had the patience of a saint and the tact of a diplomat.
Emma sighed, blowing a curl out of her face. “Mrs. Shephard, let’s leave that dough to Phee’s tender ministrations, and we can roll out a fresh bit of pastry. I haven’t been able to think of anything for the last three days except pie, and I’ll go mad if I don’t have some today.” She rubbed at the curve of her belly. By their calculations, there were another four months left of her pregnancy. The cravings had hit in earnest this week, shortly after the unrelenting nausea had abated. The baby wanted pie, so the baby would get pie.
Phee stared at the misshapen disk of pastry dough despondently. “Starting over might be for the best. This batch is a lost cause, I think.”
