The Duke of Debt (Ebook) Book 3

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Millcastle 1833


“Will you come with me, Francis?” Alistair Haralson, Marquess of Hellion repeated his question. “I can’t deal with that side of the family on my own.”
“I agree that they are difficult, but why do you need me?” Francis Grafton, Viscount Wesley—who was known locally as Captain Grafton—shifted restlessly in his chair. “Caroline is with child, and I’m unwilling to leave her at this point in time.”
They were sitting in Francis’s library at his country estate just outside the rapidly expanding industrial town of Millcastle. Despite being a viscount, Francis had considerable business interests in the town and derived most of his income from trade. He and Alistair, who were distantly related, had attended school together before both joining the army, where Francis had ended up being dishonorably discharged, and Alistair had ended up in India.
“Ah, I didn’t realize.” Alistair paused. “Of course your priority must lie with her. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you. Why has the old man called you up here again?” Francis offered Alistair a cigarillo. “Didn’t you pay your duty visit two months ago?”
“The invitation wasn’t from him. I received a frantic scribbled note from Lilly saying that everything is not as it seems, and that if I wish to safeguard my inheritance, I should return immediately!” He grimaced and lit the cigarillo. “Not that I have any hopes of actually attaining anything, seeing as my cousin Farrell is alive and kicking.”
“Farrell is an obnoxious drunkard,” Francis observed.
“As were his father and grandfather.” Alistair blew out a perfect circle of smoke. “One might say he is simply following family tradition.”
“Since his father died, he’s been running wild, and your mutual grandfather does nothing to curtail his extravagances.”
“I suspect the old boy is rather proud of him,” Alistair replied. “Do you think I should go, or wait for a more official summons?”
“I’d go.” Francis finished his cigarillo. “Your cousin Lilly does know all the best family scandal, and if she is trying to warn you, I’d pay attention.”
“You’re right,” Alistair agreed. “Farrell is probably in debt again and expects me to help him out, which is impossible. My finances are precarious enough as it is.”
“And you a marquess,” Francis gently mocked him.
“Of nothing, as you well know.” Alistair mock-frowned at his favorite relative. “My father tied up what money there was tighter than a duck’s arse, and his new wife took the rest.”
“He never really trusted you, did he?” Francis said idly.
“No.” Alistair smiled sweetly at his friend. It was not a subject he ever discussed, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Which means that my stepmother and my sister live very comfortably at my expense in the only habitable property I ostensibly own.”
“You don’t begrudge them that, do you?”
“Not at all.” Alistair stubbed out his cigarillo with unnecessary force. “It means they don’t bother me, and as you know, I do value my privacy.”
In truth, he’d rather have a decent income, but, as a gentleman, he was hardly allowed to say that. He simply watched the money from his late father’s estate flow toward his stepmother, leaving him with a small income from his grandmother’s trust and the surplus revenue from the estate. Frederica, his stepmother, was the same age as him and had very skillfully exacerbated the distance between father and heir. She’d also prevented Alistair from seeing the old devil when he was dying and had rewritten the will very much in her favor.
Alistair had never told her how he felt about that—he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction—and was exquisitely polite to her on every occasion when they were forced to breathe the same air.
“I’ll talk to Caroline. She might be relieved to see the back of me for a while, as apparently I ‘fuss’.” Francis opened one of the windows to encourage the smoke to leave. “Whatever happens, I can’t go quite yet. We’re hosting a party this weekend starting with a dinner tonight.”
Alistair fought a smile. His cousin’s distaste for the niceties of polite society was no secret. The fact that he was concerned enough about his wife to be called fussy was actually quite amusing.
“What’s the occasion?” Alistair asked.
“It’s Caroline’s sister’s birthday.”
“Which sister?”
“Ruby. The one who fervently believes that aristocrats like you and I should be guillotined.” Francis smiled as he moved restlessly around the room. “She’s intent on marrying a man I employ as my bookkeeper.”
“You married your bookkeeper,” Alistair noted.
“Indeed.” Francis added more coal to the fire. “Perhaps it will become a family tradition. It isn’t a large party, thank God, just Caroline’s family and the Blackthorns.”
“I remember a very fierce lady at your wedding called Blackthorn,” Alistair said. “Now, what was her name?”
“I expect you’re referring to Miss Margaret Blackthorn, Adam’s eldest sister.” Francis checked the time. “She is almost as formidable as Ruby.”
“Indeed,” Alistair murmured. It was rare that someone took an instant dislike to him, but Margaret Blackthorn certainly had. She’d sized him up in one contemptuous glance, and he’d been instantly relegated to simpering fop. He’d even gone out of his way to solicit a dance with her, and, despite his best efforts to be charming, had failed to impress her at all.
It was a novel sensation, because he might not be rich, but he was titled and handsome, which worked wonders with most ladies. If she was present at the party, he was tempted to stay just to see her expression when he was announced at the dinner table.
He rose to his feet and bowed to his companion. “If I am to stay for dinner, I’d better speak to my valet and make sure I look presentable.”
“You are already a veritable fashion plate compared to me, but I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.” Francis nodded at him. “I’ll speak to Caroline. If she is agreeable, we can leave on Monday.”