Page 46 of The Princess Stakes
His frown deepened as he reached for another ledger and flicked through the accounting. “How did this happen?”
“Lord Roland was in debt up to his ears, Your Grace. He and Lord Richard had several bad railroad investments go wrong when the railway company up and disappeared with their money. It was a secret that only came out after his death when his many creditors came calling. The dowager duchess ordered me to leverage the earnings of the ducal holdings and to increase tenant taxes. Many of the farmers have left, and the country staff has been culled significantly.” His face flamed with obvious embarrassment. “I, too, am owed several months of wages.”
Rhystan blinked in dumbfounded surprise—he’d known none of this. The duchess could have reached him at any time, but for whatever reason, she’d chosen to keep the state of their finances from him. Roland, the favored son, had thoroughly decimated the family coffers.
Why hadn’t he asked for help?
Pride, Rhystan supposed. Pride and stubbornness. No one wanted to ask the purported prodigal son of the family for a farthing, even if said son had enough fortune to share. The former duke, if he’d been aware of the misfortune, would have forbidden it for sure. His mother hadn’t let anything slip of the decline, and if it wasn’t for Longacre, Rhystan would never have been the wiser.
Was this behind her ploy of illness?
He released a breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Longacre. I have more than enough funds to cover the debts and pay any outstanding wages.” With another longer glance to the totals in the columns, he wrote out a check to his bank, Barclay & Co., in London for a significant amount of funds to be paid to the bearer. “There, that should cover it. If you need more, do not hesitate to return.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“And, Mr. Longacre,” he said as the man gathered his belongings. “Thank you for your discretion and long-standing constancy. In the future, please direct any and all financial or fiduciary concerns to me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Coloring at the unexpected praise, the solicitor paused at the door. “Do you intend to stay in London, then?”
Rhystan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and nodded. “For now.”
At least until the state of the dukedom was sorted out.
And God knew how longthatwas going to take.
* * *
Sarani sighed with sublime delight as Asha brushed and dried her hair in front of the fire. She had just taken the longest, most decadent bath known to humankind. The bedroom she’d been shown to was tastefully opulent, but the sumptuous bathing room was what had knocked the wind from her lungs—all rich wooden paneling and hand-painted porcelain tiles, and almost as large as the connecting bedchamber.
It had lacked for nothing, including modern plumbing for not just cold but hot running water. The massive claw-foot tub had been designed with an ingenious gas heating device.
Sarani hadn’t been able to get out of her fine clothing fast enough, nearly ripping buttons in her haste. She’d languished in that gorgeous tub in the piping hot water until her skin had begun to protest and had only gotten out when Asha had murmured that His Grace would be expecting her shortly.
She hadn’t seen Rhystan since their arrival, and he had been mostly silent in the coach, a brooding expression on his handsome face. She suspected that being in England did not sit well with him, much as it didn’t for her, though for other reasons he had yet to share.
Ifhe ever would.
In hindsight, she realized just how little she knew of the duke’s origins, other than that he was a well-born gentleman who’d been an officer in the Royal Navy once upon a time and was now a rich, powerful duke who captained a ship. Who clearly did not want to be in London.
His stilted behavior in the lavish coach on the way to his residence had indicated as much. Sarani had known Rhystan had deep pockets, given he owned his own ship, but the sight of the ducal crest emblazoned on the lacquered coach had been her first inkling that he didn’t exactly lack for fortune. Rather, if the luxurious coach and its liveried servants had been any signal, he was rather well-off.
“This is fancy,” she’d told him once they’d left the wharf to settle into the plush confines of the fine carriage.
A hint of color had brushed his cheekbones. “It was my father’s.”
“It’s very nice.” That had been an understatement. “Where are we going?”
“To my residence in Mayfair.”
She’d bitten her lip. “Is that…proper?”
“We are engaged,” he’d replied. “But if you are worried, Asha can assume the role of your companion and chaperone. Problem of respectability solved.”
“Even I know that a lady’s maid won’t pass muster as a companion, at least not according to the rules of etiquette here.”
Unreadable eyes had met hers across the carriage. “You are engaged to the Duke of Embry.”
“You say that as if anyone in thetonwill refrain from gossiping like fishwives at market. If decorum is not observed, the shame will fall upon me, not you.”
