“James, we need to talk.”
Sucking in a breath, James bolted upright, blinking in the dark. “George—what—”
“I’d resolved to keep this to myself, but it’s clear you need the push so…” George blinked, looking around the room. “Why are you sitting in the dark? What…are you ill?”
“No.” James was still trying to clear the fog from his mind.
He’d fallen asleep in Rosalie’s arms hadn’t he? Did he dream it all? He was alone on the sofa, the curtain half-closed. No candles lit. No fire. The sky outside was nearly dark.
George still stood in the middle of the room. “Were you…sleeping?”
James dragged a shaky hand over his face. “What does it look like?”
“But…you never sleep. Oh god, you’re ill, aren’t you. Is it catching? Should I call for Fawcett?”
“George, please just shut up for a minute.” James shifted off the sofa and moved over to the mantle in his bare feet. The fire in the grate was already set, it just needed a light. He lit a taper and held it beneath the logs, letting the fire papers catch. Soon, a soft yellow light flickered around the room. He sat back on the sofa, tugging on his left boot. “What time is it?”
“Just after six—”
“At night?” James nearly cricked his neck turning to look at the clock on his desk.
“Of course, at night,” George replied with a huff. “I wouldn’t be parading in here at six in the morning, would I?”
Sure enough, the clock showed the time as a quarter after six. That little schemer lured him to sleep, then left him for nearly eight hours. He’d lost an entire day, thanks to her meddling!
To be fair, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten such good sleep.
George tipped his head to the side. “James, you’re worrying me. Have you been in here all day? The staff said you were out.”
James tugged on his other boot. “George, for the love of god, please just tell me what you want.”
George shrugged away his confusion. “Right…well, it’s difficult to know where to begin.”
“Heaven, help me,” James muttered, snatching up his coat and cravat as he moved around to sit behind his desk. He gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Should we both be sitting for this?”
George considered before taking a seat. “Yes…perhaps that would be best.”
James shuffled a few things on his desk. “Alright, out with it.”
“Fine,” George huffed. “But just know that, when I confide in you what it is I’m about to confide, you’re going to become cross with me. You’ll accuse me of meddling…which might be accurate…but please know I do so with your best interest at heart.”
“I swear to Christ, George—”
His curse died on his lips as George reached into his pocket and took out a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon. He slid them across the desk at James. The last time James saw those letters, they were clutched in Rosalie’s hand as she tried to tuck them behind her skirts.
“What are those?” he muttered, heart in his throat.
“Why do I get the feeling you already know?”
James scowled. “Where did you get them?”
George drummed his fingers on the desk. “I think you already know the answer to that too.”
He slapped the desk with his hand. “Goddamn it, George! You went through her things, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I went through her things! I am the duke, and her welfare is my responsibility.”
“Oh, spare me,” James growled.
George pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine, I snooped, alright? Are you happy? The minute you left, I charged into her room and tossed her trunks, and I found these.” He waved his hand at the officious stack of letters.
“You know, there is such a thing as personal property—”
“Not for a duke—”
“A court would disagree!”
“What was I supposed to do?” George cried. “This sweet little apple falls from the heavens into our midst, and we’re to ask no questions? You might suffer from a chronic case of disinterest, but I can’t live like that, James. I’m a curious person!”
“So, you stole a lady’s private correspondence?”
“They’re not correspondence…not exactly. And they’re not hers.”
“That’s not the point—wait—what?”
George leaned forward. “Don’t you want to know what they are?”
God, yes. Rosalie, what secrets are you keeping?
“No.”
“It’s scandalous, James. Our dear mama has much to answer for,” George teased.
“Our mother? What does she have to do with this?”
“Tell me brother…who is Francis Harrow?”
James clenched his jaw. “I believe that is the name of Miss Harrow’s father.”
“And why would our mother agree to pay all his outstanding debts?”
“What?” James hissed, his eyes back on the stack of letters.
“Oh James, this is a stack of pure sin.” George stroked the satin bow. “Mr. Harrow lived outside his means in every sense of the word. Each bill in the stack is worse than the last. Unpaid debts to multiple banks, outstanding business loans, lines of credit denied at establishments across London, Richmond, Bath, York…”
James took a deep breath. “How much was the debt?”
“You really don’t want to know,” George replied somberly.
James’ mind went wild as he calculated a figure. How had she managed it? He’d worked hard to rein in all their mother’s spending. So how could he miss her making a large payment…or a series of payments as large as this stack? God, help him, he had to know. He glanced across the desk at his brother. “Was it…five?”
George gave him a sympathetic smile. “More.”
“Ten?”
“More.”
James needed a drink. He needed the whole bottle. Hell, the whole vineyard. Maybe his mother bought one without his knowledge. “Just tell me.”
“Seventeen.”
Rage filled James until he thought he might choke on it. “Seventeen? Our mother paid seventeen thousand pounds to cancel Harrow’s debts?”
“Well, the father’s debts only totaled about fifteen thousand,” George replied. “The remaining two thousand was paid directly to a Mrs. Beatrice Thorpe.”
James leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands through his hair. Seventeen thousand pounds was roughly what it cost to maintain Corbin House each year. Where the hell had their mother found such a sum without James knowing of it? He scowled at his brother. “How did she manage it? Are you sneaking her money?”
“You’re asking the wrong question. The more interesting question is not how but why.” He leaned forward, tapping the stack of letters. “Why would our mother pay all Harrow’s debts?”
James wasn’t ready to contemplate the why of it all. The family accounts hemorrhaged seventeen thousand pounds and he hadn’t noticed. As the manager of Alcott, the how is what mattered most to him.
But George was looking at the stack of letters like they held the answers to existence. “Our dear mama is motivated by only two forces: greed and guilt. Which do you think is the more likely driver behind this act of gross generosity?”
James sighed. “Guilt.”
“Exactly. And what would our mama have to feel so guilty about that she would pluck a young lady out of obscurity, pay all her family’s debts, and offer her a permanent place in our household?”
James frowned. “You clearly have a theory.”
“Aye, but you’re not going to like it.”
“I haven’t liked a word you’ve spoken yet, so why stop now?”
George took a deep breath. “Okay…bear with me on this but…love child,” he said with a dramatic wave of his hand.
James felt a faint echoing in his ears. George was speaking…or at least his mouth was moving. But James heard nothing. Ignoring George’s odd hand gestures, he moved around his desk to the corner and poured himself a glass of scotch. He downed it in one and poured another. He downed it, feeling the spicy burn of it tingling in his mouth and down his throat.
George was right behind him, one hand on his shoulder. “Easy there. Let’s just slow down, shall we? You can’t be drunk for what comes next.”
James blinked, looking over his shoulder at this brother. “Next?”
“You know what you have to do next, right?”
“Aye, I need to drag our mother down here by her hair and turn out her pockets,” James snarled. “I mean to collect every last coin from her. She will no longer be allowed to spend the family’s money. Not a single farthing, George. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” George said. “Drag away, little brother…but after you talk to Cabbage.” He slipped the full glass of scotch from James’ hand and backed away with it.
James’ heart was racing out of his chest. Yes, he had to talk to Rosalie. Oh god, was it true? No. Rosalie would never knowingly engage in such deception. She wouldn’t lead him on like that. “It’s not true,” he muttered. “Rosalie wouldn’t…”
“Wouldn’t what?” George pressed. “Wouldn’t accept the cancelling of all her family’s debts as a buy off for keeping our mother’s dirty secrets?”
James considered this. Seventeen thousand pounds was a hefty sum, even for a duke. As a one-time payment, it was manageable, but the estate would certainly feel it. James was desperate to understand how his mother was manipulating the accounts.
As for Rosalie…Christ, how would she have been expected to repay even a quarter of such a sum on her own? It was unfathomable. She would have drowned in that debt. No wonder she accepted a lifeline when it was offered. Any sane person would have done the same. But James had to understand what strings were attached. Why did she take it? What had she agreed to do to earn it?
“Ask her,” James said, moving over to his desk and snatching up the letters. “Give these back to her and ask her what she knows. Please, George—”
“Absolutely not,” George replied, backing away. “You must be the one to get the answers.”
“I’m not the one who stole these from her in the first place!” James barked, shaking the letters in his brother’s face.
“And I am not the one who’d like to take a stroll down her sweet little cock alley,” George replied, raising the glass of scotch to his lips with a satisfied smirk.
James lunged forward and slapped the glass from his brother’s hand. It glinted in the air before smashing to the floor, the glass shattering like a bag of spilled diamonds. “Disrespect her again, and I’ll make you eat that glass,” James growled, pointing to the mess on the floor.
George’s grin widened. “Spoken like a true beau.”
James huffed and turned away. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The stack of letters was still in his hand. He paced behind his desk like a caged animal.
George stood there watching, an oddly sympathetic look on his face. “For the record…I don’t think she’s a secret love child either.”
James paused in his pacing, turning sharply to face his brother. “Then why the hell did you say it?”
George just smirked. “I wanted to see your reaction…and it was even better than I hoped.”
“Lick my bollocks, George.”
“No thank you,” he replied, still smiling. “You’re in love with her…aren’t you?”
“I will not discuss Miss Harrow with you.”
“She may not be a love child. In fact, the idea is absurd,” George said with a little laugh. “But those bills were paid by our mother all the same,” he added, pointing to the stack in James’ hand. “There must be a reason…and Cabbage knows what it is.”
James groaned, knowing his brother spoke the truth.
“I know you, James. You like to think I don’t, but I do. You cannot abide a secret. You’ll punish Cabbage all her days for keeping this one from you. Will you ruin your chance with that girl over your own damned pride?”
James stilled. “Careful, George. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you cared about a person other than yourself.”
George just smiled. “For once in your life, take your elder brother’s advice, and talk to the woman you love. Shed light on this secret, so you can both move on with the business of being happy.” With a nod, he turned for the door.
“George,” James called.
His brother paused, glancing over his shoulder.
James took a deep breath before saying the words he’d been mulling for days. “You deserve to be happy too. Plenty of dukes in the past were life-long bachelors. You don’t have to marry and sire children for the sake of the family. That is not your sole purpose in life.”
George’s mouth quirked. “Thank you for saying that, James.”
“I will support you either way.”
“Good to know.” His smile widened as he wiggled a finger between them. “Oh, and this little heart to heart never happened. I have a reputation to maintain. Understood?”
James sighed. “Understood.”
With that, George left, and James stood alone with the stack of pilfered letters, an aching head, and no plan for how to get Rosalie alone to ask her the question that was now burning him alive.
