Page 6 of Three Weeks with a Princess
He pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head before letting go. “No, because if I told you, it wouldn’t come true. Besides, it might annoy you,” he added in a teasing tone.
She poked him in the side. “You are so irritating, Jack Easton.”
He smiled at her, looking impossibly handsome. “I know, but I’ll make it up to you when I next visit.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’ll see you later, then,” she said, starting for the terrace steps.
“Lia.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Merry Christmas, my dearest girl,” he called softly.
Again her throat went so tight she couldn’t force out a single word. So she simply raised a hand before slipping off into the dark winter night.
Chapter One
Yorkshire
July 1816
“How the hell did he let it become such a disaster?” Jack said, pushing aside the ledger. Every time he’d looked at the bloody thing he’d held out a faint hope that circumstances weren’t as bad as they appeared. And every time he was wrong.
The large, leather-clad account book was one of several piled haphazardly before him on the library desk. On the other side of that pile sat Atticus Lindsey, the longtime estate manager at Stonefell and a truly estimable man. He had to be, because he’d put up with years of financial messes and managed to ameliorate some of the worst effects. But even Lindsey’s business acumen and dedication to the family could no longer stave off the inevitable.
Thanks to Jack’s uncle, the previous marquess, Stonefell Hall stood on the brink of ruin, and the Easton family fortunes weren’t far behind.
His estate manager struggled to articulate some positive news—and failed.
“It’s all right, Lindsey,” Jack finally said. “I know we’re teetering on the edge of the abyss. The only question now is how to walk ourselves back from it.”
The middle-aged widower, whose kind face and gentle manner were combined with a whip-smart mind, pulled a grimace. “There are a few things we can try, my lord. We can take down the remaining viable timber in the home wood, for one. The income from that would stave off the creditors till the next quarter.”
Jack hated that idea. So many noble trees had already been lost. Stonefell’s woods had once been the finest in this part of Yorkshire, but they were now a pale imitation of their former glory.
“We’ll do that only as a last resort,” he said. “I’m hoping the harvest will be better this year. The revenues from that should take us well into next year.”
Lindsey eyed him. “Of course, sir.”
In other words,good luck with that, you bloody fool.
He certainly wouldn’t have blamed Lindsey if he’d said those words out loud. Jack had rarely involved himself in estate business, even though he’d known for two years that the Lendale title would fall directly to him. That was when Jack’s father, heir to his older brother, had died of apoplexy, brought on by a life of drinking and excess. His father had evaded responsibility whenever possible. Even in death he’d run true to form and had left Jack to pick up the pieces of a family all but in ruins.
As for the recently deceased marquess . . . well, Uncle Arthur had been a kind man, loyal to family and friend alike. And he’d been more than generous to Jack, always providing him with a safe haven from his warring parents and helping him achieve a military career by purchasing his commission.
But as a man of business and a caretaker of the family fortune and legacy, the third Marquess of Lendale had been an absolute disaster.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Lindsey said in a tone warm with sympathy. “I wish I had better news to impart, but the tenant farmers are barely holding on as it is. We’ll need years of good harvests to make up for the ground we’ve lost.”
Jack repressed the impulse to bang his head on the pile of ledgers. Maybe if he did that long enough the figures would somehow untangle themselves. He’d spent so many late nights pouring over the damn numbers, searching for even a thread of good news, he could barely see straight.
For years he’d tried to escape all the family drama by focusing his energies on his military career. He’d worked his arse off, climbing up the chain of command until serving directly under Wellington himself. And even though the fortunes of war were often bleak, he’d loved his work. If fate had decreed otherwise, he’d still be in the army.
But fatehaddecreed otherwise, and now he was someone he’d never wanted to be—the Marquess of Lendale. The title had been shared by a disreputable group of aristocrats more known for their spendthrift, rakish lifestyles than for nurturing the blessings graced by God and king.
