His sisters nodded and hugged him again, then they all quit the parlor. Parting from the girls in the corridor, Julian surreptitiously sighed with relief; that had gone better than he’d hoped.
He spent the next hours with the Drapers, father and son, then they were joined by Minchinbury, the family solicitor. The office was crowded with all four of them in it, but no one suggested they take their discussions into a less secure and well-shielded room.
Minchinbury confirmed that George’s will named Julian as sole executor, and also joint guardian of three-year-old Henry. In regard to the latter, Julian merely nodded and set that problem aside for later; one hellish scenario at a time.
“There’s no way around it,” Jordan eventually concluded. “No matter how we structure payments, even if we liquidate every saleable unentailed asset and devote the entirety of the estate income to said payments, the outgoings still far exceed the duke’s ability to pay.”
While they’d been going over the horrendous figures, a plan had taken shape in Julian’s mind. It was beyond outrageous, but outrageous was something he did well. Across the desk, he met Jordan’s eyes. “Factor in my funds—all of them. Liquidate my assets, all of them, and add them in, too—reduce the capital owed. Leave me . . .” He considered, then said, “Ten thousand in cash. Assume an ongoing income through me of . . .” That took a little longer to calculate, but eventually he named a sum.
Draper and Minchinbury looked startled, but Jordan only grimaced, jotted down the figures, and started reworking the complex web of mortgage and loan repayments again.
While he did, Draper and Minchinbury traded looks . . . and slowly worked out Julian’s direction. It was Minchinbury who, faintly shocked, finally looked at Julian. “My lord . . . what are you planning?”
Julian held up a finger and patiently waited while Jordan did his sums.
Eventually, Jordan blew out a breath. “We’re close. Just a whisker in it.” He looked at Julian. “You could pull it off.”
Julian hadn’t needed to explain to Jordan what he was thinking of doing; Jordan had worked for him for long enough to guess what he might, and could, do, but he was grateful for the younger man’s unequivocal support. “You’ve included the running of this house and the estate in general, the usual payments to my mother, the girls, and the duchess, and left the girls’ portions intact?”
“Well, the girls’ portions are already long gone,” Jordan said, “but that will return them to their previous amounts by the time each of them reach sixteen. I’ve also included an escalating amount for Henry in the years to come, starting from his fifth birthday.”
“Good man.” Julian paused to gather his arguments, then transferred his gaze to Draper and Minchinbury. “What I’m proposing to do, gentlemen, is this.”
He told them his plan, the whole of it; if he was to succeed in saving the Delbraiths—family, title, and estate—he needed them on his side. At first, they were shocked, then aghast as the full ramifications of what he was proposing came clear in their minds, but finally, like Jordan, they, too, accepted that, when it came to it, he had no other choice.
George had taken the easy way out and left Julian to rescue the Delbraiths.
His interview with his mother was difficult, not least because Lucasta was inclined to blame herself for George’s disgrace.
Seated in an armchair angled before the wide window in her sitting room, a still handsome woman with graying hair pulled back from a grief-stricken face, she clenched a damp handkerchief in one fist. “I should have seen it! I can’t believe I missed the signs.”
Contrary to general assumptions, Julian got along well with his mother; they were much alike when it came to will. They’d long ago reached an accommodation; Lucasta didn’t try to push him, and he didn’t push back.
Standing gazing out over the rolling lawns to the trees of the home wood, he sighed. “Mama, if I didn’t see anything, there wasn’t anything to be seen. He was . . . excellent at hiding it.”
“He deceived us. He betrayed us.” After a moment, in a quieter voice, Lucasta asked, “For how long?”
Julian hesitated, but he knew better than to try to lie to her. Turning, he said, “According to Draper, since he started at Eton, but initially the amounts were small enough not to alert Papa or you. Only after he inherited did he start wagering larger sums.”
Helplessly, Lucasta shook her head. “You never heard any whisper?”
“No.” Which said a great deal about what establishments George had frequented. Any socially accepted hell, and Julian would have heard of it, so George had slid into the underworld to sate his addiction.
Slowly, Lucasta drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and raised her chin. “What’s done is done. We’ll do as Doctor Melrose suggested—George died of an apoplexy. We’ll bury him with all due circumstance. And then”—she looked at Julian—“we’ll pick up the pieces and rebuild.” She paused, eyes narrowing on him. “So.” She heaved a tight sigh. “Given George blew out his brains rather than face the consequences, tell me—how bad is it?”
He didn’t try to soften the news—pointless where she was concerned. His mother had always been fierce in defense of her family; she would detect any prevarication and, terrier-like, drag the truth from him. So he drew up another armchair, sat and told her all, and when the shock, unsurprisingly, held her stunned and silent, he smoothly continued, “I’ve spoken with the Drapers, both of them, and with Minchinbury, and worked out a plan. It’s desperate, but for us these are desperate times. They’ve agreed that it’s our only possible way forward—we’ve canvassed every other course, and none will get us through this except what I propose.”
She looked him in the eye. “I’m not going to like your plan, am I?”
“No, but it is the only plan we have.” He proceeded to tell her the whole of it.
She heard him out in silence.
Then they argued.
That he’d expected; he held to his guns and eventually, bit by bit, inch by inch, she backed down.
Except, to his surprise, over one aspect, and on that she wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t shift, would not concede.
“I have lost one son—I will not lose you, too. No!” She held up a hand. “I appreciate that to be successful your plan makes open association impossible, but”—she fixed her eyes on his—“you will continue to visit this house, to visit me and your sisters. They are my daughters and are as capable of keeping your secrets as I am. You will not cut yourself off from us—and I assure you we will not let you go.” Her eyes filled. “That, my dear, is something you cannot ask of us. If your plan is to succeed, you will need to factor that in.”
He hadn’t expected such a vehement reaction. Searching her face, knowing her adamantine will, he reconsidered, then nodded. “Very well. But my visits will be, for want of a better word, furtive.”
“Secret.” She nodded. “You know the staff will do anything for you, so that won’t be a problem.”
“The girls . . .” He grimaced. “I’ll leave it to you to tell them—you’ll know better than I how to put it, and I don’t have time for the inevitable arguments and explanations. Jordan and I must leave for London as soon as possible. If we’re to paper over the gaping holes George has left in the family’s financial façade, we need to act immediately.”
Lucasta’s eyes searched his face, then she quietly asked, “And Caroline? I’ll explain to her if you wish.”
Lips thinning, he shook his head. “No—I’ll speak with her. She’s Henry’s other guardian. She and I are going to have to find a way to work together, for Henry’s sake if nothing else.”
He rose.
Lucasta rose, too, gripped his arm, and stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Go, my dear. I know you must.”
She released him and turned away, but not before he saw a tear slide down her cheek.
His interview with his sister-in-law set the seal on a long and horrendous day.
As he approached
her suite, he saw Draper and Minchinbury emerge from Caroline’s sitting room. They closed the door behind them and came along the gallery. When he and the pair met, they all halted.
Minchinbury spoke. “I’ve explained the terms of the will to the duchess. She understands that you are sole executor and also her son’s co-guardian, and comprehends the rights that are yours by virtue of those facts.”
Julian felt his lips twist. “And how did she take that news?”
Minchinbury grimaced. “Not well, but she had to be told. At least she now knows and understands the situation.”
“We also informed her of the financial straits the late duke left behind.” Draper’s lips primmed. “I explained that, contrary to her long-held belief, you have never drained any undue resources from the estate, and that the current situation has arisen entirely through the late duke’s depredations. We did not, of course, venture to explain your plan, although we did allude to the fact that you had one, and that, given the situation, we believe it is the only route by which the family, and indeed the dukedom, can be saved from financial devastation.”
Julian looked from one to the other. “Let me see if I understand this correctly—you’ve left the duchess knowing that whatever I propose, she must agree if she wishes to save herself and her son from ruin?”
Both men thought, then both nodded. “We”—Minchinbury flicked a glance at Draper—“have been privy to the duchess’s view of you, my lord, and considered it our duty to clarify matters for Her Grace so that your words should fall on more fertile soil.”
Draper nodded. “Least we could do to assist you with your plan.”
Julian inclined his head. “Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your assistance.”
Both bowed and stepped back. Minchinbury said, “If you need any assistance subsequently, my lord, please know you have only to ask.”
Julian nodded and continued along the corridor. Reaching Caroline’s sitting room, he didn’t pause to let himself think but tapped on the door. Hearing a muffled “Come,” he turned the knob and entered.
Caroline was standing with her back to the window, her arms wrapped tightly about her. Inclining his head, Julian closed the door, then walked toward her. “My condolences. I would it were otherwise, but we have to talk.” Halting a yard away, he met her blue eyes. “Minchinbury and Draper told me they’d explained the situation. Is there anything about it you don’t understand?” He kept his tone even, uninflected and distantly polite.
Her face stripped of all masks, Caroline stared up at him; he could see the emotions, the questions, the rage, roiling behind her eyes. In the end, she rasped out one word, hoarse and ragged. “Why?”
Julian shook his head. “He couldn’t help himself.”
“But—” She broke off, then waved a hand and looked away. “I can’t . . .” She hauled in a breath and, lifting her head, continued without looking at him. “I’m still finding it hard to . . . accept that, for all these years, while I’ve been imagining you the villain, it was him all along.”
Julian frowned. “You suspected?”
“Not him.” She laughed harshly. “Never him. But some of my jewelry—it’s paste, not real. Even some of what used to be real is now paste.” She glanced at Julian. “I thought he’d used the jewels to pay your debts, perhaps thinking that I would never notice the difference in the stones, and that in his mind that was better than drawing from the estate—” Her breath hitched and she swung away. “Oh, you needn’t tell me—I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”
He didn’t have time for hysterics, even of this sort. “Caroline—if I’m to avert financial catastrophe, I need to act quickly.”
She cast him a bitter glance. “According to Minchinbury and Draper, I have no choice but to allow you to do whatever you wish, not if I want to continue to live here in comfort with Henry, or for my son to have any kind of future at all.”
This was the downside of the older men’s well-intentioned interference. “In that, they’re correct, but what they didn’t make clear was that for my plan to succeed, you, too, need to play a part. And for that, you need to know what the plan is.”
Caroline considered him for a long moment, then settled on her feet facing him, arms tightly folded, and nodded. “All right. Tell me your plan.”
She didn’t sit, much less invite him to. So he stood and told her his plan.
When he’d finished, she stared all but openmouthed at him.
After a minute ticked by, he baldly asked, “Well? Will you do your part? Play the role you obviously have to play to carry the fiction off?”
She blinked, stared again. “I . . . don’t understand.”
His temper was getting the better of him. “It’s a simple enough question. Will you—”
“No, not that. I . . .” She lowered her arms and drew a huge breath. She paused for a second, then, her gaze on his face, said, “You’re proposing to sacrifice yourself. Why? That’s what I don’t understand—what I don’t trust. If I accept this plan of yours and actively support it, I’ll be placing myself, and even more my son and his future, in utterly insurmountable debt to you.”
He thought, then nodded. “True.”
She laughed, a broken, discordant sound, and turned away.
“Caroline.” By main force, he kept his tone even, calm. “Are you really proposing to let your pride dictate your actions even now, and to reject my help?”
She glanced at him, met his eyes.
A distant, high-pitched shriek reached him—a sound of happiness, not despair. Glancing through the window, he saw his sisters and Henry come out of the wood. They’d been for a walk and were returning, Millie and Cassie swinging a delighted Henry between them. He was only three; the reality of his father’s death hadn’t yet touched him. Two footmen and a nursemaid followed behind, talking quietly while they watched over the foursome.
Julian looked at Caroline. He was much taller; she couldn’t see what he could.
Although tempted to grasp her arm and haul her across, he beckoned to her and stepped closer to the window. “You want to know why I’m doing this?” When she joined him, he pointed at the group below. “That’s why. None of the four down there—hell, none of the seven—have done anything to deserve the future they will have if I don’t act to fix this. And there is only one way.”
He watched her watching her son and let that sink in.
After a moment, she moistened her lips and more quietly asked, “No other way?”
He hesitated, then said, “The Delbraith curse got the family into this. It’s only right that the Delbraith curse get us out of it again.”
“But at what cost?”
“Regardless of the cost. And, ultimately, that’s my decision to make, not yours.”
She continued watching for a moment more, then her features firmed and she nodded. “All right. I agree. I’ll do whatever I have to to . . . shore up the situation.”
One hurdle down. He drew breath, metaphorically girded his loins, and approached the next, the even higher and more thorny one. “Speaking of the curse, I have one stipulation which is entirely nonnegotiable. In return for acting as I must to save the family—yourself and Henry included—you will ensure that Henry knows the truth about his father’s death, that it’s never hidden from him.”
“What?” Caroline swung to face him. “You can’t be serious! He’s a baby—”
“Not now, obviously. I mean as soon as he’s old enough to know—to ask. Because he will. I don’t want you hiding the curse from him.” He held her gaze. “I’m not doing what I’m about to do only to have you encourage him to think he’s immune to the curse and so throw everything away the instant he reaches his majority.” She opened her mouth. Julian pointed a finger at her nose and spoke first. “What’s more, when I come to visit, as his guardian I’ll expect to meet him, to talk with him. You can be present if you wish, but I will speak with him.”
Caroline’s face set. “No. I won’t ha
ve you—”
“Caroline.” The steel in his voice cut her off. He held her gaze and ruthlessly stated, “Neither you nor Mama saw the curse in George. Try to ‘protect’ Henry, and you’ll make the same mistake Mama made with George. The curse will still bite, but he’ll hide it. If he does, you won’t see it. I will because I know what to look for—and I assure you that with Henry, I’ll be watching.” He searched her eyes. “Understand this—the curse is real. It’s an inherited disease—if Henry gets help, the right help, it can be managed. Pretend it’s not there and it will eat him alive, just as it did George.”
“And what about you?” Caroline produced a credible sneer. “Is your addiction so well managed then?”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “As things stand, my addiction is what’s going to stand between you and Henry and the poorhouse. Think about that before you dismiss my use of it. Also as things stand, I’m the only one living who has personal experience of the curse—who knows what Henry will face as he grows, who knows the tricks of dealing with the compulsion.” He paused for a moment, his eyes locked with hers, then more quietly said, “I know this is hard for you to accept, but as matters stand, I am Henry’s only hope for a future, both financially and personally.”
Until he’d said the words, he hadn’t realized how true they were—how much responsibility he was taking on.
Not that it mattered; in this he had no choice.
When Caroline said nothing, simply chewed her lower lip and looked shaken and lost, he stepped back and turned to the door. With his hand on the knob, he paused, then glanced back at her. “Don’t risk your son, Caroline—if you want to keep him safe, you’ll do exactly as I’ve said.”
She swung to face the window and didn’t reply.
Julian opened the door and left.
Half an hour later, having bid good-bye to his sisters and his small nephew, Julian tooled his phaeton down the long drive, then whipped up his horses and headed for London.