Chapter Two
Robert Morton sat in the library of his London town home, his mood as gloomy as the gray, wet weather he could see through the window.
An unusual, early-June rainstorm had moved in, which would most likely spoil plans for Lady Waddingham’s outdoor garden party the next day.
Robert had hoped to attend. He was eager to see a certain Miss Phoebe Graham and hoped to further his acquaintance with the petite, pretty, and flirtatious young lady.
The two had already danced together at three prior gatherings, and Robert found Phoebe pleasant enough, even though her conversation was lacking in any great intelligence.
But then, Robert had no sisters and had spent little time in the company of fashionable young ladies; perhaps they all behaved in this manner.
In addition to her honey-blonde hair, slim figure, and infectious giggle, Miss Graham had one other very attractive feature—she was an “orphan heiress,” having inherited a fortune of five thousand pounds following the death of both of her parents in the West Indies last year.
She now lived with her maiden aunt in a respectable part of London and had just turned eighteen a few months earlier.
The fortune would become Robert’s upon their marriage, although the approval of Phoebe’s aunt was still necessary.
However, as the owner of a sizeable estate, Robert could foresee no probable objections.
Good looks and money in one very presentable young lady.
Quite rare, and precisely the jackpot every eligible man sought during the summer London Season.
After all, why marry for love alone when you could also bring new money into the family?
Robert had seen how popular Miss Graham was among the ton and knew if he were to secure her affections and lock her into an engagement before anyone else, he must work fast. Now, out of mourning, Miss Graham was making the most of her appearances at garden parties, in the fashionable parks, and at museums. It seemed to Robert she was often showing off a new gown.
Perhaps she was looking to stand out during the marriage mart now underway.
I hope she is not burning through too much of her inheritance before I can get my hands on it. She is fortunate her father left her money and not a pile of debts, as mine did.
A knock at the door interrupted his musings.
“Come in,” Robert called.
A house maid popped her head in. “A Mr. Marshall to see you, sir.”
Robert sighed. He was not looking forward to this meeting with his accountant. “Send him in.” Robert stood as a portly man with a shock of white hair waddled in.
“Good day to you, Mr. Morton,” he said, taking the hand Robert proffered and shaking it robustly.
“Although, with this weather, perhaps ‘good’ is the incorrect word to describe the day.” He laughed—a high-pitched sound that always seemed to Robert more suitable for a child than a man in his late fifties.
“Please have a seat, Marshall.” Robert gestured to a chair across from the mahogany desk and returned to his own. “I would beg your forgiveness for a mere housemaid answering the door, but I do not keep a butler here in London. It seems an extravagance when I am here so seldom.”
Mr. Marshall set his leather case down and sat, bobbing his head in agreement. “Indeed, sir, after going over the accounts, I can assure you there is every reason to save what you can. Oh, yes, positively every reason to avoid any and all extravagance.”
Robert could not suppress a small moan.
“How bad is it? I know my father did not manage the estate as well as he might have done after our mother passed, but I was hopeful Brentwood’s next harvest—or two—might rectify matters.”
Mr. Marshall was silent and lowered his eyes. A sinking feeling came over Robert.
“It is…” the accountant began, “a most dire situation, I am sorry to report.”
“Dire, you say?” Robert asked in a voice that sounded much weaker than he wanted.
“I shall explain. At your request, I have spent the past two weeks going over every detail of your late father’s estate. I regret to inform you that the debts are worse than we imagined. Far worse.” Mr. Marshall bent over to his leather case and dug out a sheaf of papers, which he handed over.
Robert scanned the papers quickly. His heart sank as he saw the figures, but he was still unsure of the full nature of his situation.
“How much is owed? In total,” he asked.
“Forty-five hundred pounds,” Mr. Marshall said morosely.
Robert felt as though someone had hit him in the gut.
“Then…I must borrow what is needed. I shall go to the banks tomorrow and secure enough to pay off the debts. Brentwood is not a terribly large estate, but it is still valuable. I shall make whatever cuts are needed until we are back on solid ground. Or, there is the town home—I could take out another mortgage on it, perhaps, to tide me over.”
Mr. Marshall shook his head. “Your father already took out a second mortgage on this property and did not keep up with the payments. No bank would loan against it, I fear.”
Robert felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. How close to ruin was he?
“But Brentwood? Surely that would be enough collateral for…” He stopped speaking as his accountant shook his head firmly.
“You must retrench at once and quite severely.” Mr. Marshall reached into his bag and brought forth another sheet of paper.
“I have taken the liberty of making suggestions that I believe will help turn the tide. First of all, since you say you are seldom in your London home, you should consider selling the property. That would go a long way toward resolving the debt.”
“Never!” Robert cried. “This home has been in our family for three generations. No gentleman is worth his salt without a property in town.”
“I suspected you might say that. The alternative is slightly better. Return to Brentwood for the rest of the year and rent out the town home. The income would allow you to whittle down the debt a bit until the harvest comes in, as well as show the banks your good intentions toward managing things. Now, as it happens, I know of a gentleman from Oxford who is looking for a town home in a fashionable neighborhood and would, I believe, take it without hesitation. However, you would need to be out in a fortnight.”
Leave London? With the Season now underway? What kind of scandalous talk would it generate? His reputation might be badly tarnished.
“Is there no other solution?” he asked softly, still studying the damnable papers.
“I am afraid not.” His face brightened. “Well, there is one other hope.”
“What is it?”
“Find an heiress and marry her as soon as possible.” He gave another of his girlish giggles.
Robert sank back in his chair. Marshall had suggested his very plan, but there was no hope of capturing Miss Graham’s heart and her inheritance in the next two weeks.
The Season had just begun—no proper young lady would ever consent to an engagement so soon.
She might even be suspicious of such a hasty proposal, and he wouldn’t blame her—it would have all the marks of a fortune hunter.
Some other lucky man will get his hands on Miss Graham’s fortune, I guess. She was my best hope, but I cannot woo her from the country.
“So? What say you, sir?” Mr. Marshall asked.
“Very well. Let your Oxford gentleman know I shall be out of the house by Tuesday next.”