Chapter Seven #3
“Mr. Justin Wright, adopted son of Charles Nichols and Alice Nichols, son of one Mr. Timothy Wright is the heir to the Rothesay dukedom and all of the corresponding titles. There is a cottage in East Sussex near Brighton, a castle in Scotland, a townhouse in London, and of course, Hollyhead House, which your predecessors used as their seat.”
Cordelia felt Portia’s hand on her shoulder, squeezing it.
“So, it all falls to you. Every piece of artwork, family heirlooms, including remaining jewels, paintings, and furniture.”
“Right,” the duke said, beneath an exhalation.
“Now,” Mr. Ingram continued, “there is the small issue of capital.”
“What issue is that?” Peverill cut in.
Mr. Ingram paused, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “Well, there’s the fact that you have none. In fact, you most likely have negative capital, at this point.”
“What?” the duke asked. “How could that be? I own four properties!”
“It seems that there were multiple liens taken out on the London townhouse to help pay for necessities. The castle in Scotland is dilapidated, and I am quoting a family friend who went to look in on it recently, ‘so infested with rats my wife thought the floor was moving.’”
“Better luck next time, hey Wright?” Peverill said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lady Cordelia, would you kindly ring for a footman? Anyone else for a stiff drink?”
“Yes,” the duke and Portia said at the same time.
Mr. Ingram looked positively put out by that, but Cordelia rang anyway.
“Do you have any good news for me on there, Mr. Ingram?” he asked. The duke did not look thoroughly alarmed yet, only as though he were weighing his options.
“Apparently the cottage is quite quaint. Though a family of squatters has been living in it since 1820. It seemed the late duke did not have a mind to throw them out.”
“So, I effectively have a mortgaged townhouse and Hollyhead?”
“Yes, but Hollyhead, it seems, has been losing money for quite some time. There have been several years of failing harvests. The livings are hard to make and the house has been in desperate need of repairs for the past ten years. It appears… and this is the unpleasant part… that the late duke was using the ladies’ dowries to keep things afloat. ”
There was a knock at the door. Cordelia stood to receive it, but Peverill was already there. The footman left a tray with a large tumbler of amber liquid and several crystal glasses. Peverill poured for everyone.
“Here you are, my lady,” he said softly, handing a glass to Cordelia.
She sloshed it around the sides for a moment.
He’d filled it as much as the duke’s. Ladies, of course, were not meant to drink copious amounts of brandy.
But she supposed learning that you were worth less than nothing called for it.
Tentatively, Cordelia took a sip. And nearly spit it out.
Instead, she forced the bitter liquid down her throat, letting it burn a hot trail to her stomach. Curiously, the warmth that settled in her belly felt pleasant.
Mr. Ingram sighed. “I am truly sorry to deliver this information, Your Grace. The late duke did leave some specific instructions to deal with the four ladies he left behind. They were addressed to the other late duke, William Nichols.”
The duke nodded his head, gesturing for the solicitor to continue while he swigged the brandy.
“W-well, he asked that the ladies be provided for this London season, and that suitable matches would be found for both Lady Cordelia Nichols and Lady Portia Nichols. With all haste.”
Cordelia heard Peverill snort. He then proceeded to cover it with a cough. She expected that Portia was staring daggers at him.
“Is that all?” Mr. Wright asked.
“I’m afraid not, sir. This is most unusual. In fact, I have never seen something like this before,” Mr. Ingram said, shuffling his papers.
Portia slumped against the back of the settee, her glass already empty.
The duke muttered something under his breath and Peverill began to pace.
Mr. Ingram mumbled to himself as he searched through stacks of paperwork.
Cordelia felt perspiration begin to pool at the small of her back.
Her fingers itched as she considered throwing propriety into the wind to open that blasted window.
“Hurry up, man! Long pauses are for actors and wh—” he began, but the duke shot him a deadly look. “Ladies of ill repute,” Peverill finished, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Better,” the duke replied.
“Ah!” Mr. Ingram exclaimed, producing a letter. It had a wax seal that showcased the Rothesay coat of arms. “This is for you.”
The duke stood and took the paper from Mr. Ingram’s outstretched hand. He opened it and began to read, the corners of his mouth turning down.
“What does it say?” Portia asked, her voice trembling. Cordelia gathered her sister’s hands in hers, urging her to sit down. Portia shook her head, seating herself on the edge of the settee. She bit the end of her thumbnail as the company watched Mr. Wright’s eyes move down the page.
“It… it appears to be some sort of riddle.”