Chapter 2
Simon Montgomery, the seventh Earl Cartwright—Cart to anyone who knew him personally—stepped through the front door of his London townhouse.
“Good morn, my lord,” Squires, his butler, called deafeningly to him before closing the door with a slam louder than his greeting. “Your mother seeks your attendance in—”
“Simon!” Lady Anastasia Cartwright, his mother, screeched from her private salon before the poor man could finish. “Thank heavens you have returned.”
Cart nodded to his elderly butler and quickly patted his shoulder. Squires had been employed by the Cartwright Earldom since Cart was in his mother’s womb. His mother had sought to have the aging servant replaced on many occasions, but the funds were simply not available to hire another butler.
Thankfully, Cart’s mother would rather have a new gown than a younger servant.
He squared his shoulders, preparing himself for the inquisition he feared was to come.
Lady Cartwright was as formidable as the great storm of 1703, but Cart would not allow her to drive him far off course. She was vexing, to say the least, but they did not have the coin to maintain another residence, either in town or the country.
Cart took a deep breath and pasted a smile on his face before entering his mother’s salon. His morning had been a trying one, but there was no reason he could not put on a brave face.
The sight before him when he entered the room turned his smile into a most disagreeable frown.
“What is all this, Mother?”
Lady Cartwright had a large table moved to the center of her salon and upon it, in neat, orderly rows, were all her jewels—emerald necklaces, teardrop pearl earrings, a line of brooches, a diamond bracelet.
The sheer number of gems with the morning sun gleaming off them from the open window was blinding.
The answer to all their prayers lay before him.
Jewels enough to line the Cartwright coffers anew.
“Mother,” Cart sighed, attempting to hide his exasperation. “What are you doing?”
She turned a dour look to her only son, but quickly returned to her task. She held a pencil nub in one hand and a paper in the other.
Leaning in, he noticed the paper, and several more just like it, covered in notes.
“I am cataloguing all the Cartwright valuables.” Her exasperation mirrored Cart’s, as if any earl would know that when someone broke into your home, the first thing one should do is count the silverware and light sconces.
As if on cue, Mrs. Fryer entered with a tray piled high with the formal flatware.
“Do set it on the table, Ingrid dear.” Lady Cartwright stood from where she sat in a straight-backed chair and looked over the pile. “Yes, there is no doubt. At least three pieces have gone missing.”
“You cannot possibly know as much simply by looking at a heap of metal,” Cart retorted. “It is highly unlikely.”
His mother set aside her paper and nub to turn her stare on him—in his youth, that look would have sent him running. However, he stood his ground, refusing to cower no matter the hardness behind her look.
“Simon.” She preferred using his given name only as it vexed him so. “I have been the lady of this house far longer than you have been in this world. I know every square inch of it and all it contains. I assure you, my assessment is correct.”
He wanted to snort at her words. Even if a few forks went missing, no one would be the wiser or care as they hadn’t entertained since before his father’s passing—and his uncle’s petition for guardianship of Cart until his majority.
It was then everything had come crashing down on him.
Not all at once, but a slow tidal wave of decay, his family title and estate going from once affluent to only a step above destitute.
It had taken his uncle, Mr. Julian Montgomery, a mere three years to empty the family coffers and abscond to The Colonies.
In the several years since Cart had reached the age of majority and returned from Eton to find his finances and estates in disrepair, he had worked tirelessly to recover all that his uncle had piddled away or sold.
It was a tiring activity and frowned upon by polite society, but his drive had never waned, regardless of his mother’s thoughts on the matter.
“Did you expect I would return to slumber?” his mother inquired. “And trust you to attain answers and justice for the violation of our property last night?”
Cart didn’t expect anything from his mother—except the headache that was currently taking over.
Bloody hell, but she made it difficult to cherish her sometimes.
A man should adore his mother, as she should adore her son in return. Yet, his mother sought to undermine him at every turn.
“I did as I said I would do,” Cart reassured her. “I followed up with the night watchman, who confirmed they had detained someone, but they found nothing on their person to warrant holding them or sending for a magistrate to take the matter further.”
“And you did not insist on summoning the magistrate?”
“I was assured the night watchman likely plucked the wrong miscreant from the street.” Cart had been disappointed as well with the assistance the night watchman had offered.
Moreover, regardless of the inadequacy of the man, the thief was certainly long gone by the time the alarm was sounded.
Cart had little to no confidence that anyone would be apprehended.
“Alas, I will not see Theo worrying herself into a fit over this. I shan’t allow this or anything similar to transpire again. ”
Lady Cartwright’s brows pulled together, doubt clouding her expression.
“You cannot say that with any certainty, Simon. Once you lock yourself away in that dreadful room or, heaven forbid, depart to see a client…” She said the word in a whisper as if it were a vulgarity not proper to cross her lips.
“Your sister and I will be left to fend for ourselves once more.”
The fact that their survival depended on Cart’s clients as well as his need to earn a wage to sustain their way of living irked his mother to no end.
As a matter of fact, it angered him, as well.
However, they’d been left with no other option; anything not entailed to the Earldom had been sold—if it hadn’t been pilfered by his scoundrel of an uncle first—and any servant who hadn’t been with the family for over a decade had been helped to find another position elsewhere.
She’d gone so far as to demand he keep his disreputable activities from coming to light at social engagements.
He’d readily agreed as he very seldom attended anything ton related, preferring to spend his unoccupied time searching through old tomes to increase his knowledge of antiquities or attending auction houses in pursuit of his own missing family heirlooms.
“I shall never leave you and Theo to care for yourselves,” he promised, no matter how often his mind wandered to the notion of stealing off to the country in the dead of night with his sister in tow.
“Her name is Theodora, Simon. How many times must I correct you?” Lady Cartwright resumed her seat before the table containing every jewel on the property.
“She is the daughter of an earl, not the bastard offspring of a sully maid. Such a nickname will tarnish her chances of finding a suitable match.”
Cart longed to tell his mother a nickname was the least of Theo’s worries pertaining to her future.
However, he wanted to hold on to hope that Theo would live a far less taxing life than Cart had thus far.
He’d worked so hard to put aside money for her dowry—and to guarantee she would never gain worry that her family had been cast into ruin, as Cart had.
He’d been overwhelmed and angry when Eton had discontinued his education due to non-payment from his uncle’s solicitor.
He’d been banished from his living quarters without benefit of any further explanation, his studies cut abruptly short just shy of his twenty-first birthday.
That was something Theo would never experience—he’d given her that vow years ago. He would move heaven and Earth to keep his promise.
Until their fortunes changed, Cart would continue to study and keep abreast of antiquities.
As far as he figured, the market for making coin quickly dealing with rare objects was far superior to investing in shipping and business ventures, which required more funds upfront with little guarantee that any return on investment would be seen.
And that the business allowed Cart to retrieve his own treasured family heirlooms in the process was a boon.
A painting of the very first Earl Cartwright or a gilded, gold leaf chair constructed by his great uncle may not be of any significance to his mother, but his ancestors and their journeys were of great import to him.
He lowered himself into the chair directly across from his mother before responding. He immediately regretted his decision to sit because she huffed and went back to her work—her normal dismissive nature.
“Please, look at me,” he requested. He needed to see her eyes when he spoke his next words; needed to see that she did not dismiss his meaning before she allowed the words to sink in.
“You—and Theodora—are the most important people to me. Your well-being is my utmost priority, whether that means providing a financially secure future for you both or allowing you an ear for listening.”
Her chin lifted ever so slightly in reproach.
He’d noticed her reactions to his sentiments for years, her guarded rejoinders and avoidance of their true situation. It was as if she had something more to say, some light she could shed on the situation. Instead, she reverted to silence or cutting remarks.
And Cart allowed it.
In a way, he felt like the wall she’d built between herself and her two children was warranted.