Page 8 of Lyon of Scotland
“I can repay some from my wages. I ask your patience.”
“I have no patience left. The debt is over a year old, and it would take you years to pay three hundred pounds through your meager income. Surely someone can give it to you. Then you can owe them, not me. The agreed due date comes next week.”
Shaking her head, she looked away. She had only discovered the debt when Jonathan Whitworth fled London, leaving her confused, brokenhearted, angry, and caught in a situation not of her doing. She had been wrong about him, and her family had been right. Now she had to solve this on her own or go home humiliated.
In London, she had hoped to prove her independence and maturity. Ironically, she only proved that she was neither independent nor mature. She felt like a failure. Besides, there was no running home now, for Papa and her sisters were traveling in the north of Scotland on a painting jaunt, out of reach in remote locations for weeks to come.
Though she had cried herself to sleep over the matter, she was grateful to have the support of her cousins in London. Georgina and Oliver Huntly and their parents knew some but not all of her dilemma. Oliver and his father, both lawyers, felt she was obliged to pay unless she could prove forgery and fraud, which seemed difficult.
Through Oliver’s friend Charles Dove, she had met Sir George Naylor, who had realized she was an artist in mysterious straits, and offered her a temporary position as a heraldry painter. Working outside the home was a new and rather humbling experience, but she learned quickly and had a knack for the work.
Swallowing her pride to earn something toward the debt, she could avoid asking her father for financial help. Instead, she would do her best and hope for Sir Frederic’s charitable heart. But she soon discovered he did not have one.
“Sir, I ask for leniency, as it is not my debt, though I am trying to honor it.”
“Go to your father, an artist too, by God, but a wealthy one, they say. His banker can arrange the funds,” Dove said, arrogance intact.
“My signature was forged on the document,” she reminded him. “I will not ask my father to pay a debt that is not mine.”
“You had better ask him if you want to avoid what comes next if you cannot pay.”
She clenched a fist behind her back. “What is that?”
He leaned forward. “Debtors’ prison.”
She caught her breath. “I said I would try to pay. Give me some time, since you leave me no choice.”
“Your choice is to pay now or suffer. I was patient with your lover, now with you.”
Jonathan Whitworth was not her lover. She had come to her senses on that, once in London, seeing a side to him she had not recognized earlier—drinking, criticism, pressing her to live with him, share his bed, elope, none of which she had accepted.
Once more she realized it was futile to argue with the odious Frederic Dove, a privileged, wealthy, intimidating man with a dried-up heart. But his threats were real.
She had been foolish to trust Whitworth. Her only choice was to repay Dove enough to appease him—then find the courage to go home and face her family.
“Just a little more time. Please,” she said.
“I could put you in debtors’ prison tomorrow. But that would not repay the debt. There might be another option if you cooperate.” He leaned closer. “I have a cousin in the city. Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She may be able to help.”
“Lyon?” she burst out, thinking immediately of Sir Alasdair Drummond, Lord Lyon, visiting today. Was he related to Sir Frederic and a London cousin? Her heart fluttered. But she could not bear for Lord Lyon—Strathburn—to learn of her humiliating circumstances and think less of her. The old infatuation was still strong, ripened but futile. “Lord Lyon?”
“Lyon! The man visiting Sir George today? Of course not! My cousin is a matchmaker. For a fee, she can arrange for you to marry a wealthy man to take on your debt and absolve us both of this distasteful situation.” He curled his lip.
She gaped at him. “You wouldsellme in marriage to get the money?”
“The debt would be transferred. You would marry and be gone from here.”
Hannah bristled. “I have no intention of marrying a stranger!”
“Then it is debtors’ prison for you.” He shrugged.
She felt a flare of outrage. “Sir, you must be a wealthy man yourself. Why are you so anxious for my money?” That took courage, but she felt cornered.
“That is none of your concern. But I will give you another week on one condition.”
“What condition?” She dreaded hearing what he wanted next.
With a glance at the door, he lowered his voice. “You will leave Charles alone. His head is full of foolish notions. He is young and has no defense against female wiles.”
