Chapter Four
“I am afraid that is all I can pay you today, Mr. Herbert.” Embarrassment and humiliation pounded through Drake like a terrible poison, making him ache to be done with it.
He straightened his spine and carried on.
“I do apologize and swear to continue with future installments, if you will but find it in your heart to allow it.”
The shopkeeper’s troubled expression deepened, and he shook his balding head. “I know these debts are not of your making, my lord, but we are businesspeople and must survive on our profits. The Wakefield estate owes us payment in full. We are talking quite an amount here.”
“I understand that.” What the shopkeeper didn’t realize was that Drake had already sold everything he could part with other than the land his father had left him.
As much as he hated to, he decided to offer one of the few precious items he had remaining from his parents.
“We have a fine silver service at Wakefield Hall. If I were to bring it here for you to sell and keep the proceeds, would that settle the debt completely? It is very fine.” He cleared his throat again.
“It is from my mother’s side of the family.
A wedding present from when she married my father.
It is not engraved with any initials and is quite elegant. ”
The compassion in the old man’s eyes gave him hope. Finally, the shopkeeper nodded. “Bring it by for a look, Lord Wakefield. We will see what can be done.”
Drake exhaled. “Thank you, Mr. Herbert. Again, I am very sorry.”
“I am sorry you found yourself saddled with such debt, my lord.” Mr. Herbert closed the account ledger and returned it to its shelf behind the counter.
“As do I, sir. As do I.” Drake nodded again, then exited the shop as quickly as possible.
The shame of the conversation tasted bitter, almost making him gag.
Mettlestone’s shop had been the final stop on his list of creditors that he was trying to pay just enough to silence them for a little longer.
Or at least long enough so they might extend a bit more credit for absolute necessities.
Drake hadn’t asked Mr. Herbert about that.
As far as he was concerned, they would do without and continue to try to survive on what hunting and the kitchen garden provided.
Praise be that Mrs. Pepperhill’s brother owned the village gristmill and gave his sister whatever short and coarse brans other customers refused to buy.
While the middlings were not as refined as good flour and were normally used for animal feed, the housekeeper did the best she could to further grind the grains with a mortar and pestle and bake barely passable loaves of bread.
Thank heavens the shy Lady Felicity had chosen to leave the shop in haste and hadn’t been privy to the unpleasantness of his begging Mr. Herbert for more time. “Damn you, Uncle George,” he said under his breath as he strode out of the village. “Damn you straight to hell.”
He didn’t really mean that, but in a way, he did.
Uncle George had paid the price for his poor choices.
They had cost him his legs and his identity.
Drake raked his hair back out of his eyes, making a note to ask Yateston, the butler, to do his best to trim it once again.
He could make do without a valet when it came to most things, but he couldn’t properly cut his own damn hair.
He tried to roll the tension from his shoulders and forced himself to think of more pleasant things.
Lady Felicity was the first pleasantness to come to mind.
He smiled. So, the shy, lovely kitchen maid was a Broadmere sister?
How could he not have realized it? He thought back to last night and the modest apron she had worn.
Then it hit him: the jewelry. How could he not have noticed her earrings and necklace?
Amethysts, maybe? Whatever they had been, even though they were simple, he remembered them as being quite fine.
What a fool he was. No, not a fool exactly.
He hadn’t noticed her jewelry because he had been too entranced by the sweetness of her smile.
“And I was starving,” he said, remembering that the coddled eggs and soldiers had been the first meal he had eaten all day. He had been too busy for anything more than tea and a toss of brandy right before walking to the party.
So, his golden-haired angel with the luscious curves was a Broadmere sister?
His heart lifted. Had he not wished several times that the delightful kitchen maid possessed a dowry?
What providence was this? Not only was Lady Felicity witty and most pleasing to the eye, but her family was flush in the pockets.
The Broadmere sisters possessed the best dowries of the ton—or so the rumormongers said.
He would call upon her tomorrow and every day thereafter until she agreed to marry him.
Not only did he already possess a liking for her and an undeniable attraction, but something deep inside told him he might someday come to love her.
He had never really thought about finding a wife to love, but what a boon that would be.
To love the woman able to solve the lion’s share of his problems and live a happy life, debt free?
Spirits well and truly lifted, he pushed through the Wakefield estate’s back gate that led to the gardens. Merciless thuds and groans came to him, quickening his steps through the maze of overgrown shrubbery.
“Uncle!” Damn, he should not have shouted that. “Mr. Pembroke, take heart! Get off him, you bastards!”
A pair of ruffians broke away from the figure lying beside the overturned bath chair and escaped over the garden wall before Drake reached them. He went to his knees beside his uncle’s battered body.
“Uncle?” he whispered, fearing the worst.
Eyes already swollen shut, nose, mouth, and ears streaming blood, Uncle George barely managed a feeble groan. Hugging himself, hands clutching at his ribs, he ducked his head and curled into a tighter ball, not even realizing the beating had stopped.
“Uncle, it is me. Drake.” Drake gently lifted the old man and rushed inside with him, leaving the bath chair in the garden.
He doubted very much if his uncle could sit upright.
As he eased the softly moaning man down onto the bed, he prayed they could tend to the injuries without having to send for the surgeon.
There was simply no money for a doctor. “Mrs. Pepperhill! Yateston!”
Mrs. Pepperhill skittered into the room first. “Oh, dear heavens, what happened?”
“I am guessing Rum and Catherty happened,” Drake said.
“I fear they somehow discovered our poorly played lie about Uncle’s death.
” This time, from the looks of his uncle, the lie might become a reality, but he didn’t say that aloud.
Both Yateston and Mrs. Pepperhill were more like family than servants and had served the Wakefields for quite some time.
“We need fresh water, bandages, and the last of the brandy to clean some of those scrapes and gashes properly.” He removed his uncle’s shoes and helped the old man straighten his useless legs, tucking them under the covers.
“And any herbs you think might help,” he called after her as she hurried from the room.
Uncle George moaned louder.
“I know, old man. You have taken a right sorry beating. Can you speak? Did those men say anything?” Drake wet a rag in the basin beside the bed.
The water wasn’t cool, but it was all he had until Mrs. Pepperhill returned.
Ever so gently, he cleaned the blood off his uncle’s face and out of his ears.
“Uncle George. Can you hear me? Can you speak?”
“Barely,” his uncle whispered.
“Did you know those men?”
“No.”
“Did they say anything? Do you know why they attacked you?”
Uncle George flinched and bared his teeth, causing the split in his swollen lip to bleed even more. “Owe them money, I reckon.”
“Did you try to tell them you were Mr. Charles Pembroke? That you were an old friend of the dead earl and not the earl himself?”
His uncle snorted, then groaned again and clutched his ribs. “They did not appear to be interested in introductions.”
“If they have discovered our subterfuge, if Rum and Catherty sent them—” Drake shuddered and raked both hands through his unruly hair.
Not only could his uncle be in grave danger once again, but Drake himself could be as well for posing as a peer.
“Are you certain they said nothing? Did you at least attempt to tell them you were not the earl?”
“They were not very chatty, and neither was I.”
Yateston burst into the room, wringing his hands. “I saw the overturned chair in the garden. Do forgive me, Lord Wakefield. I was in the stable helping John.” He paled when he drew close enough to the bed to see Uncle George’s state. “Good heavens,” he whispered.
“When I arrived, ruffians were pummeling him,” Drake said. “There is no money for a surgeon. Pray we can handle his injuries.”
Yateston stepped forward, bowing as he tried to move Drake out of the way with a politeness born from years of service. “Allow me, my lord. I will do what I can.”
Drake gladly stepped back and let the butler take over. He knew how to tend to animals’ injuries from helping his father on the estate. But when it came to tending to people, he feared he was sorely lacking. “Thank you, Yateston.”
Mrs. Pepperhill reappeared with a bucket of water, bandages, crocks, jars, and the last bottle of brandy in the house gripped under her chin. “I believe I have everything, my lord,” she said, straining to speak without losing the bottle.
Drake helped her set it all down on the cabinet on the other side of the bed. Thinking it might help Uncle George to weather the treatments, he decided to share his best news of the day. “Uncle, do you remember my telling you about the kitchen angel who fed me last night?”