Sir Henry Ainsley
At this time, Lord Hastings has determined to call in your debt in full. Emerging information has made it clear that your capabilities to pay are not strong, and being that the amount is large, it is in his best interest to have it paid now.
Respectfully,
Perkins, solicitor
Henry pulled the paper closer to his face, squinting down at the words as he read the letter through twice more. The contents did not change, and his heart began to thunder in his ears.
Emerging information? What information? Henry kept a tight hold on his finances and on his image. Outside of moving to a smaller apartment, nothing had outwardly changed. His sister still attended the same events, still received pin money, and even had a new gown or two every Season.
Inwardly, the story was different, of course—with modifications made to their staff, their shopping, and Henry’s personal candle usage.
But Henry made certain that story was never heard, not even by his sister.
To her he explained the changes with varied forms of—rather impressive, if he might say so himself—excuses.
He never actually liked venison and duck, their butler had been aging, Almack’s was stuffy and he no longer wanted to subscribe.
Brilliant, he was.
He trudged back to his chair and fell into it, the near-broken leg creaking in protest. Unfortunately, at the moment he did not feel so very brilliant.
What was he going to do? He’d been quietly working his tail-end off for the last five years to mitigate the damage he had caused; and mostly, he’d been successful.
He only had a few open accounts, only a few men to whom he owed money.
But Hastings. Of all people to learn of this, Hastings was the worst.
An icy grip had taken hold of his chest, cinching tighter and tighter about his lungs. This man could ruin his life. He could ruin Julia’s life. If Henry shifted his energy into only paying Hastings back, perhaps he could make the debt, but certainly not in the timeframe demanded.
There was always . . . but no. He could not go back to that life.
The door to his study creaked.
“Gads, Henry, how can you see in here?”
Henry squinted up at James Fenwick, the Earl of Bowcott. His friend stood in the doorway, watching Henry’s shadowed form.
Henry cleared his throat, trying to push aside the lingering fear that came from Hastings’s letter and put on his usual jovial expression. “I thought to try being a Gothic hero. Don’t I paint a romantic picture?”
“If the picture was black with a few streaks of gray, perhaps.” James came further into the room, and Henry raised a brow when their friend, Lucas Berkeley, heir to the Cheltenham Marquessate, followed.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Henry set down the pen, pushing from the chair and nearly sending the rickety thing to the floor. Had Lucas and James ever paid him a call here? Had Henry even told them the address?
He swallowed, grateful for the darkness to hide the state of the room. There were not even extra chairs to invite his friends to sit.
It was Lucas who answered, clasping his hands behind his back. “It is time to let us help, Henry.”
Needing something to do, Henry paced to the window. “Wonderful, and what aid will you give? Saving me from my own boredom? You ought to have sent your wives, then. They are far more enjoyable company than you two.”
It was dark, but that didn’t hide the fact that neither Lucas nor James laughed at his quip.
James crossed his arms, eyes taking in the dim room.
Henry saw it through his eyes: too dim, too shabby, too sparse.
“We do not know how bad it is, but based on where this new apartment is, I imagine it is worse than we thought. You do not need to do this alone, Henry. Whatever scrape you’ve gotten yourself into, let us help. ”
Henry leaned forward on his desk. “Julia liked this location. She has . . . friends nearby.” The lie sat heavy on his tongue. Henry’s sister had many friends, but he did not know any of them personally.
“Come now, Henry,” Lucas said, a knowing cadence to his tone.
It made Henry angry. Angry that everyone seemed to have chosen this night to find him out. These men—his best friends since their school years—had been unaware of his struggles for years, but now, when he had come so far and was doing so much better, they had to add to Henry’s shame?
“While I appreciate the social call, I do not need help.” Another lie. What had his life come to that he was lying in conversation with his friends?
Why could he not bring himself to accept their help?
For the same reason he’d not asked them for aid once in the last several years.
No more than encouraging his sister to go and stay with them so he might economize even more.
Because the true problem was not the debt; it was Henry.
It was the fact that he had taken everything his father had built and run it to ground in a matter of months.
It was the fact that for years he had done all he could think of, and still, one man calling in his debt was overwhelming him.
It was the fact that his own sister would lose all respect for him if she learned the extent of his failures.
The fact that he could not bring himself to return to the work he’d once excelled in. Not after everything.
So, he would not take a handout. Could not. That would not fix anything but the sums of money owed. What he needed to fix was who he was and what he had done, and only he could manage that. Not his wealthy, titled friends.
No, he could not just allow them to fix everything—there was no honor in that. He had to do this himself.
Without permission, his hands balled up again. His friends were watching him expectantly.
“Light a candle, Henry. Let us talk about this.” James sounded exhausted.
Did Henry tire him? A horrible possibility occurred.
Were these men here not on account of their friendship but some twisted sort of obligation?
Had Henry fallen so far below them that he was simply dead weight that they had to carry around, and the burden had grown so heavy they felt obligated to lessen it?
The thought made bile rise in Henry’s stomach.
Another certainty piled upon the rest. He could not accept their help, or they’d never see him as a friend again, never an equal, but some poor soul who’d needed their charity.
Henry steeled his nerves, unable to look either in the face in the wake of his all-consuming shame. “I was just headed out, that is why it is so dark. I was leaving. I have . . . an appointment.”
“It is night, Henry.”
“It is London, Lucas. Half the city does not wake until dinner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I cannot be late.”
The appointment in question was a cup of brandy and a game of cards.
The one luxury Henry afforded himself was the cheapest possible subscription to a London club. And he only allowed it because it was so profitable to him.
The man to his left was three drinks deep and acting accordingly, which was exactly as Henry preferred it. His tells were more exaggerated, and his tongue more loose.
Henry set his drink on the table beside his cards, eyes lazily roving the room.
At this hour, it was nearly empty. There was the table of five men at which he sat, another game being played across the room, and two men enjoying a drink near the entrance.
He could see neither face, with hats drawn low, but one man appeared to be watching their game.
Henry shook off the feeling of eyes on him, and his gaze returned to his card partners.
Half of him was disgusted with himself as he sat there playing the fool but actually making fools of every drunken sop at the table.
But it was how he was painstakingly paying back every pence he’d lost without ruining his or his sister’s reputation in the process.
Since he held his liquor so well, it was often embarrassingly easy to beat out every other card player.
Even easier to get them to talk—little bits of information that made it easier to choose his next venture—and even the occasional agreement to let him in on something that generally would be far too rich for his blood.
And, every so often, larger on dits that, if proven true, turned a profit in their own right.
Not outright blackmail—he drew the line at that—but oftentimes, if he simply mentioned something incriminating that a man had said when entirely in the wind, said man would pay Henry if only to keep him quiet.
Blast, but that did sound like blackmail, didn’t it?
What had happened to him? How had he gotten to this despicable point in his life? How had he gone from using his skills of deduction for good, to using them for his own gain?
He knew, of course. He vividly recalled nearly every moment of his months-long stint in debauchery.
Pain at his father’s sudden loss, heaviness of the title he now held, and the guilt and responsibility on his shoulders had turned him loose.
He had drunk and gambled his way through London.
Had racked up debts he could not fathom when at last he became sober.
Had hurt his sister and their relationship.
And that was why he had to fix it all himself, because he had been the one to create the problems in the first place.
So, blackmail or not, he needed both an incredible win and maybe even some incriminating information if he was to do anything about Hastings. The knowledge that the man was coming for him hung in his mind—a black cloud over his every thought even when dulled with the alcohol.
“My wife will kill me if I stay and lose another pound,” the man across from Henry declared, standing a bit haphazardly.
“But how happy will she be when you buy her a new necklace with your winnings from the next round?” Henry asked, slurring his words just enough to be believable. “Did you not say that she had been, ah, bemoaning her limited options?”