Engaging the Earl

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“For what?” Emma asked, her dread rising as she wondered how much of the conversation her reminiscing had caused her to miss.

“For finding you a husband.”

“Olivia,” she said in a warning voice. Considering the evening she’d had, and the early hour, Emma could think of a hundred reasons not to have this conversation. Maybe a thousand reasons.

Her friend paid her no mind, which wasn’t surprising at all. “Emma, it’s a good plan.”

“Your suggestion hardly constitutes a plan,” Emma argued. “Besides, who would have me?”

The question was met with a blank stare. “You must be joking, Emma. There are no end of eligible bachelors in Town for the Season. It will be a small matter to make one of them fall in love with you.”

“But do you think I’m going to find it that easy to just fall in love with someone myself?” And Emma prepared herself to receive a lecture on how she shouldn’t be choosy. Not only was it much too early for the plan, but for lectures, as well.

But Olivia didn’t chide. She looked rather crestfallen. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who you might find …”

“Never mind, Olivia. I know,” Emma said gently because she couldn’t stand how her friend looked when she thought her brilliant plan—that wasn’t so much of a plan—wasn’t going to work. “But I still don’t see how I can be expected to compete with the other eligible ladies.”

“They’ll be foolish to try to compete with you,” Olivia insisted. “You’re beautiful—no, don’t shake your head, it’s nothing more than the truth—you’re kind, generous, practical, good with children and you’re from a highly respectable family.”

“A highly impoverished family, you mean. Uncle is the one with money, and he doesn’t speak to Papa.”

Olivia waved the problem away. “He’s a recluse. He doesn’t speak to anyone. No one will expect you to be his closest correspondent. Simply the fact that you are his niece and therefore, eventually, his heir will earn you entrance into many circles.”

“But my uncle won’t be the one to provide me with a dowry.”

“So we’ll find you suitors who don’t need to gain money from marriage.” Olivia reached out to take hold of Emma’s hands. “Truly, Emma, a husband is what you need. As a governess, you will always be subject to your employer’s whims. You’ll never have security, never have stability, never truly be able to help your parents in any lasting way since you’ll never be able to guarantee your income from one month to the next.”

The last bit was a low blow, but Emma had to admit everything Olivia said was the truth.

“I know this may not be exactly what you’d planned for your life, but can you at least try?” Olivia asked. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out something else.”

Olivia looked so hopeful, Emma could only nod. “I suppose I can try,” she said grudgingly.

“Wonderful!” Olivia exclaimed. And her mouth quirked into a smile, and her eyes sharpened. “It really would be the perfect solution. A handsome, wealthy, godly gentleman will fall madly in love with you and all of your problems will disappear.”

“But I wouldn’t get my hopes up, Olivia.?… My agreement to try doesn’t mean …”

It was no use; her friend was hugging her as though Emma had fulfilled her most earnest desire.

“I’ll put together a list of the most suitable gentlemen, and we’ll go from there.”

“And how am I to meet these suitable gentlemen?” Emma couldn’t help but ask. She covered her mouth to hide a yawn.

“Leave that to me,” Olivia insisted. “I have just the man in mind to help.”

Two days after the incident in Cheapside, Marcus wasn’t in any better mood. There had been no further news on the status of the ship, so he’d spent his time reviewing his accounts, trying to determine just how badly he’d be impacted if the ship was truly lost.

Very badly indeed, as it turned out.

“So you’re convinced the ships are lost?” Marcus asked during his morning meeting with Grimshaw and the Fairfax family solicitor, Mr. Wilbanks.

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Grimshaw said with a sigh.

It was clear that this financial struggle concerned Grimshaw just as much as Marcus. Marcus had learned that his estate manager’s cousin was one of the timber merchants involved with the investment. That explained why so much had been funneled in a single project—Grimshaw had seen the opportunity to help his cousin and benefit his employer with a potentially highly profitable venture. He’d acted with only honest intentions, but his family loyalties had made him disregard the risk.

The guilt over acting with so little foresight was clearly weighing on him now.

“What can we do if the ships are gone?” Marcus asked. He was unwilling to give up hope that everything might, in fact, turn out fine.

However, his solicitor, Mr. Wilbanks, an older gentleman who had served Marcus and his father before him for years, was silent; obviously, he thought the worst.

“The numbers aren’t good, my lord,” Wilbanks said with the same dejected manner as Grimshaw. “In your grandfather’s time,” he explained, “the entirety of the family’s income came from the rents on your estates. It was your father who made the decision to begin investing in various enterprises with the surpluses from the estate funds—a practice which you have continued, and which has doubled your income.”

Marcus already knew the family’s financial history, and he wanted to tell Wilbanks to speed up the explanation. But instead of barking at the solicitor, he tried to wait patiently.

Wilbanks took a steadying breath before continuing.

“But all of the monies in the investment accounts were used for this timber project of Lord Rutherford’s. If the ships are lost, that portion of your income is gone. It will take years of surpluses from the estates before you would be able to build those accounts up enough to begin investing again.”

“How much is going to be left?” Some claimed Marcus was rich as Croesus, which might have been an exaggeration, but the truth of the matter was that his accounts had been quite large. And now they were empty—and would remain so, unless the ship and its merchandise could be recovered.

All was not lost, Marcus supposed. He did still have a vast amount of property at his disposal. Property that earned a fair amount of income—enough so he would hardly have to worry about starving, or lacking a roof over his head.

But all the other uses he made of his money—the charitable donations, the investments into facilities to help the underprivileged, all his plans to use his wealth and position to drive interest in generating labor and housing reforms … it would all have to come to a halt. The very thought was appalling.

Wilbanks fumbled, but Grimshaw seemed to take pity on the solicitor, naming a number that made Marcus wince.

“It’s enough to maintain your estates until the next round of rents come in,” the estate manager continued, trying to be consoling. “And to cover moderate personal expenses. Not much more than that, though. No lavish living,” he finished.

“Mr. Wilbanks,” Marcus said, turning toward the solicitor, who looked like he might rather be having his teeth pulled out one by one and without any numbing effect than to be sitting in the room with them. “Is that right?” Marcus didn’t care so much about the not living lavishly part … but it would have been nice if there had been something other than eking by on the horizon.

“From what I can tell of the paperwork …” Wilbanks sighed. “Yes. It is, unfortunately, true.”

“How long?” Marcus croaked, his throat and mouth parched.

“How long until what precisely, my lord?” Wilbanks asked. He looked twitchy and uncomfortable. Grimshaw didn’t look much better.

Marcus scrubbed a hand down his face. “How long until we can recoup?”

The solicitor consulted some papers in front of him. “It is difficult to say. The estates generate sufficient funds to cover most living costs. Unfortunately, most of the income from the recent rents collection went into the investment funds. The estate expenses are, of course, paid first, so there are no outstanding costs there, but the monies in your personal funds will have to last you until the next rent collection date. At that point, the situation should become more stable—and if you are careful with your expenses, then you may still have some surplus to go back into the investment accounts.”

After Marcus muddled through the headache-inducing explanations, he decided that at least that was a bit of heartening news.

“I will also see about possibly leasing out some of your secondary estates to bring in some more funds,” Wilbanks continued, “but any significant expenditure—” Wilbanks tiptoed carefully around the reform investments Marcus had discussed with him so many times “—will have to wait for … I’d say six or seven years, at the least. If you begin to conserve, make cutbacks, then the funds will, of course, accumulate faster—”

“I don’t care about whether or not I’ll be able to go purchase a new pair of boots every week,” Marcus interrupted.

“Would you be willing to temporarily raise the cost of rent from your tenants?” Wilbanks asked bluntly.

“No,” Marcus said before the man even had time to close his mouth on the question.

“Not even to help—”

Marcus slashed his hand through the air. “I said no.” He wasn’t going to burden his tenants to fund his own social-reform agenda. “We’ll find another way.” He didn’t know whom he was trying to convince—the two downtrodden men, or himself. “And I won’t abandon all hope that the ship is, indeed, safe.”

Grimshaw opened his mouth to speak then promptly closed it again. Another time or two of the same routine, and the estate manager finally found his voice. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, my lord. No one has heard from the ship. Nor have any of the rescue ships sent out located any sign of it.”

“I’ll continue to pray,” Marcus said.

The two men stayed for only a few more minutes. Really, there was nothing left to discuss. And when Marcus was left alone in his study, he felt the weight of his predicament bearing down on him.

What was he going to do? The urge was strong to stay in his study and keep searching his finances for answers. Pouring over ledgers and account books wouldn’t make a difference in the reality of the situation, however. He trusted Wilbanks and had no reason not to take the older man at his word. If anyone knew the state of the family’s coffers, it was the solicitor who’d been serving the Fairfaxes for years.

Marcus was trying to devise an outing that would occupy his mind for a bit when his butler brought in a letter from his sister, Olivia.

Drop whatever you’re doing. I urgently need to see you.

Less than half an hour later, his sister’s butler, Mathis, barely had time to open the front door of the house before Marcus was pushing his way in. In the time it took him to ride to the Huntsford town house, he’d had ample opportunity to envision what might be wrong. After Wilbanks and Grimshaw’s ill tidings, the earl was primed to expect the worst.

Mathis’s stoic exterior should have given Marcus some reassurance that things were fine, but the butler’s expression never changed. A thief could have a gun trained on him, and the most the older man might do was blink.

And because of his completely unflappable nature, Mathis didn’t say a word about seeing the Earl of Westin with an eye that was an impressive display of mottled blues and purple.

A butler who didn’t feel the need to offer unsolicited commentary on everything … it was a refreshing change.

“Your sister will meet you in the yellow parlor, my lord,” Mathis said.

Without asking the location of the yellow parlor, Marcus headed down the hall. In the months since his sister’s marriage, Olivia’s new home had become as familiar to him as his own.

Marcus paced the length of the room while he waited for his sister to appear. Just when he was seriously beginning to contemplate going and finding her, the door opened.

“Good morning, Marcus,” Olivia said cheerfully.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, taking a few steps toward her.

Olivia’s brow furrowed in confusion as she hugged him. “Nothing,” she answered.

Marcus still wasn’t convinced. “Has something happened?”

“No.” She paused. “Why would you think so?”

“Your letter said to come immediately. It sounded … frantic.”

“I think you probably read too much into my request,” Olivia said with a shrug.

“When your request contains the word urgently, I don’t really have to read into it much.”

“We’re not here to discuss your overly active paranoia,” his sister returned. “Besides, I’m in no mood to argue with you. I need your help,” Olivia said, taking a seat and offering to ring for tea.

After declining the tea service, Marcus relocated to a chair, curious to hear about Olivia’s problem … hopefully, it would distract him from his own. Whatever was wrong with his sister was consuming enough that she had yet to ask him about the injury to his eye.

Not that he minded that omission from the conversation, of course. Olivia would be much too amused by the story. Not to mention when Nick—her husband and Marcus’s best friend—found out, Marcus would be lucky if he ever lived down the humiliation.

“What do you need my help with?”

He was pleased Olivia had come to him for assistance. Since she’d married, she hadn’t seemed to need her older brother anymore. And as someone who had spent his entire adult life caring for his sister, the sudden change after her marriage made Marcus feel a little bereft.

“I’ve a made a list,” Olivia said, digging in the pocket of her skirts and finally producing a folded-up slip of paper.

“A list?” he echoed, taking and unfolding the paper so he could read it.

His sister sat quietly while he scanned down the rather long collection of names.

“What’s this?” he asked finally.

“A list.”

Marcus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I think I have a fairly good understanding of what constitutes a list. But all I see on here are names. Would it be too much to ask what the significance of them would be?”

“Those men,” Olivia continued, pointing to the paper, “are eligible bachelors.”

Marcus stared at her, waiting for further explanation.

“They’re for a friend.”

“A friend?” Skepticism oozed in his voice.

Olivia sighed. “It’s a complicated matter, Marcus. And I’m going to need your assistance and discretion. So I’d appreciate it if you would at least try not to be difficult.”

“I hardly think my trying to make sense of your inadequate explanations should classify as being difficult.”

Olivia sighed. “I have a friend who needs a husband.”

Marcus’s cravat tightened, and his mouth was suddenly so parched he wished he’d accepted the tea. He couldn’t dismiss the suspicion that Olivia had more of his involvement in mind than just being a keeper of the list.

Clearing his throat, he scrambled for an easy way to break it to her that he wasn’t going to be eligible bachelor number one. “Olivia … you understand I have quite a bit to focus on right now …” he began, “and I’m not in any place to be considering taking a wife—”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you see your name on the list, Marcus?”

“Well … no … but—”

She waved her hand as though to shut him up. “Then stop being dramatic. I certainly wouldn’t have put you there.”

“And why’s that?” Marcus asked before he could consider the advisability of voicing such a question.

This earned him another look. “I doubt my friend would have you,” she said breezily.

“I’m considered a fairly decent catch by most of the matchmaking mamas.” Marcus couldn’t believe himself or the words coming out of his mouth.