Page 21 of My Best Friend's Earl
For the entirety of his life, he’d known it was his duty to marry the neighbor’s daughter, combine the families, reclaim the ancestral land, and bring prosperity to both estates. His father always said Sir William would do his part in making Oliver’s effort to uphold the family honor—laughable when you consider the source of such a statement—worth his while.
The conversations, if one could call them that, were never open to Oliver questioning the plan. After enough years of everyone presenting the situation as written in stone, he’d accepted it as such.
Two fathers concocted a complex plot, planned their children’s lives, then sold the idea as the only way forward to secure their futures. Perhaps it was naive, but he’d imagined the men deliberating over the details at length before reaching an agreement.
Oliver tilted his head, reading the scrawled penmanship upside down. Silly of him. After all, he’d met his father and should therefore know better.
It wasn’t really a piece of paper at all. It was a playing card. An ace of spades to be exact, with a few words written around the black pip in the center and both men’s signatures at the bottom.
On this twelfth day of March, 1787, Lord Southwyn promises his son, Oliver Vincent, in marriage to Dorcas Thompson, daughter of Sir William Thompson.
“This is the extent of the agreement? What about specifics? Dowry, investments, land…” Oliver’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to think. His entire reality had just shifted on its axis, in a way much larger than simply wearing the wrong color waistcoat on a Sunday.
“All of that is implied, surely.”
A deep groove pinched between Oliver’s eyebrows as he shook his head. “No, I can’t say there is much to work with to imply, infer, or assume a damned thing. Besides, this specifies a marriage to Dorcas. Dorcas is already married, and happily so, to another man. That makes this agreement—if we can call it that—null and void.”
The knight opened his mouth, surely to bluster some more, and Oliver cut him off with a wave of his hand. “In light of this, I need to ask what your expectations are regarding the joining of our two families beyond a marriage license. Not to be crass, but what are you getting from this union beyond a title for your daughter? And what do I get from honoring this”—he picked up the ace and flicked it with a finger, making a satisfyingthwacknoise—“besides a reluctant bride? Wouldn’t it make more sense for Althea to choose a husband she can be happy with? I’m sure her dowry is ample enough to tempt the right suitor, especially since you didn’t have to dower Dorcas.”
After all, Sir William’s knighthood had resulted from him aiding the king’s coffers a few decades earlier. When he’d bought the estate neighboring theirs, he’d been Mr. William Thompson, shipping tycoon. Eventually, the new knight sold his fleet and retired, content to enjoy his piles of money. The only thing keeping fortune hunters from mowing down the man’s door had been this long-standing betrothal.
However, at the mention of dowries, Sir William shifted in his seat. Alarm bells sounded in Oliver’s head. He leveled Althea’s father with a look and raised his brows expectantly.
“Not every dowry comes in the form of cash and gold. Some are investments, or properties.” Again, Sir William blathered on without saying anything specific.
“And Althea’s dowry is comprised of which of those things?”
“I have several minor properties I will hand over upon the marriage, in addition to the orchard and river separating our estates.”
Oliver cocked his head. His father always said the river would be part of the marriage settlement. In that, at least, Sir William appeared to be keeping his word. However, the rest of this conversation wasn’t going as expected.
Behind the desk, Sir William refused to meet his gaze, while wearing a wide, frozen smile. His fingers tapped atop the desk. The man must be a terrible gambler, because he couldn’t bluff to save his life. A blind man could see that Sir William hid something, but the full picture of this debacle in which Oliver found himself lay just out of reach. One thing seemed certain—if Sir William was prevaricating, there must be a catch.
“So, you will be letting go of several smaller properties and the parcel of land by the river.” Oliver didn’t want to show too much enthusiasm and give away that he had plans for the river. “Are the smaller properties of significant value? I ask, because if Althea found a suitor she preferred over me, a loving father would ensure her dowry would attract such a match.”
Not to put too fine a point on it, but Oliver did not trust the man to take care of Althea’s future without putting itin writing. More writing than was on this damned playing card, of that he was certain.
Sir William shrugged, still wearing that jester’s smile. “Doesn’t really matter in the end, and we won’t have time to find out.”
Oliver’s sense of foreboding deepened. “Is there a rush for her to marry that I’m not aware of?”
He didn’t think she was the type, but if Althea found herself in the family way and hoped to marry him before she started showing, Oliver deserved to know. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Most women did not walk into a scenario in which they needed an honorable man to step in like that, with open antagonism and feral cats. There had to be another reason for her parents’ rush, despite Althea’s reluctance.
Finally, like a puppet who’d had his strings cut, Sir William’s shoulders slumped and the near manic grin he’d been sporting since walking into the room fell from his face.
Oliver braced, already knowing that whatever the man had to say would complicate everything further.
“I can’t afford the taxes. Even with Parliament abolishing the income tax, which will certainly help things, it does nothing for the land taxes, window taxes, house taxes, and all the other myriad ways our king claims his share of our so-called luxuries. As if it’s any of his business if my family buys wine, or silk—especially when the palace drips with those very things,” he grumbled. “I borrowed money to pay this year’s taxes, and the lenders aren’t the friendly sort, if you catch my meaning. I need those properties to go to Althea’s husband this year to avoid further debt. Her mother won’t be satisfied with less than a society wedding, so you two will wed by the end of the Season.” A shimmer of tears welled in the older man’s eyes as he spread his hands—either beggingfor understanding or preparing to catch gold coins should Oliver feel so inclined to throw any across the desk. “And you, my boy, can afford it. You’re a good lad. You won’t allow your father’s oldest friend, much less your father-in-law, to sail up the River Tick.”
Oliver bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the instinctive ire that swelled at such blatant manipulation. “What did you use as collateral to these less-than-friendly moneylenders?”
“The, ah, properties themselves, of course.”
So not only were the dowry lands of low value, they were also mired in debt and came complete with cent-per-centers who’d eat their own mother’s liver if she owed them a tuppence. Lovely. “If this all comes down to money, why not sell me my ancestral lands, as I’ve repeatedly asked you to do? Then pay back your loan, let Althea marry whomever she wants, and we all go our separate ways. We can be neighbors who wave at one another in the village, and nothing more.” Oliver held up the playing card. “This is worthless as a legally binding document, and you know it.”
All signs of tears vanished, and in a flash, Sir William’s face took on a purple hue. “When the earl was up to his neck in debt, I bought that land on the condition that you’d make my daughter a countess.” White spittle collected at the corners of Sir William’s mouth as he spoke.
Oliver had been under the impression that his father lost the land in a card game—a version of events supported by the ace. Unfortunately, the true story might be lost to time, given that Sir William was the lone surviving witness.
