Page 7 of Embracing the Earl (The St. Clairs 3)

“Goodbye, Lady Caroline,” the butler said and departed the residence.

She turned back to the man Stinch had referred to as Morrow. “Mr. Morrow, I would like to be informed of what is happening. We can go into my father’s study. It’s just off the foyer.”

Without waiting for him to protest, she walked quickly to the room—and found all kinds of tags on the furniture.

“What is all of this?” she demanded.

“Thisis an estate sale, my lady,” Morrow said succinctly. “It will begin tomorrow. Stinch helped me place labels identifying various pieces of furniture and objects. Each one describes the piece and suggests a price for the buyers that will descend in the morning.”

Caroline sank into a chair. “Will everything be sold?”

“Absolutely. Lord Templeton’s debts are massive.”

His words were like a physical blow, rendering her speechless.

“What kind of debts?” she asked quietly.

“The usual kind gentlemen amass. His tailor. His bootmaker. His wine merchant. Far more, however, is owed to gambling houses and gentlemen from his various clubs. I am your father’s solicitor. It has fallen to me to sell everything Lord Templeton had not already parted with to cover as many of his debts as I can.”

“That’s where the suit of armor went,” she said, wishing she could have seen it one last time. As a child, she’d made up stories about it and the man who wore it. To never see it again brought her deep sadness.

“Yes. In the last three years, during your and Lady Templeton’s absence, he had begun selling off various items.” Morrow cleared his throat. “Is your mother outside in a carriage?”

“My mother died in Boston shortly after we arrived,” she said quietly, feeling a fresh flash of pain after the ache had been dulled for so long.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the solicitor said, his voice gentling. “I know it must be hard coming home to this.”

“I suppose there is nothing left for me.”

“From the London townhouse and the country estate, no, nothing at all. You do have your dowry and actually your sister’s, as well. That money was set aside long ago. It came from your mother when she married the earl and was designated for any daughters that resulted from the marriage.”

“And if I don’t wed?” she challenged.

“It would become yours on your birthday when you turn twenty-five. If I recall, that would be a little less than two years from now.”

“What am I supposed to live on in the meantime? Am I even allowed to claim my own clothing that I left in the wardrobe when I went to America three years ago?”

Morrow thought a moment. “I suppose it would be all right for you to take that. But no furniture. No knickknacks. Nothing else.” He flushed a dull red. “I am sorry, Lady Caroline, but you cannot touch the money now. If you wed, it will go to your husband. If you don’t, you may access it in two years’ time.”

He began shuffling his feet again, much as a small boy would. “I know you have no living relatives in England. I do know of a woman who has an agency. She pairs... impoverished gentlewomen... with suitable employers. I could put you in touch with her. You could act as a lady’s companion. Or governess.”

Mustering all the dignity she could, Caroline said, “I have a small inheritance from my American aunt that will suffice. Give me your card, Mr. Morrow. I’ll need to know how to reach you so that I can claim my dowry for myself when I am of age.”

As he pulled a card from his inner pocket, the solicitor said, “Or if you wed. I’ll be happy to draw up the papers. Since you are of legal age, you may sign them, as will your future husband.”

Rage poured through her. “A husband is the last thing I’d be interested in acquiring, Mr. Morrow. It did my mother no good. My father squander all of his money, leaving his only child destitute. I plan on keeping my money to myself because, at this point, I’m the only person I trust. Good day, sir.”

Caroline stormed from the study. She fought to contain the anger, not wanting any more to spill from her onto Davy. The young orphan had had his share of woes. She would not burden him with new ones. She paced in the foyer, cooling her heels.

She had never depended upon her father before. She’d tried as a young girl to impress him with all she’d learned from her governess. He’d brushed her off, telling her girls didn’t interest him. She’d finally given up wanting to please him, though she’d kept to her book learning. They’d never had a relationship before—and now it was too late. Caroline couldn’t help but wonder if his gambling and mounting debts were the true reason he’d sent her and Mama to America. Getting or receiving word from England had been impossible during the war. He’d gone to his own grave, not knowing his own wife had been buried in a Boston churchyard.

She would have to decide where to go. A hotel would prove too expensive over a long period of time. It would be better to rent rooms. She would have to depend upon herself now. And she had Davy and Tippet to care for.

A calm descended over her. She would do what she knew how to do.

Open a bookstore.

She understood how to buy and sell the right kinds of books. She knew how to keep her own ledgers. The book smart but unworldly Lady Caroline who’d left London in 1812 had given way to a more confident, more knowledgeable Caroline Andrews. She had no doubts that she could make a success of the venture.

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