Page 61 of Miss Determined
And Kettering hadn’t thought of it. A small consolation. Trevor rose, still hungry, still tired, and still very much missing Amaryllis and the bucolic splendor of Crosspatch.
“If I wanted to buy a farm out in Berkshire, could you finance the transaction?”
“Of course.”
“You know I’m teetering on the verge of scandal and possible bankruptcy, but you would essentially buy me a whole farm on my word alone?”
“I am known for my ability to choose sound investments,” Kettering said, coming to his feet. “More significantly, you have a firm grasp of commerce, and I cannot say that about any other peer of your rank. You were not idling about the Continent. You were scouting opportunities, learning the languages, and staying well clear of Mayfair’s man-traps—or marquess-traps, as the case may be. I have faith in you, and Sycamore and Jeanette have faith in you.”
What did one say to such… such… effusions? “Thank you. I haven’t made up my mind about Miller’s Lament, but I do like the place.”
“Don’t do anything precipitous,” Kettering said, tugging the bell-pull again. “Suggest to Purvis that you want to sell off the Yorkshire properties and see how he reacts. He might be smart enough to content himself with the fortune he’s already stolen from you.”
“Test the waters. Good advice, though I am plagued by two questions.”
“Greed is the answer to the first question,” Kettering said, swiping another tea cake from the tray. “Purvis saw a way to better his situation, to do a bit of Robin-Hooding on his own behalf, though he’ll tell himself he did it for the sake of his family’s security. You were born with more wealth than you need, he was born having to work hard. Ergo, you owe him. He stole from you because, in his mind, he’s the victim of undeserved misfortune.”
“He should have been a marquess, of course. Granted, we all should be marquesses and marchionesses, and I even understand that, but the other question… Why does he think he can get away with this?”
“Because the peerage loathes scandal above all things. Your father was apparently haunted by the fact that he had only one son. That is hardly an affair in the hands of mere mortals, and yet, he was shamed by his inability to sire more than one legitimate son. Imagine how much worse bankruptcy or madness or some other infirmity would have haunted him.”
“He was a terrible husband to Jeanette. He should have been haunted by that. I don’t think my mother fared any better with him.” Because the old blighter had been ashamed? A theory of some merit, but no sort of excuse.
“Times were different then,” Kettering said, escorting his guest to the front foyer, “but masculine pride is ageless.”
“Purvis has certainly given mine a drubbing.” Trevor accepted his hat and coat from Kettering. The meeting had solved nothing, but at least the horrible magnitude of the problem had been clarified. “Have you made any progress on that other matter?”
Kettering passed him his walking stick. “Not yet, but I expect word any day. Even no findings tell us something we didn’t know before.”
Trevor pulled on his gloves. “I will content myself with that bit of wisdom, put please persist. The issuance is of significant importance. Good day, and thank you.”
“My regards to Jeanette and Sycamore. Take heart, Purvis might convince all of Society that you are a dunderhead and a bankrupt, but you have family, and we’ll stick by you to the last.”
Trevor bowed and departed, though he had the odd notion that Kettering’s parting comment, despite the jaunty tone, had been in all seriousness.
How unnerving.
And… touching too.
ChapterFourteen
The light triple rap on Purvis’s door signaled an interruption from Jones. Better Jones than Purvis the Younger. Jones had some tact and discretion, while the boy was too fretful by half. Purvis turned his newspaper from the Society pages to the financial news, separated his unopened correspondence into three piles, got out his trusty settlement agreement, and took the cap off the ink bottle.
“Come in.”
Jones bore a tea tray, proving that the man had a brain in his head. “Sir, apologies for intruding, but Lord Tavistock has presented himself without an appointment. His lordship begs a word with you, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“The marquess hasn’t begged for anything since his nurse denied him a second helping of pudding.” How rude to simply drop by when his lordship had been told that the offices were unbearably busy. “Popped into Town for a fitting, no doubt. Needs must, I suppose. Two cups on the tray? Well done, Jones.”
Jones set the tray on the low table nearest the hearth. “Shall I take notes, sir?”
“You shall sit over there,”—Purvis nodded to the bench by the window—“and open these letters. I vow one cannot keep up with the news, the work, and the post these days, much less with marquesses who eschew basic manners.”
“Very difficult, sir, I’m sure.”
“Fetch him in here,” Purvis said, perching a pair of spectacles on his nose. “And please let the Surrey housekeeper know that she’s disappointed me. A peripatetic client is a trial to the nerves.”
“Consider it done, sir.” Jones scampered out—he would have made a decent footman, though he wasn’t half handsome enough—and Purvis waited behind his desk. Perhaps his lordship was preparing to sail back across the Channel. That would not do, not when the Brompton fortune was going begging, but an extended honeymoon on the Continent might serve.
