Taking her tea with her, Beatrice followed her uncle down the hall and into his study.
He stood staring out the window, coffee cup held midair as if he was in a trance.
She looked about the room filled with books and globes and all sorts of fascinating objects that he had collected in his travels as a young man, unsure exactly how to begin.
He seemed oblivious to her presence, which wasn’t like him at all. Her uncle was usually an attentive and caring person.
“Uncle,” she ventured. “Are you unwell? You seem— Well, you do not seem yourself.”
She crossed toward him but stopped just short, feeling he might not wish her in his presence.
He drove a hand through his usually immaculately groomed silver hair. She was suddenly uncertain when he had washed it last.
In fact, everything about him looked quite…disheveled.
And it was then that she realized the slight scent in the air was not his cologne but brandy.
That was not coffee in his cup, and a wave of dread washed over her. What would drive him to imbibe so early?
Her uncle met her gaze with watery blue eyes. He sucked in a shaking breath, then rasped, “I am in a difficulty, Beatrice.”
“Unburden yourself,” she urged, even as her own heart squeezed with growing concern.
“I suppose I can tell you. Now that Margaret is safe. Lord Christopher cannot abandon her now. Not with the engagement public.”
Beatrice’s stomach tightened as her ill ease increased dramatically. “Uncle, I do not understand what you are trying to tell me.”
His brow furrowed, and in an instant his whole face seemed to buckle with emotion. “Beatrice,” he said in a broken whisper, “you’re a very sensible young lady, and I know that I can be plain with you in a way that I perhaps cannot be with Margaret.”
“Uncle, you are making this worse with prevaricating,” she said gently but firmly. “Please, out with it. None of these niceties or warnings.”
He nodded and looked away as if he could not bear to see her reaction. “I have lost my fortune, Beatrice.”
She blinked, taking those words in but not comprehending them. How could she? Such a thing wasn’t possible. Was it?
“I don’t understand,” she said flatly.
He drank deeply from his coffee cup, then blurted, “I invested heavily in some new ventures, and they have proved at fault.” A wild laugh that turned into a sob erupted from his throat. “I have lost my fortune.”
Her uncle clapped a wrinkled hand over his mouth, stifling the sob. He shook his head, his silver hair flying about his worn face. He laughed again, a dark, almost frightening sound.
“Uncle,” she breathed as his words finally hit her with their severity. “I am so terribly sorry.”
“I am, too,” he gritted. He slurped from his cup. “I am only glad that I have managed to secure Margaret a good match so that she will be kept and treated well.”
Her uncle stared into the lowering contents of his cup as though it was tea leaves bearing their fortune. “But I have more news for you, Beatrice.”
She stilled, dread pooling inside her once again. “Yes?”
Her uncle pressed his lips together as he stared at her. ’Twas as if he was waging a war with himself in what he could say or could not say to her. “I know that you insist on not marrying, but I must tell you something that could change that. And I pray to God you shall not hate me for it.”
“Hate you?” she asked, even as the room began to spin and she felt a wave of growing nausea. “How could I hate you?”
He began to tremble, his face racked with pain as he confessed, “Your fortune is gone, too.”
Her body went numb. She stared at him, unable to fathom his terrible words.
“How?” she demanded, her throat tight.