Chapter Two
The study in the Montclair townhouse smelled faintly of damp stone and dying pride.
Nicholas Montclair, the eighth Duke of Hawthorne, sat behind an antique rosewood desk that was worth more than what remained in his bank account. A pale beam of morning light angled through the high windows, highlighting a map of his crumbling estate, annotated with far too much red ink.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Tell me again,” he said slowly, “how it is possible that I own five thousand acres and not a single shilling of working capital?”
Across from him, his friend, Lord Sebastian Greaves, lounging like a housecat in the worn leather armchair, gave a low whistle.
“Ah, yes. The eternal mystery of the landed nobility: rich in name, poor in pocket. Like a gilded teacup full of dust.”
Nicholas shot him a look. “Your metaphors are getting worse, Bash.”
“And your finances are getting worse,” Sebastian countered cheerfully. “At least one of us is improving.”
Nicholas didn’t laugh. He turned another page in the ledger. The numbers didn’t change. If anything, they looked more hopeless by candlelight than they had yesterday by sunlight.
“Let’s see,” Sebastian continued, crossing one well-booted ankle over his knee, “your tenants haven’t paid in two quarters, your sheep farm is flooded, your land agent has disappeared—probably drunk in a ditch—and your roof at Hawthorne House is threatening to collapse, should a pigeon land upon it too heavily. ”
Nicholas’s jaw ticked. “Charming summary. Did you come here to offer solutions, or simply to narrate my ruin like a Greek chorus in a cravat?”
Sebastian grinned. “Both. But if I’m to watch you descend into penury, I insist on doing it with style.”
Nicholas stood abruptly, pacing to the hearth. The fire had gone out hours ago, but he hadn’t bothered to have it relit. Coal was expensive. Everything was expensive when you had nothing but titles and a family crest.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, scowling. “My father gutted everything. Every investment failed. Every creditor was lied to or delayed or outright ignored. By the time I inherited, there was barely anything left to salvage.”
“You’ve done what you could,” Sebastian said, softer now. “You’ve cut costs. Sold the hunting box. Closed three wings of Hawthorne House.”
“And now we’re down to selling the draperies,” Nicholas muttered.
“Well, they are terribly out of fashion.”
Nicholas shot him a dry look, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. That was Sebastian’s role: friend, buffer, occasional devil’s advocate, and the only person alive who didn’t treat him like a title with teeth.
Sebastian picked up a crystal decanter from the side table and poured himself a small glass of brandy. “There’s still the dowry route, you know.”
Nicholas turned sharply. “Don’t.”
“Oh, come now. A few clever waltzes at Almack’s, and some unfortunate debutante could find herself wearing your name by summer.”
Nicholas stared at him. “I’d sooner marry a turnip.”
Sebastian raised his glass. “Turnips are famously low-maintenance. But they don’t come with dowries.”
“I’m not going to trap some simpering girl with stars in her eyes and a purse on her hip,” Nicholas said coldly. “That’s not who I am.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “Isn’t it? Or are you just too bloody proud to do what needs doing?”
Nicholas’s silence was answer enough.
He hated it, the entire sordid reality. The title, once so mighty, now felt like a noose. His pride was a weight strapped to his back, dragging him down as surely as the debts. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to beg. Not even for survival.
He crossed back to the desk, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“I’ve written to half the tenants,” he muttered. “Most won’t reply. The others can’t pay. The land is failing. No one wants to invest in an estate on the brink of collapse. The old families sniff at me like I’m a cracked porcelain vase.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “Cracked, maybe. But you’ve still got your jawline. You could do worse.”
Nicholas didn’t rise to the bait. “If you’re so full of ideas, why don’t you marry for money?”
“I would,” Sebastian said easily, “but I rather enjoy being scandalous and unattached. It’s part of my charm.”
“You’re a rake.”
“I’m a successful rake. There’s a difference.”
Nicholas shook his head and sat back down. The chair groaned under his weight. Great, just another piece of furniture clinging to grandeur by a thread.
Just then, his sister, Lady Charlotte Montclair, entered with her usual soft step and calm composure, a sealed letter held delicately between gloved fingers.
She looked like their mother had once insisted a proper lady should: serene, well-coiffed, and impossible to read unless you knew where to look.
“I hope I’m not interrupting?” she asked, eyeing Sebastian with only mild disapproval, as was her custom.
“Always a pleasure, Lady Charlotte,” Sebastian said with a lazy smile, rising and bowing with a theatrical flourish.
Charlotte ignored him. “This just arrived. It’s addressed to you.”
Nicholas took the envelope and turned it over in his hands. The seal was plain. The handwriting was precise. And the name inscribed across the front in slanted black ink sent a cold ripple down his spine.
Mr. John Grantham.
Sebastian stepped closer, peering over Nicholas’s shoulder. “Oh dear. I thought he was dead.”
“He is dead,” Nicholas said flatly, breaking the seal.
“Then either he’s developed an unwholesome talent for ghostly correspondence,” Sebastian murmured, “or someone’s playing games.”
Nicholas unfolded the letter and read silently.
Charlotte moved to the window, drawing back the heavy curtain with a sigh. “Who’s writing to us now, asking for money we don’t have?”
Nicholas didn’t answer as he scanned the page again.
Sebastian poured himself another splash of brandy and sat down. “Go on, then. What does our dearly departed merchant want?”
Nicholas read aloud, his voice clipped:
“To His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne,
In regard to a debt owed to the late John Grantham, your presence is requested at a private meeting to discuss a matter of mutual benefit.
Discretion is requested.”
There was no signature. No name.
Sebastian blinked. “Well. That’s ominous.”
Charlotte crossed her arms. “You’re not seriously considering answering that, are you?”
“I’m not considering anything at all,” Nicholas muttered, tossing the letter onto the desk. “It’s unsigned. Vague. Ridiculous.”
“But addressed to you,” Charlotte pointed out.
“By a corpse.”
Sebastian leaned back, smirking. “Perhaps it’s his daughter writing on his behalf. Miss Grantham. She may have chosen her father’s name for added weight.”
Nicholas snorted. “Then she’s either very bold or very foolish.”
“Both make for interesting women,” Sebastian offered.
Nicholas shot him a glare. “Don’t you have someone else’s wife to scandalize?”
“Tempting,” Sebastian said, “but watching you froth at the mouth over a mysterious letter is far more entertaining.”
Charlotte approached the desk and picked up the page, studying the handwriting. “This isn’t nonsense, Nicholas. Someone went to the trouble of composing it and sending it to your London residence. That implies knowledge. Intent.”
“It implies desperation,” Nicholas said, rising from his chair. “Which I am in no mood to indulge.”
“Then don’t indulge. But don’t ignore it entirely, either,” Charlotte said softly. “Desperate people can be dangerous.”
He didn’t answer right away. He turned his back to them, facing the hearth, shoulders drawn tight.
They all knew what desperation looked like.
He saw it in the unpaid bills piling up on his desk. In the peeling wallpaper of Hawthorne House. In the tremble of Charlotte’s fingers when she stitched her own gloves because there was no money for new ones.
He was tired of being cornered. Tired of pretending.
“No,” he said at last. “I won’t reply. I won’t be summoned like a debtor to some back-room negotiation. If Miss Grantham, or whatever poor soul is writing on behalf of a dead man, thinks they can shake coin from this carcass of a dukedom, they’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Sebastian gave a theatrical sigh. “So that’s a no, then.”
Nicholas didn’t answer. He walked to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of brandy, and downed it in one unceremonious swallow.
Charlotte watched him quietly, then turned and left without another word.
Sebastian rose and stretched. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you to your brooding and brandy. But I do hope, for entertainment’s sake, that she shows up on your doorstep anyway.”
Nicholas muttered something inaudible.
“Pardon?”
“I said, if she does, I hope she brings a ghost and a solicitor. At least then the theatrics would feel earned.”
Sebastian chuckled as he strolled toward the door. “You should be careful, Hawthorne. Ignoring intriguing women who write mysterious letters? That’s how novels begin.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a novel.”
“Isn’t it?” Sebastian opened the door. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Nicholas stood alone, the fireless hearth yawning at his back, and the letter on his desk like a match waiting to be struck.
***
That evening, the chandelier dripped light like diamonds onto the polished floors of Lady Harrow’s townhouse, where the ton gathered like moths in silk and satin. The air was thick with perfume, gossip, and the slow bleed of violins from the drawing room orchestra.
Nicholas stood near the refreshment table and wondered how many more evenings he could endure pretending he wasn’t broke.
“Try not to look like you're plotting a duel,” Sebastian said, swirling his champagne with a smirk. “You're here to mingle. Court. Charm.”
“I’m here because you insisted,” Nicholas muttered.
“Yes, and I stand by it. A crumbling estate is no excuse for bad manners or boring waistcoats. Speaking of which, navy again? You really are mourning your finances.”
Nicholas ignored him, scanning the room with the detached precision of a man inspecting horses he had no intention of buying.