Page 3 of Mercy Fletcher Meets Her Match
Yes. Yes, that was the crux of it. Besides the approximately two pounds fifty he had in coin to his name, he had also an estate in desperate need of repair, and two younger sisters bothexpecting to leave for London in approximately a week for the Season.
Sisters who had ordered new gowns he now hadn’t the means to pay for, whose dowries were now nonexistent, and who could hardly hope to catch suitable husbands without either.
There were words he’d practiced well over the past few days, withering ones designed to cow whoever heard them into backing down from whatever subtle challenge might have been issued, to grant himself a few more days—perhaps weeks—to recoup that which had been lost. Words that had never before had to cross his lips, because he’d always been a man who paid his debts, who treated those within his employ well, and who had never thrown around the weight of his title to gain subservience.
Words such as‘my finances are none of your concern.’ And, ‘take the matter up with my man of business.’Even in his head, they echoed in the supercilious tones of his father’s voice rather than his own, as so many things did.
Nevertheless, those words would avail his creditors precisely nothing, since it had been his man of business who had bankrupted him in the first place. Embezzled, as near as he could tell, damn near everything. He’d have to go to London to get a clearer picture, but of course, first he had to getto London. Which was a problem in and of itself.
Thomas drew in a breath, firmed his shoulders, and said, “My finances are none of your concern.”
Mr. Fletcher barked out a surprised laugh. “Who was that meant to convince, boy? Me, or yourself?”
Boy. A tedious, obnoxious appellation—and one that had been thrust upon him since Fletcher had purchased this property twenty years ago. But then, Thomas hadn’t come into his title until his father’s death a few years ago, and Fletcher had been calling himboysince he’d been one.
“I—I—I—” Blast and damn. If he could not get his disquiet in check, then he’d devolve once more into the stammer that had plagued him since childhood, rendering his speech unintelligible until his tongue untied itself.Spit it out, Thomas, you blithering fool.It was an effort not to shake his head to rid himself of the lingering echoes of Father’s sinister voice. Exhaling through his nose, he said through the grit of his teeth, “Gossip is a nasty business.”
“Indeed it is. And sometimes truer than one might prefer.” Mr. Fletcher bent forward, steepling his fingers across the polished mahogany surface of his desk. “What happened, then? I’ve never known you to default upon a debt.”
Curiously, he heard no judgment within Mr. Fletcher’s voice, almost as if—as if the man had already divined that whatever had gone amiss, it had been none of Thomas’ doing.
Which was correct, in a generous assessment of the situation. However, still it was his responsibility.
“I won’t know for certain,” Thomas said carefully, “until I get to London next week.”
“Canyou get to London?” Mr. Fletcher inquired, tilting his head in open curiosity.
Probably. Possibly, though not comfortably, per se. He had a coachman—for the moment. Impossible to tell today if the man would keep his position despite the fact that his wages had not been paid. Every day, his situation grew more tenuous.
“I have a carriage,” Thomas said. But it was in need of repair, and God help them all if it snapped an axle on the journey to London. And with the whispers already floating round, he was unlikely to find someone in the village to make the necessary repairs in advance of the trip on credit alone. “I simply haven’t got the money—at present—for the Season.”
“Investments turned upon you?” Mr. Fletcher asked. “Overleveraged yourself, perhaps?”
Ah, hell. Fletcher would have it from him one way or another. And if not from Thomas’ own mouth, then he’d cull what information he could from wherever it might be sourced.Gossip.“Worse,” Thomas said, surrendering to the inevitability of it all. “My man of business seems to have made off with the bulk of my funds.”
“Really?” Those brows waggled in interest. “Your accounts?”
“Emptied,” Thomas said. “And closed. I had investments—or thought I had. At least, I authorized the money for them. But given the circumstances, it’s unlikely that they were ever made.” Though his man of business, Mr. Fordham, had most certainly taken the monies for them from his accounts, nearest as Thomas could tell from here, there was no firm evidence that any such contracts had been executed on his behalf.
Without the investments and without the funds that rightfully ought to have been within his accounts, he was in a hell of a bind. Estates could be sold—but not swiftly. And the vast majority of his property was entailed, precluded from sale regardless.
“It occurs to me,” Mr. Fletcher said, in a suspiciously idle tone of voice, “that perhaps we could help each other.”
“How so?” Even as the words left his lips, a great sense of unease came over him. A vague nausea; an eerie prickle of the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. A sense of impending doom, as it were.
“You have the need for a great deal of money,” Mr. Fletcher said. “Rather swiftly, I assume. And I have got a daughter who is getting a bit long in the tooth—”
“No.” Jesus God, no. Not even if it was his damned neck at risk instead of just his reputation, his future finances. “I am not marrying your daughter. There isn’t enough money in the damnedworld.”
Mr. Fletcher choked on an incredulous laugh. “Good God,no. You’d kill each other inside of a week. I’m desperate, boy, but I’m no damned fool. Besides, I think Mercy can do better than a measly baron. I want you together married. Take her with you to London. Have your mother sponsor her for a proper Season.”
Thomas’ wits had scattered so abruptly that he hadn’t even the wherewithal to be offended to be termed a ‘measly baron’. A proper Season. InMercy’scompany. Surely there were worse fates, Thomas thought. It was just that none sprang immediately to mind. Other than marrying her, that was to say. Still, he was vaguely surprised he had not broken out into hives at the very thought. Mercy managed to be disaster even buried out in the countryside. She’d nearly killed him—and herself—with a goddamned hot air balloon. He could just imagine the havoc she would wreak within a ballroom. If he agreed, it was entirely possible she’d scandalize the whole of London with her wanton disregard for propriety.
If he didn’t—well, then, he would be staring down the barrel of ruin. Not only for himself. For his sisters. For Mother.
“A Season is…an expensive undertaking,” Thomas said tactfully. “I’m not even certain my former man of business has renewed the lease on our townhouse.” Though it was a good bet that he hadn’t bothered.
Mr. Fletcher sniffed. “Hardly an obstacle. You’ll use ours.”
