Who was much too handsome for her sanity.
She plastered a bracing smile on her face. “Of course…Quincy.” Heavens, her tongue tingled from the very sound of his name leaving her lips. “And please call me Clara.”
“Clara,” he repeated. The smile he gifted her with had all the brightness of a new penny in the sun. It was nothing she hadn’t seen from him before; he was as talented in charm and good cheer as Lenora was in watercolors. Yet coupled with her name on his lips, the husky sound of it burying itself deep under her skin, a frightening realization hit as she watched him bow and leave: no matter that he saw them as family, she would never see him as such.
Chapter 5
Are you certain we haven’t missed something? Some far-flung property, an overlooked investment?”
It had been three days since Quincy had been hit with the unwelcome news that he was duke. Three days spent sitting in his solicitor’s offices, slowly realizing that becoming the Duke of Reigate was the least of his problems.
“I’m quite certain, Your Grace.” The solicitor, Mr. Richmond, seated behind his massive desk, clasped his hands on the cluttered surface. His dark brown face was lined with worry, but there was compassion there, too. A compassion that Quincy did not deserve one bit, not after the hell he’d made the man’s life for the past seventy-two hours.
And yet Mr. Richmond was just as patient as he’d been all those years ago when, as a young man just starting out on his career, he’d visited Quincy’s father to conduct business. He’d never minded the presence of a small child beneath the duke’s desk, often bringing Quincy sweets, allowing him to sit on his knee, telling him fantastic stories of his travels as a boy aboard his father’s merchant ship.
Those stories had inspired Quincy, making his dreams to see the world much more concrete and attainable. And now that same man, through no fault of his own, was the one forced to snuff that dream out.
Quincy cast a despondent eye over the piles of papers and documents and ledgers before him. Each one alone was a simple stone to be stepped over. But together they were an unscalable mountain. Or rather, a wall, each stone laid with devastating precision, one on top of the other. Like some macabre mausoleum, closing him off from his childhood dreams.
How had his brothers done it? How had they destroyed the entire dukedom in fourteen short years?
Anger flared in his gut, hot and bitter. He knew, of course. They had been too much like the duchess, self-centered and privileged, believing a chance of birth gave their lives more value. Not realizing—or caring—about the many lives they’d trampled to get there.
Maybe that was why his father had taken Quincy so firmly under his wing, why he had been so determined to instill in him a sense of honor.
“I will, of course, keep looking, Your Grace,” Mr. Richmond said. “Though your cousin was blessedly quick to hand over the reins now that he has been informed he is not the duke, we’ve still to receive everything from the steward at Reigate Manor. There may be something there.” He gave Quincy a bracing smile. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”
Hope? No, he hadn’t given up hope, though it was in danger of being snuffed out for him.
But he couldn’t keep the man from the rest of his work indefinitely. Standing, he held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Richmond. For everything. You have always been a great support to my family. And please do tell Mrs. Richmond she has my eternal devotion for allowing me to steal you away for a time.”
Mr. Richmond chuckled and took Quincy’s hand in a firm grip. “I rather think my wife was happy to have me out from under her feet for a few evenings.” Suddenly he sobered. “I only wish there was something I could have done to prevent this from happening.”
Quincy gave him a halfhearted grin, shrugging. “What could you have done? No, the fault is on my brothers for ignoring your advice. But you will let me know the moment you receive word from Reigate Manor?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
Quincy took his leave, striding through the bustling offices. But with each person he passed, for each Your Grace and deep bow, he felt the walls closing in on him, the hallway lengthening, until he had to fight the urge to yank off his cravat and sprint for the door.
Finally he stepped out onto the street. Gulping in air, he hardly registered the warmth and faintly putrid smell of it, so grateful was he to be outside.
And yet, now that his head was clearing, he could not stop the litany of words that spun about it like manic dancers, bouncing against one another but never slowing their mad twirling: Ruined, Bankrupt, Insolvent, Impoverished.
Every property, every parcel of land not entailed had been sold off on the altar of his brothers’ greed. But they had not stopped there. No, they had ransacked every bit of the dukedom not nailed down. Furniture and antiquities, statuary and paintings—some priceless to their family, portraits of long-dead ancestors—so much history, gone.
He should not complain, of course, he thought as he strode blindly down the bustling street, sidestepping merchants and bankers and men of business. The sale of his portion of the business back in Boston had left him with just enough funds to keep the dukedom afloat. More important, he could provide much-needed relief for the people who worked Reigate land; they had suffered horribly under his brothers’ mismanagement, and he’d be damned if they endured a moment’s more heartache.
But his dreams of travel…
His lips twisted. Unless some miracle fell from the sky, those dreams would never be realized.
Exhaustion overwhelmed him. He’d been so close, had had it in his grasp. And now, by some quirk of fate, it had been yanked from his fingers. He stumbled to a halt on the walkway. Several men jostled him, letting loose obscenities at having their paths impeded. But a few angry businessmen were the least of his worries. He ran a hand over his face. What the hell was he going to do?
He thought of his mother with her damnable pride. She kept control over everything in her orbit with a fanaticism that bordered on obsession, most especially her older sons. Surely she would not have allowed them to squander everything.
But the very idea of seeing her again made him physically ill. If only he had a way to prepare for the necessary meeting. Or had support.
Peter’s face flashed in his mind. Of course. There was no one Quincy trusted more. He would keep a clear head when Quincy could not. And maybe Quincy might come out of it with his sanity intact.
That faint spark of hope flared back to life. Filled with a new energy, he turned about, eager to collect his horse and return to Dane House and, hopefully, salvation.
* * *
Clara sifted through the immense pile of responses before her, diligently adding small checks down the long column of invitees to Phoebe’s engagement ball. Just as she was finishing up Phoebe entered the drawing room, busily adjusting the brim of her bonnet. Clara set aside the last of the responses and smiled at her sister. “Aunt Olivia and Lady Crabtree can only be pleased that their combined importance has ensured your engagement ball will be the height of the season,” she said. “Not that they’ll admit any such thing, of course.”
Phoebe laughed, moving closer to look over the list. “Goodness! How can they fail to be content with such a guest list? I had no idea it would turn out to be such a crush. You’re an angel for keeping track of the responses. Though,” she continued with a worried frown, looking over the invitations and handwritten notes and half-formed plans that were laid out in neat piles on the desk’s surface, “you’ve taken on entirely too much of the planning. You should let us take some of the burden from your shoulders.”