Chapter Two
Sebastian Brightwater was as typical a gentleman as any.
Educated, having taken a tour of the continent in his twenties and now settled into managing his family’s country home, he notably enjoyed tours of gardens and listening to music, especially the violin.
He had stuffed away every bad thing that had ever happened to him, and adeptly so.
It would be difficult to identify him in a crowd if it were not for the soft curl of his blond hair and the intensity of his blue eyes.
Tonight, those eyes were closed as he rested his forehead in his hands, his elbows propped against his study desk. Before him fanned out a swath of legal and financial papers. Not one of them was good.
The only acceptable thing on his desk was his whisky, which he drank with abandon. He’d found it in his father’s liquor cabinet, the bottle already half drank, another piece of business that the godforsaken viscount had left unfinished when he’d fallen asleep a fortnight ago and never awoke.
Debts. So many of them. No singular one was enormous or insurmountable.
No, it was not one single death blow that his father had dealt the family’s finances over the years.
It was a thousand tiny stab wounds over a long period of time, until finally the beast was slain by sheer exhaustion.
Not that it mattered how big or small the debts were; in the end, the effect was the same.
The Brightwater family was completely, irrevocably fucked.
He’d always known his father was a reprobate.
There’d been many reasons why Sebastian had fled to Oxford at the first opportunity, but his father’s presence had been high on the list. He’d spent his years thereafter avoiding London whenever he knew his father was here gallivanting.
He’d spent the past few years up north with his mother and sister, and did not return to the city until news of the viscount’s sudden death reached him at the Derbyshire estate.
But it wasn’t until now, with it all on display in front of him, that he realized just how ill-suited his father had been to control anything, let alone the entire family fortune.
He thought of his sister at the country home.
She would never have a dowry now. Likely never marry.
Both she and his mother would have to vacate the home and stay with a friend until they could scrounge up enough money for meager quarters.
Even after he evicted his father’s mistresses from their homes and sold the houses off, the family would only loosely avoid abject poverty.
Sebastian had always been quite apt with numbers. Tonight, it did not matter which way he crunched them; they remained against his favor.
He could borrow some, for a short time. His own reputation was good enough that he could get by on goodwill.
But there was not enough time to pay off even those debts before the creditors would get antsy.
Not to mention the damage it would do to his trustworthiness in the long run.
A short-term solution that would forever harm his attempts to do business, should he have to turn to trade one day.
He ran his hands through his hair again, surprised that clumps of it had not started to fall out at this point.
He needed a drink, a cigar, and good company to settle his senses. Though he would have to give up his membership at Reynold’s soon in order to preserve the extra funds, he had already paid his dues for the following month. He might as well enjoy it now, while he still had it.
With a jolt of newfound energy, he pushed away from the desk and called for his carriage.
*****
Two hours later, he was several whiskies deep into conversation with his friends and feeling no better about his misfortune.
It was a trio of them, seated in the overstuffed chairs by a fire, a pack of cards opened in front of them but with no game having commenced.
Sebastian sat in between Reginald Browning and William Bancroft, two of his better chums from his childhood and subsequent Oxford days.
They’d been there for him then. As predicted, they were here for him now.
“He really left you in such dire straits, then?” Browning asked quietly, conscious of the other men engaged in their own games and conversations nearby.
Sebastian nodded. “Worse than dire. Dire implies hope of the situation turning around.”
“Oh, don’t give in to despair,” Bancroft said, somewhat dismissively. “Fortunes are always changing one way or the other. You merely need a good turn of the tide.”
“‘Turn of the tide,’” Sebastian scoffed. Tossing back another burning drink, he added, “It’d be one hell of a turn.”
Browning gave him far more sympathy. “And there is nothing else? No land producing money? Nothing more to sell off?”
Sebastian shook his head. “My father was not a great steward of his holdings. A lot of land has gone fallow. Most of what he kept up was here in London, for his own pleasure, and it scarcely produces anything more than bastards, if his mistresses are unlucky.”
Reginald flinched at his coarse language. Sebastian told himself to reign things in; for all the rage he felt against his father, he would not allow himself to be the apple so close to the proverbial tree.
“After I sell everything, there will not be enough to turn my own tide. And I cannot borrow enough to do so without great gamble, as I would not be able to pay back even a fraction if my investments did not turn out. I believe I have thoroughly been painted into a corner, and my mother and Georgiana alongside me.”
Reginald nodded. “Welcome to the burden of being a gentleman. Suddenly every woman in your life is completely dependent upon you.”
After a pause, his friend cocked his head, a thought having struck him. “I know it might be a bit uncouth to suggest, but have you considered marrying? Even a modest dowry would be enough to put you back in working order.”
Sebastian had, in fact. The idea had lingered in the shadows of his mind, refusing to step out into the forefront. Now, it took its turn in center stage, ready to dazzle.
“I…” he groaned, running his hand along his face in resignation. “I don’t know that I could do it.”
This was the truth of the matter. He was thirty and one.
It was certainly not the first time he’d had to think of marriage.
In the past, though, he’d always thought about it with certain expectations.
Children, fidelity, perhaps even real love or, failing that, fondness.
He’d never considered it as a business prospect.
But it was, wasn’t it? For the lady as well as himself. For her, whoever she was, it would be to gain the protection of his title. For him, it would be to take over her dowry and try, in as fast a manner as he could, to turn it into a fortune before the debtors came knocking.
“I have heard, through some sources, that Miss Bloomdale’s dowry is as much as fifty thousand.”
Sebastian nearly fell out of his seat at hearing the number. He’d heard of large dowries, but that price was nearly extortion for all it could convince a man.
“And what is so wrong with her, then?” he asked, though a part of him struggled to care much about the answer. Fifty thousand pounds to a man facing ruin was a great balm, indeed.
Bancroft snorted with laughter. “What is not wrong with her?”
Sebastian’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I have seen her in ballrooms. She is not an ugly woman, and rather composed. What is her fault?”
“She is about the silliest creature I have ever met,” Bancroft said plainly, even unkindly.
“Never once have I met a girl who tittered on for so long about absolutely nothing at all. And her voice is shrill. I cannot judge you in your current circumstances, of course, but I would advise you to at least dance with her a few times before you offer a proposal. I daresay you shall see exactly what I speak of, and will be able to know if it is a defect you could live with.”
Fifty thousand pounds no longer sounded so enticing. He hated silly people. Whenever he was in the company of one, he found that he grew embarrassed on their behalf, though they themselves rarely felt such shame.
That had to be the worst thing in the world, in his mind - to have a wife who was embarrassing. He could tolerate so many other vices. Shyness. Prudishness. Gullibility. But to have a woman by his side who caused tiny scandals everywhere she went was a true sentence to societal death.
“Nevermind Miss Bloomdale,” he shrugged. “Bancroft, it seems that you are more attuned to the ladies of the ton than either I or Browning. What say you about my future prospects?”
Bancroft winced. “They are bleak, if I am honest. I am sure you think it uncharitable of me to say, but the young women these days are not what they used to be. They do not know their manners well, and so many of them behave like chits as if it is attractive. Or worse, they deem themselves so superior in intelligence that they go on and on about any and all subjects as if they are experts.”
“It sounds as if all ladies grate on you at all times, regardless of virtue,” Sebastian quipped. In doing so, some of that tightness in his chest abated, and he felt freer.
Quickly humbled, Bancroft conceded. “There are some admirable women in the world, of course, but I do find that most are ridiculous.” Glancing quickly from Sebastian to Browning, he added, “Sisters of present company notwithstanding, I assure you.”
Browning rolled his eyes, then looked about the room. “I am going to go and procure more cigars. I have a feeling that this is going to be a longer discussion than anticipated.”
On a hunt, he disappeared into the adjoining room. In his absence, Bancroft leaned in closer and spoke discreetly.
“I will write a list for you, Brightwater.” Grabbing a nearby set of stationary, he returned to his seat and began writing.
“There are only a handful of young women whose dowries make up for whatever defects of character they display. Stick with this list, and you may find that you are not so sorry for your future self.”
Though he did not concede as much, Sebastian was grateful for such direction.
Bancroft was a bulldog in all aspects of his life - personal, professional, political.
He knew everything about everyone, especially if there was sordid information to be wielded.
Whatever names he gave would surely be the cream of the crop so far as Sebastian’s options went.
In a rushed flourish, Bancroft finished his list and handed it over. Sebastian read through the hastily-written names, recognizing most of them. It was the final name on the list that gave him pause.
Miss Augusta Browning.
“Piglet?” he asked, incredulity thick in his tone. He’d known Browning’s little sister by her childhood nickname. All the boys had. As he’d hidden himself away in Derbyshire recently, he had no idea what she was like as an adult woman with a real name.
Miss Browning had been a bit of an ugly child, he remembered - chubby, with skin that turned red easily.
He recalled as well that she had been quick to tears, and often whined when the boys got too rough and tumble in play.
Once, she’d wailed after a boy threw a rock at a baby pig, earning her the unfortunate nickname of ‘piglet.’
It was cruel and awful, but no more so than the names that they had come up with for anyone else in their group.
“I could not,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Browning would kill me if I pursued his sister, especially now that he knows my reasons.”
“Browning would be delighted to see her settled, trust me on that. She is twenty and four and has had no luck thus far with suitors.”
“But Bancroft…this is Piglet we’re speaking of. She was always so…” Ugly. Fat. Quick to cry. Ill-humored. “Serious.”
“Yes, and you are seriously in danger of poverty. So, you may find that the two of you have much in common at this time.”
Bancroft’s twisted attempt at a joke only served to make Sebastian more anxious. He could scarcely imagine what sort of young woman such a child had turned out to be.
Browning appeared once again at the door to the room, cigars in hand, and the conversation died in both men’s throats. Sebastian folded up the list and hid it away in his pocket before Browning could seat himself once more.
Together, the trio talked well into the night of women and marriage.
Browning and Bancroft were both more than happy to tease their friend regarding his future bride, whomever she may be.
Sebastian laughed when he was supposed to, but felt little mirth in the topic.
The list in his pocket burned against his skin all night.