Page 1 of An Earl Like You
Prologue
1817
If Hugh Deveraux’s father had taught him anything, it was how to keep up a good face even when everything was going wrong.
Unfortunately Hugh did not realize this until his father was dead, and he discovered how very, very wrong things had gone.
It certainly shouldn’t have been that way. Joshua Deveraux, sixth Earl of Hastings, seemed blessed from birth in every way. No adversity could shake his good humor or dull his ready wit, and as a result he was adored, even marveled at, by his somber, serious family. He grew into a legendary bon vivant, a striking contrast to his reserved father and grandfather. He had a way with people that won him praise and admiration from his peers and subordinates alike. Where his ancestors had viewed it as a sacred duty to marry an heiress and build the family fortunes, Joshua insisted on wedding a girl he loved, who had great beauty and charm but a small dowry. He even inherited his title and considerable estate while still young and very handsome, and was henceforth regarded as possibly the most fortunate man in Britain.
Hugh certainly grew up thinking so. Unlike other sons, he was raised at his father’s knee, and there was no one he admired more. His mother was kind and loving, too, but his father was even more—clever, boisterous, energetic, and never angry. When Hugh got into scrapes and mishaps as a lad, his mother would reproach him with tears, but his father would thump him on the back and take him for a thrilling ride across the countryside.No sense moping about what’s done, he’d say;chin up and face forward.
It was only when his father died that Hugh realized his father’s good nature had concealed a few intractable flaws. Joshua had loved his wife and children deeply, but he’d never imposed the slightest economy or restraint on them. He raised his son to be master of a great estate, as he himself had been raised, but he never made Hugh privy to the books and accounts of that estate. And while everyone knew—in an indulgent, admiring sort of way—that the earl was far from miserly, no one suspected the truth until his death at the age of fifty-eight.
Bilious indigestion, declared the doctor over the deathbed.
Guilt, thought Hugh grimly, two days later.
Joshua, it turned out, had been unlike his careful, dutiful father and grandfather in nearly every way. Instead of building the family wealth, he had spent it—allof it. Nothing had been put aside for his daughters’ dowries, and his wife’s jointure was pathetically small. Not only had he omitted the most elementary steps to preserving his wealth, Joshua had been generous to every wastrel friend in need, spent prodigiously on art and horses and houses, wagered and lost extravagantly, and generally frittered away one of the largest fortunes in Britain. And no one had had any idea.
“The good news, my lord, is that the mortgages are quite reasonable,” added the attorney, in what could only be called poor consolation.
Hugh’s fingers had long since gone numb. They had curled into fists as Mr. Sawyer laid out his threadbare circumstances over the last hour. “So I own a grand estate, but haven’t a farthing to maintain it.”
Mr. Sawyer hesitated. “A very hard way of viewing it... but yes, rather true.”
He eased his hands flat and spread them on the desk. A very fine desk, made by Chippendale for his grandfather, the fifth earl. Grandfather had believed in buying quality. Hugh had to breathe deeply to keep from cursing at some length. “How much of the estate is entailed?”
“Oh, all of it,” replied the attorney. “Your father took care to renew the tails, as he should have done.”
“Which means I cannot sell anything,” Hugh said softly.
“Er... no,” said Mr. Sawyer. He was quiet for a moment, then said with more optimism, “But your lordship is young and hale and, if I might say so, quite a handsome man. There are bound to be any number of heiresses—”
Hugh shoved away from the desk so hard his chair almost toppled over behind him. At the last second he caught it. Also by Chippendale. He couldn’t afford to damage the chair; he might have to sell it to feed his mother and sisters. “In other words,” he bit out, “I must do what my father didn’t—retrench, practice every economy, and marry a girl with a fortune.”
Mr. Sawyer coughed delicately. “It would be prudent, sir.”
Hugh slashed one hand through the air. “Go.”
The man blinked, then collected his papers. “Of course, my lord. I shall be available when you—”
“You’re sacked. Don’t come back.”
The attorney blanched, but didn’t argue. Hugh seethed as the man bowed out of the room. Sawyer must have known, for several years, that the late earl was spending far more than he could afford. Obviously he hadn’t stopped it, but neither had he ever whispered a word of warning in Hugh’s ear.
A thought struck him. Did his mother know? The countess was in deep mourning, her eyes still red from weeping every day. Hugh thought of his parents together, of his father laughing and teasing his mother, and realized this was the last thing he would have told her. However feckless he had been, the late earl had adored his wife and wouldn’t have wanted to alarm her.
Which meant Hugh would have that happy task.
His shoulders slumped at the prospect. First she had lost the love of her life, and now he was about to take away her security and possibly her home. Because there was no way he could maintain all the Hastings properties on the funds he had left. The income from them couldn’t come close; not only had his father been spending capital for years, he had done very little to make his lands productive. His estates were covered with acres of graceful lawns and perfectly maintained thickets, with ponds and temples and follies. Not farms or mines or anything that produced income.
When Hugh had asked about that, wondering why other estates were more constricted, Joshua had laughed. “Who wants to ride around fields of wheat? All those farms are so damned ugly. So many fields one may not ride across.” Like an idiot, Hugh had accepted this answer and even felt appreciation for it the next time he took a rousing ride through those wide-open fields and woods.
Obviously all that would have to change, but it would take time and capital, two things he was suddenly quite short of.
A tap at the door started him out of his thoughts. His sister Edith slipped inside. “Are you done?” she asked. “I saw Mr. Sawyer leave.”
He exhaled. “Yes, he’s gone.”And may the devil take him.
