A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (18 page)

Rosalind laid the letter on the desk and went to help her father. She moved him away gently and completed the task easily. She handed the drink to him and he swallowed it in one gulp.

“I don’t know what to do, my dear. I simply do not know what I am to do.” He began to pace in the small room.

“Do? What
can
you do? There is no money to give him. Does the estate earn anything? Surely His Lordship can see for himself, you send him monthly reports.”

“Ah . . . but there’s money . . . there
was
money,” he confessed in a whimper.

“What?”

“Plenty at first but not so much nowadays.” He moaned in sorrow. “I am such a weak man.”

“Where is it? Where did it go?”

“I wrote His Lordship every month, sent the reports as I ought. He didn’t respond. He never responded, not once.” He gave a weary sigh, recounting the past. “There was no direction as to what should be done. No orders for the staff, the property, or the estate. He didn’t care. So I stopped sending them.” Mr. Harris shrugged. “I used a bit of it. What was the harm? It was just sitting there.”

“You
took
the money?” Rosalind gasped in fright.

“No, no . . . I was just borrowing it, only a little, and had every intention of paying the sum back.”

“Tell me you did not— You could not—” Rosalind dreaded what he was about to say.

“It’s gone, it’s all gone.” Mr. Harris nodded. Each nod becoming more pronounced. “I’ve lost it, lost it all. My girl! And now he is to come here. I cannot face him! How am I to tell him that I have gambled all His Lordship’s money away?” The man then dissolved into tears.

Chapter Eighteen

T
hree sets of footprints marked the snow to the back of the house. The fresher ones of Harry and Clare along with the sled they used came from the east. The older set, coming from the lane, were that of one man. The visitor Trevor had seen.

Freddie looked down the lane and heard a team of horses and saw some sort of transport moving slowly away. Clearly, the driver was keeping the horses moving and had every expectation of picking up his passenger before continuing on.

Taking cover in the snowy shrubs, Freddie waited. With his scarf wrapped around his head and neck for warmth, he still shivered and expected it would not take long for Sturgis to make his inquiries and be sent on his way.

Just as Freddie suspected, it only took a few minutes before someone emerged from the front of the house. The figure’s stance and gait looked familiar, and he called out, “Thomas? Is that you?”

“Lord
Brent
?” Recognition widened the valet’s eyes.

“Shhh . . . don’t call me that. Come here.” Freddie waved Thomas away from the house toward the snow-covered shrubbery off to the side. “Down here.” He motioned that the valet squat low as not to be seen. “Come down here, with me.”

It took the valet several attempts at bending his knees to reach the low level that Freddie had attained. The stern examination of Freddie’s scarf-wrapped head to his lack of gloves garnered raised eyebrows from the newcomer.

“What is Your Lordship . . .”

“Shhh . . . I said don’t call me
that
.” Freddie glanced about for any onlookers who might have overheard.

“Er . . . how would you suggest I address you . . . sir?”

“
Sir
is good, or you can call me what everyone else does:
Mr. Freddie
.”

“
Mister Freddie
?” This was said in a highly disapproving manner. “Very well. The D—”

“No!” Freddie silenced the valet and waved his hands.

“His Grace, the Duke—”

“No, no. Not that, either.”

“Your
father
,” Thomas continued, with that being a reference that would be correct and tolerated without giving away Freddie’s social position, “has sent me to find you at Pensh—”

“Ah!” Freddie silenced him again.

“—hoping to discover your whereabouts.”

“Now that you have found me . . . what?”

“I have a letter.” He unbuttoned his outer garment, presumably to retrieve said letter.

“Wait, not here.” Freddie waved. “Come with me.”

“Sir, I believe—”

“Shhh—” Freddie hushed him and motioned for him to follow.

They avoided the lesser used, but more noticeable, front door and entered the house from the back by the parlor door. Looking carefully around each room and corridor they moved through, he led Sturgis up the back stairs to his bedchamber. He opened the door and in they went. Freddie made it a point to bolt the door behind them.

He unwrapped the scarf and removed his coat with his seminumb fingers. Sturgis placed his gloves in his hat and unfastened his heavy coat.

“Shall we be seated? Warm yourself.” Freddie gestured to the two chairs near the hearth and they both sat. “All right. Now let’s hear it.”

This was the moment of truth. The first moment, Freddie surmised, of a very long line of
moments of truth
to come, and none of them, he also expected, would be pleasant.

“I was sent to learn of your whereabouts, or your direction, and, if I was able, to deliver this missive from your father.” Thomas drew a folded letter from his jacket and held it out.

Freddie eyed the missive cautiously before taking possession. He had no doubt it contained bad news, very bad news. He would rather not read it now but with Sturgis before him, Freddie really had no choice and felt compelled to proceed.

He broke the seal and pulled the pages open and realized there were three full sheets; his father must have been
very
angry when he penned the following:

Frederick,

I must convey my deepest disappointment in your recent behavior. I have been inundated with letters and demands regarding your debts from your gaming, lodgings, merchants, and other miscellaneous monies owed by you. Regretfully, I have refused all payments on your behalf.

In your hurry to leave Town, you neglected to pack and/or collect your effects from Fenton’s. The management have generously released possession of your belongings and have been kind enough not to make a scandal of your departure. I have instructed Sturgis to collect your luggage from the hotel and return it to Worth House, leaving the bill unpaid, and for you to settle. However, your other creditors, and fellow gamesters, may not be as thoughtful and upon your return you might find your reputation has suffered.

I have received no less than a dozen peers informing me they are in possession of your vowels. They wish, as you can imagine, to be paid at the soonest opportunity and request your direction, which I am happy to say, I could not provide, in all honesty. I did not, nor will I, settle any of your debts, and leave such matters for you to manage for yourself.

Since you have not returned to Faraday Hall, nor landed at any of your sisters’ or various family members’ doorsteps, I made the leap in thinking that perhaps you might have headed to Penshaw Manor. I am persuaded by the duchess that a bit of rustication in the country might provide some clarity for your present circumstance and in time, perhaps a solution to your situation may present itself.

If Sturgis is fortunate enough to locate you, he has transported with him several trunks, providing ample wardrobe for your stay.

I have no knowledge of how much your accumulated monies and earnings from your estate will help cover your debts since the running of Penshaw has been left totally in your hands. You can expect the usual allowance paid to you on the next quarter day and not any time before.

I can also presume I am not aware of the extent of the amounts you owe. It is my suggestion you pay off your duns before solicitors, your debtors, and various other agents arrive at your doorstep. It is only a matter of time before they find you.

Faraday

Freddie looked up after he had finished reading the letter.

He was right.
His father
was
right. Freddie’s debts were Freddie’s responsibility. As the landowner, it was his obligation to run the estate, care for the tenants.

All of it weighed upon him.

The single most important person’s name was not even mentioned nor was she known to His Grace. But Freddie clearly understood that for even a chance at attaining that
single most important person’s
esteem, he needed to settle all of his debts, make amends to his tenants, and rebuild the house he wanted to make his home.

It was far easier said than done, and the doing of it would take years. Freddie could bring himself to tears if he dwelled upon it for long. It was best not to think of the number of items on the list but to simply begin. When he reached the end he could then turn to Rosalind,
if
she was still there, and
if
she wanted to have anything to do with him.

He could not blame her if she did not.

He would prove to his family, his friends, his tenants, and himself that he was up to this task. He had planned to do this from the moment he stepped into the dilapidated building and learned that it was Penshaw Manor.

And he would, by God, because if he could not then he would never be able to face himself in the looking glass again.

As for Rosalind’s acceptance . . . that was a decision she would have to make on her own.

Rosalind had hoped not to meet anyone on her way from her father’s study to her bedchamber. She bolted the door as not to be disturbed, then let her tears flow.

All their lives were now ruined. She could not prevent bitter thoughts from racing through her. Staggering to her dressing table, Rosalind sat before the looking glass and could not bring herself to gaze upon her reflection.

These last few years, after the sale of the property, she’d denounced the Earl of Brent but now she knew he could no longer shoulder the entire blame. Yes, he had been an absentee landowner but his steward, her father,
could
have done something. There were funds to help the tenants, and to
steal
money for that use would have been far more understood than to take the money only to gamble it away.

How could any of her family face their friends and neighbors again? She felt so ashamed. There was no way she could have known he’d done this, then she chided herself, for she should have guessed.

And she would have to tell Freddie. The sense of guilt overwhelmed her, as if
she
could have somehow made a difference. He’d grown fond of the tenants over the last week. Might he blame her for being her father’s daughter?

And worse yet there was Clare. Her forthcoming betrothal to Trevor might be called off. Rosalind wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

What if the news of the scandal were to make it to London and Lord Rutherford’s ear? Would he oppose the match and forbid his son to ally himself to their family? Clare would be crushed.

Rosalind passed through a myriad of emotions ranging through anger, fear, shame, disgust, and disappointment. But it was clear what she felt for her father now bordered on hatred.

Thomas Sturgis had managed to retrieve several of Freddie’s trunks and convey them into Thistles without anyone’s knowledge. Apparently this was accomplished by, as Sturgis put it, the daily “ebbs and flows of the household.”

Thomas’s brother Frank had driven the transport from Faraday Hall to Penshaw. He had been instructed to find his way to Penshaw Manor where he could store the equipage and shelter the horses, preferably in a large rear parlor or some room other than the library, which normally housed the visiting guests.

Under more favorable circumstances, Freddie would have sent Frank to the nearby town of Huddlesford where he and the equipage could remain until needed. Unfortunately, that would incur an additional debt, one, along with his many others, that he could not pay.

As matters stood, the Duke of Faraday had provided ample funds for the two Sturgis brothers to make the journey north in the search for the Earl of Brent. Freddie, in turn, did not confiscate their funds, but instructed Frank to procure feed for the horses, and other stock residing at Penshaw, and some food supplies to offer Mrs. Morley for their upkeep and enough to supplement the family.

Freddie wrote a letter of introduction for Frank to present to the Morleys and paused at the end, undecided if he should sign the missive as
Mr. Freddie Worth
or
Earl of Brent
.

Thomas observed this hesitation and cleared his throat.

“Do you have any thoughts on this matter you would like to share?” Freddie glanced up from the letter and the quill that hovered over the pot of ink while he pondered his signature.