Andrew Lord of Despair(36)

Seven





“You need to hear what Fairly has to say,” Andrew told his brother, because this little after-dinner tête-à-tête among the gentlemen was not going to be about the weather and the latest gossip from the City.

“This sounds serious.” Gareth went to the sideboard, where griffins, dragons, and chimeras sat gleaming atop decanters. “Brandy, gentlemen?”

When Andrew had accepted a drink he did not want, Gareth took up a characteristic perch on the edge of the desk that dominated one end of the Willowdale library.

“All right, Fairly, I’m listening.”

“The bad news is that Astrid’s dower funds are all but gone,” Fairly began, sipping his brandy. “Heathgate, you do serve a fine drink.”

Bugger the drink.

Gareth nodded graciously. “Thank you. Is there good news?”

“No, there is worse news,” Fairly said, glancing at Andrew the way at an earlier time in life, his lordship might have assessed a patient suffering unpredictable fits of hysteria. “Rumors are circulating that Herbert took his own life, unable to deal otherwise with the family’s debts.”

Gareth peered at his glass. “Those are nasty rumors.”

Bugger the rumors. Bugger dear, departed Herbert. Bugger everything.

“At this point, it’s only rumor, and it might never reach Astrid’s ears,” Fairly said. “The state of her finances, on the other hand, is fact. The accounts are all but wiped clean. The losses can be attributed to some bad investments, and recently, to outright withdrawals.”

Rage had Andrew tossing back half his drink, sorrow for Astrid the second half.

Gareth did not rouse himself from the desk to provide a refill, a small lapse in an otherwise attentive host’s focus.

“That money was to have been safely stowed in the cent-percents,” Gareth said. “This is going to be very hard on Astrid.”

A fine bit of understatement.

“If the situation is grave enough, it might mean Astrid need not return to the Allen household,” Fairly pointed out. “With a suicide in the family, and misfeasance with regard to Astrid’s money, the current viscount might be open to negotiation. Suicide, if proven, is unlikely to result in forfeiture of the title but could cost the family some of Herbert’s personal wealth.”

Except Herbert likely had no personal wealth, if his parsimony with Astrid was any indication.

“Douglas might be amenable to discussions,” Andrew said, “but if Astrid bears a male child, he’ll never entrust the rearing of that child to a young widow who herself was brought up in humble circumstances. The Allens are overwhelmingly impressed with their own consequence.”

And Astrid was overwhelming protective of those she loved. Andrew set his glass down a bit too hard on the mantel.

Gareth collected Andrew’s glass and returned it to the sideboard, a domestic gesture that spoke to Felicity’s civilizing influence. “We do not know how Douglas will treat Astrid. He has certainly been all that’s proper toward her so far, and we have no proof he stole her money. We can only lay such accusations at the feet of his late, increasingly unlamented brother.”

“So which of you will tell Astrid she has no money?” Andrew stared out into the darkness beyond the French windows rather than watch his relations exchange uneasy glances. And well they should be uneasy, when Astrid had no money, no husband, and no honesty from the man she insisted she loved.

“I’m her brother,” Fairly said. “I’ll tell her, though I will also make sure she does, in fact, have money. Enough money in pounds sterling to leave the country if necessary.”

Thank God for wealthy brothers with a sense of honor toward their sisters.

“The money isn’t the issue,” Andrew said, turning to face the other two men.

Gareth rolled his empty glass between his palms. “Being widowed, with child, and destitute isn’t an issue?”

How protective he was, and how Andrew loved him for it.

“To Astrid, certainly,” Andrew said. “We need to focus on the larger picture, however. Herbert’s death has three possible explanations. The first, and the one we are asked to accept, is that an avid and experienced sportsman, familiar with the best equipment, fell victim to an accident. Perhaps his gun was defective or he neglected to clean it. Perhaps he resembled a fourteen-stone grouse to somebody else on the shoot.

“The second possibility,” Andrew continued, “is that a young lord, a pleasant enough man, but more concerned with appearances than with learning how to manage his affairs, became swamped with debt, and seeing no honorable alternative, arranged his suicide to look like an accident. This course makes sense, in keeping with the family’s pride and concern for social consequence.