Chapter 4
Four
After a none-too-restful night, Alec sat up in bed and rang for his man.
He was still tired but knew he couldn’t get back to sleep.
His thoughts were already circling round and round in his head.
“Like carrion birds,” he muttered to himself.
Time to get up and screw his courage to the sticking place, or whatever the phrase was.
As in, news from home. There was likely a letter arrived in the post this morning from his steward, as there hadn’t been one yesterday.
“No use in running and hiding, Raeburn.”
It took only a few moments for Archibald to enter, bearing a steaming cup of something in one hand (one of his latest cures for distemper, no doubt), and a letter in the other.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Archibald. I value your promptness, though it is also a sign of how thin the walls and how small these rooms are that you can hear the slightest creak.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Alec laughed quietly. “Archibald, you are far too good to me. Hand over this morning’s latest concoction. It won’t work, you know, they never do—my general dyspepsia beats all comers. Yes, and the letter, too. Perhaps your potion will help to counter the news inside.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The slim, slight manservant gave his employer a keen look and then approached the bed warily, first handing him the mug, then setting the letter on the bedside table. “I recommend a gulp or two of the tonic first, Your Grace.”
“Why, have you read it?”
“Of course not, Your Grace.” Archibald drew himself up to his full height, which meant he was still only as tall as his employer’s armpit, if one were to stand them back-to-back.
He forgot himself enough to smooth down his already smooth head, receding hairline and all. “It’s just it always is, Your Grace.”
That earned him a wry smile. “It is. You have me there. Be off with you, then. I will read and grump and then ring when I am ready to get dressed.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Waiting until Archibald left and carefully closed the door behind him, Alec took a tentative sip out of the mug.
The horrid taste gave him over to a coughing fit, and he roughly sat the mug down on the table, slopping a bit of liquid on the letter.
Snatching the latter up, he broke the seal, coughed once more for emphasis, and began reading.
Things had not improved since the last letter.
Or the missive before that one. Or, well, since he had left his estate and headed down to London.
The last crop had done terribly, and the cattle were poorly; what else might be mortgaged or borrowed to get enough seed for the spring planting?
And were there any funds to replenish his languishing herd?
He knew the answers to those questions: precious little.
His late father had not possessed the slightest interest in managing anything and had ignored everything—even the good bits—his only slightly capable steward had advised.
Then that unlamented man (his father, not necessarily the hapless steward) had gone and died while Alec was fighting Bonaparte.
His wife, whom he discovered did not have the wherewithal to manage things in his absence, died of a short illness soon after his return while he was recovering from wounds he had suffered, leaving him to care for his daughter and his tenants all on his own.
It was a litany he could recite in his sleep. And he had.
The one bright spot was the fact of said daughter, however.
He had taken one look at Marjorie when she had first been put in his arms and had fallen completely and utterly in love with her.
Which is why he was here. In London. With said daughter.
Marjorie came first from the moment she was born.
His daughter needed a mother, someone to smooth out the rough patches and, well, to be a mother. And dash it all, he needed money.
Money. This particular topic always required that he begin to do the sums in his head for what he specifically needed, and he felt his stomach twist in response.
It was so confoundedly mercenary! And cold-blooded!
Even if he set the principles of honor and fair dealing aside—no, dash it!
Technically, there was nothing dishonorable about what he was doing, if he was straightforward about it and dealt fairly with the eventual woman in question. But it still gnawed at him.
All right, sums. He knew what the figures totaled out to, of which he’d need to survive, down to the last groat.
To be crass, he needed the cursed blunt.
And a lot of it. This was not only to save his own estate and everyone who lived on it, but also the future of his daughter.
He could always take up soldiering again, he supposed, but then who would look after her?
He could not leave her in charge of a governess—all of them had been utter disasters.
Finn? That made him blanche. Finn was working hard to be the next Beau Brummell and select and woo the perfect duchess for his own estates.
No, he needed to secure enough funds, but by other means.
That meant securing an heiress. Marrying. Taking a wife solely for her money.
So, let’s say, if we are to build castles in the air—and that is exactly what I am doing—why not 10,000 pounds a year in income?
And that would be on, no more than ten percent and four to five percent of said heiress’ total fortune?
Would he settle for less? He snorted out loud.
Of course he would. Beggars could not be choosers, and he was definitely the beggar in this story.
He was desperate enough; he might even settle for a mere 1,000 pounds per annum.
Lord, I loathe this entire process.
However, there was one direction his mind simply would not go.
He refused to think of anything further along the lines of a wife, as in wifely duties, or anything remotely suggesting an emotional tie.
He had done that once and look where he was now.
Clearly, he was about to feel very, very sorry for himself again, and there was no time to indulge in self-pity.
He was one and thirty, too old for this havering!
As he was hunting for a fortune, he would need to be charming—here, he bared his teeth in a smile, peeling his lips back, then realized that might be a bit too terrifying—and it was time to get to it.
He tugged aggressively at the bell pull, and the damn thing came off in his hand. When Archibald entered, Alec stood up and handed it to him. Wordlessly, his manservant accepted it.
“Very poorly hung,” his lordship said.
“Yes, Your Grace. I will see to it today, Your Grace.”
Alec took a deep, but resigned, breath. “Get me presentable, Archibald. Time waits for no man.”
He settled himself in front of his mirror, and Archibald went to fetch a basin of warm water so he could begin the morning’s shaving ritual.
I am a soldier, Alec reminded himself. That is what I know how to do. I know what my orders are. I simply need to settle down and obey them.