Page 4 of The Reclusive Earl's Scandal
Creditors are declining…
… Debts have considerably stacked up in your name, Your Grace.
The phrases blurred, running together into one, large mess of a realization.
Rebecca’s father, the Duke of Bancroft, had gambled away most, if not bordering on all, of the family’s money. Once again, Rebecca lowered the letter, letting it flutter on top of her teacup. A droplet of tea from the cup’s rim bled through the paper, and it forced Rebecca’s attention to one particular phrase.
Repossession of items in your residence.
How long had this all been going on for? How long had her father drowned the family in debt, throwing away oars and lifesavers, while distracting his family from the very sinking ship they stood on? Nothing made sense, and Rebecca stood, her feet already moving light and quick, pacing back and forth. If she was caught with the letter her father would be furious.
If he did not outright deny the claims he would no doubt attempt to tell her all would be resolved in due course. The letter did not sound like it would be, and she couldn’t look away from the reality: the Bancroft fortune was a swiftly-dwindling thing, waiting to be utterly drained dry.
“Oh, Father,” she whispered, stopping behind the chair she’d been sitting in, gripping the back of it. She leaned her weight into the furniture, trying to find an anchor. Something to stop the whirling of her thoughts, something to stop the spinning feeling that had accompanied the realization of the letter.
How could he do this to them? And for gambling, no less.
She contemplated the innumerable nights upon which her father had clandestinely departed from the dwelling, utterly unaware that Rebecca had perceived the weighty tread of his steps as he departed, only to return hours later in a state of altered gait, more akin to staggering shuffles, as he muttered to himself in a disjointed manner.
Did he still think his family slept while he drank their last coins away, bet a fortune he no longer had on a game of cards and dice in a gaming den that surely would not welcome him soon enough if he couldn’t pay?
Her breaths were shaky, and Rebecca squeezed her eyes closed, forcing her breathing to even. Panicking would do her no good. Her mother would not read a word of the letter, she knew, for she had fallen in love with Dominic Sterling back when he had been young and recently inherited his dukedom. Her love would blind her.
Even in the last few weeks, Rebecca had quietly mentioned that her new gowns had not arrived ahead of the start of the Season, only to dig around for information and have the modiste report her order had not been paid for. Another time, Rebecca’s younger sibling, Amelia, had commented that they were missingtheir usual French brioche buns at breakfast, only to be told from the cook that there had been no ordering of food for a very delayed week.
A day later, the pantry had been full, but another of Rebecca’s siblings had pouted, stating that some of her favorite books from their household’s library were gone. Things had not made sense, and Rebecca had endlessly dug and dug; until she had swiped her father’s letter and found the truth.
Her father had plummeted their family into debt, and their possessions were already starting to pay for his mistakes.
Releasing her death grip on the chair, Rebecca stood, closed her eyes for a moment, and smoothed down her morning gown.
“I shall fix this,” she decided. “I shall—Imust—salvage what is left.”
***
Mary Pricely, the daughter of the Marquess of Avery, sat next to Catherine Browning, the daughter of the Marquess of Barrickshire, and the two of them gaped at Rebecca as she told them about the letter later that day.
The three ladies had gathered, as they often did, in Avery Manor, huddled in the music room as Catherine plunked away on the pianoforte. Today, the tinkering of the keys helped to cover Rebecca’s revelation regarding her father.
“I do not understand how this has happened,” she said, frustrated. “I understand why he would not have said anything sooner, or admitted such a defeat, but to let it get so bad? My father is a duke—surely, he has connectionssomewhere, somebody he could have gone to for help before it was too late.”
“He ought to,” Mary insisted. “His high rank must garner him something.”
Catherine scoffed. “Unless he had connections and squandered them. Perhaps he received help and then could not repay those who provided it.”
Rebecca sighed, sinking down onto the stool next to one of the harps in the room. “I must do something, and I have the perfect plan.”
“Rebecca,” Mary exhaled, shaking her head. “It should not be on you to fix your father’s mistakes.”
“Indeed not, but my mother will not listen, and she simply saysyour father will protect us, Rebecca, you shall see, as she has always done. As he has always led her to believe. I do not believe it any longer. Other than that, I am the eldest of five. It falls to me to marry well this Season.”
She planned as she spoke. “If I marry well then, I can help my family. I can connect us to a wealthy family.”
“What of your dowry?” Catherine asked, wincing as if she already knew the answer.
“Based on this letter, I have very few hopes of possessing one. Amelia and Hannah have no chance at all if that is the case, I imagine.”
“So, you must marry well even though your future husband will find out the little money you will bring with you?” Mary asked quietly.
