The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

***

“Twelve thousand pounds,” Varian repeated. He appeared to be studying the document his solicitor had given him. In fact, his lordship saw only a blur of lines.

“But of course you knew about your great-aunt’s will, my lord. I sent you a letter while you were in Spain.” Mr. Willoughby took up another piece of paper. “I have your answer here. In it you indicated—”

“I remember. But there was a time limit, was there not? Twelve thousand pounds, if I were wed within—what was it, three years? Surely it’s been longer than that.”

“Three years from the date of her death. She passed on late in December of ‘15. You were wed this past November, according to your documents—which are fully in order, I’m happy to say.” Mr. Willoughby essayed a thin smile. “Therefore, you are now twelve thousand pounds to the good.”

“That depends on one’s point of view.” Varian put down the copy of the will. “What is the sum of my debts?”

“I cannot name the precise figure at present. What with interest and Fortier’s bankruptcy and other such variables—”

“An approximation will do.” Varian’s heart was pounding furiously.

“Something in the vicinity of twelve thousand pounds, my lord.”

The pounding stopped dead, as though an immense weight had fallen upon it, then recommenced, slow as a funeral drumbeat.

“What an amusing coincidence,” Varian murmured.

“I am sorry, my lord. Still, it might be worse. The estate is in no danger, as I explained.”

“I’ve recently viewed the…remains. I collect the reason it’s in no danger is that no creditor would be fool enough to want it.”

“Perhaps not. Still, I flatter myself I have placed sufficient obstacles to discourage even the most daring of speculators.”

“I thank you for that, Willoughby.” Varian looked toward the grimy window. “I suppose you think I ought to use this windfall to pay my creditors.”

“So I would advise, yes.” Mr. Willoughby carefully lined up a small pile of documents and moved them a few inches to his left.

“That would leave me with nothing.”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “We may be able to preserve a small sum. As I mentioned, I should want some time—a few weeks—to ascertain the precise amount. However, if you owe a man twelve hundred pounds, I may be able to satisfy him with eleven hundred, or even one thousand. Admittedly, they don’t like to settle in that way, since it disallows any future action for the remainder. On the other hand, legal actions are costly and, when undertaken against members of the peerage, so often disappointing.”

“Disappointed creditors can make one’s life exceedingly disagreeable all the same,” Varian said. “I should not wish my wife to be annoyed.”

“Naturally not, my lord. I quite understand. That is why I suggest you clear the slate, so to speak. And I should undertake to preserve a small sum. With that, and her ladyship’s dowry—”

“Her ladyship has no dowry.”

Mr. Willoughby blinked. “Does she not? How very odd. I was led to understand—”

“Nothing,” Varian told him firmly. “Not a shilling.”

“If you say so, my lord. Yet, if you will not object, I should wish to pursue certain inquiries.”

“I should not like, particularly if you intend to question her family. They hold me in the greatest dislike. Even if her father managed to set something aside for her—which is highly improbable—they’ll make certain I can’t so much as look at it.” Varian shrugged. “One can hardly blame them.”

“But if anything is owing to you—”

“Whatever might be owing to me, I can’t possibly collect. Would you have me spend my windfall in a Chancery suit? I’d stand a better chance at the faro tables. There, at least, one has a chance of doubling one’s winnings. Or tripling them.” Varian frowned.

Mr. Willoughby uttered a small sigh but said nothing.

“I cannot restore Mount Eden if I pay my creditors,”

Varian said stiffly. “I must have something, Willoughby.”

“I do understand, my lord. Still, I might be able to preserve as much as a thousand pounds.”

“I might make twelve thousand into twenty-four this very night.”

Willoughby said nothing. His face had lost color in the last few minutes, and the expression in his eyes had grown bleak. He appeared some decades older than the fortyish man who had greeted Varian a short while before.

Varian rose. “If there is nothing else, I’d best be on my way.”

“Yes, my lord. I imagine you would wish an advance on the sum, since the paperwork will take some time. Will a hundred do for the present?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

After leaving the solicitor’s office, Varian proceeded unhurriedly toward Oxford Street. At this early hour, he stood little risk of encountering any of his acquaintances. Glancing down at his threadbare cuffs, he thought ruefully that his friends wouldn’t recognize him anyway.

His appearance, however, could be quickly amended, now that he’d a few pounds in his pocket. One of his favorite tailors would surely have something on hand. With a few alterations, Lord Edenmont would be presentable by nightfall. He’d take his brothers to dinner, and perhaps they’d look in at Brooks’ club. Then he’d try a hand or two at the card tables, just to make sure he still knew what he was about.

His mind busy with plans for transforming his windfall into a vast fortune, Varian turned a corner, then stopped.

An elegant bow window jutted over the sidewalk. Within it stood a gathering of tiny mannequins dressed in the latest modes. One miniature lady, garbed in a walking dress, caught his eye. Her white muslin petticoat boasted four rows of ruffles round the bottom. Over it she wore a richly worked open robe. A green spencer tightly encased her upper torso. Matching green shoes and a plumed headdress completed the ensemble. The green was very much like the color of Esme’s eyes.

As he studied the other figures, Varian could easily picture Esme dressed in a sumptuous ball gown, whirling to the lush strains of a waltz. He imagined as well an elegant carriage lined in green velvet, and his lady wife upon the seat, smiling up at him as they rolled dow

n the Champs Elysees, Paris. They could run away and live like royalty on his inheritance. For years, perhaps.

He had no sooner closed his eyes to savor the glorious image than it dissolved into numbers: £12,000 per annum, a thousand a month. He could spend as much in minutes at rouge et noir. But no. He’d double his windfall, triple it. Yet his mind’s eye offered only heaps of IOUs and small stacks of coins upon a green baize gaming table. Meanwhile, his brain tolled out that ghastly cliche” about lucky at cards...

“But I must have something,” he muttered as he opened his eyes again.

Children. If God is generous…

Twelve thousand pounds today. But tomorrow?

As he looked down again at the tiny lady in green, Varian’s expression softened.

He strolled into the shop and asked the modiste for a piece of paper and a pen. His sensually indolent countenance did the rest.

Varian had only to smile—which he did, rather shyly—and Madame would have burned down her shop if he asked her to. Without a word she got the materials he requested. Then she stood, her fingers unconsciously covering the racing pulse at her throat, and stared at his face in a sort of delirium while he wrote.

It took not a minute. Varian folded the note and placed a coin on the counter beside the pen.

“I’m much obliged,” he said. “It couldn’t wait, you see.”

‘“Non, m’lord. Certainment, m’lord,” she said breathlessly. She was about to offer to carry the message for him—to China, if he wished—when she recollected some fragment of her dignity and offered to send one of her assistants with it instead.

The note was put into Mr. Willoughby’s hands not fifteen minutes later.

“Pay them,” read the slashing black script. Beneath sprawled a large, hasty, “E.”

Lady Brentmor flung open the copy of Ackermann’s Repository Esme had just slammed shut. “If you won’t pick out your frocks, I’ll pick ‘em for you,” she said.