Prudence was a placid sort of person, not generally prone to fits of temper, but such high-handedness was too much to bear. “I have no intention of giving these to charity!”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she felt silly and unreasonable, for she had already decided to give her old clothes away.
At her sharp reply, Edith turned, looking wounded. “Well, of course, dear, if you prefer to give your castoffs to your friends, by all means do so.”
Prudence intended all her friends to have their own new dresses as well, but she decided not to mention that. She hated rows, and she didn’t want to have one with Edith after only five minutes. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the gloves she’d cast aside a few minutes earlier. “You’re right, of course,” she said, striving to be gracious. “Donating them will be fine.”
Edith smiled in a conciliatory fashion as she tucked her arm through Prudence’s and began leading her out of the bedroom. “Your uncle is meeting with Mr. Whitfield to make the arrangements regarding your allowance from the trust. Oh, and he is seeking to purchase a brougham for us. In the interim, I have hired a carriage. We can make several calls on our way to tea.”
“Calls?”
“Yes, but there is no need to be alarmed.” She patted Prudence’s arm as they crossed the parlor toward the front door of the flat. “We are only calling on my daughters today.”
“That’s a relief,” Prudence murmured without enthusiasm as she lifted her reticule from a hook of the hat rack. Beryl and Pearl were as enjoyable as a Presbyterian funeral. “I was worried we’d be calling on horrid people.”
It was probably a good thing that sarcasm was wasted on Aunt Edith. “Moving in good society is always a bit nerve-wracking, but try to put your mind at ease. Your uncle and I shall take very good care of you, you know. The most fashionable address, the best entertainments, the finest company. I will ensure you are presented to the right sort of people, dearest. I intend to devote myself entirely to your needs from now on.”
“Lovely.” Suppressing a sigh, Prudence closed the front door of the flat behind them. June, she reflected as she shoved her latchkey into the lock, seemed a long way off.
“Your uncle will find a suitable house for us here in town,” Edith went on as they started down the stairs. “But until then, we are staying at the Savoy. I’ve arranged for your room to be right beside mine. Won’t that be nice?”
Prudence began to feel rather like a cornered animal. “I don’t wish to be any trouble,” she said in desperation. “I would much rather stay here for the time being.”
“Here?” Aunt Edith paused on the landing and looked askance around the dim stairwell. “Don’t be silly,” she remonstrated with a tinkling little laugh. “This is a lodging house.”
“A respectable one.”
“A most respectable one, I am sure, but Prudence, you are an heiress now of substantial means. You cannot stay here on your own. Why, without your uncle and I to watch over you, every fortune-hunting scoundrel in London would be on your heels!”
Rhys spent Monday reckoning up what little he had in ducal income, and Tuesday wading through the complicated mire of the De Winter family debts. After studying reports from various land agents, bankers, and attorneys, his spirits were nearly as low as his bank balance, and he had no choice but to dine Tuesday night at the Clarendon. He consoled himself with a superb beef fillet and a fine bottle of French Bordeaux, and by some clever timing he was able to duck out without paying the bill, a practice at which he’d become quite adept in the past few years.
“No peer should ever pay at the Clarendon,” he explained to Lord Standish later that night at the opera. “Thank heaven for middle-class sensibilities.”
Standish, an old acquaintance from days at Oxford and his host for the evening, laughed. “What do middle-class sensibilities have to do with you caging meals at the Clarendon?”
“Everything,” he answered at once, turning to accept a glass of champagne from a footman. “The middle class won’t dine at any establishment unless peers frequent it. A fortunate thing for us they are able and willing to pay. Without them, restaurants would be forced to close, and we should never dine out again.”
Lord Weston, whose friendship with Rhys also went back to boyhood, flashed him a wry grin. “Only certain peers are able to get by with that in London nowadays, St. Cyres. Having a duke dine at your establishment still carries a certain cachet. I, however, am merely a baron, and can never get by with such things. I know this because whenever I try to evade the bill, they forward it to my residence.”
“All the more reason not to have a residence!” Rhys countered, making everyone laugh.
“But how does one live without a residence?” asked Standish, looking puzzled. But then, Standish had always been one of those upright, scrupulous sorts who wouldn’t dream of spending beyond his means and evading his bills.
“Travel, of course,” Rhys answered him. “It’s very simple. One goes abroad to escape one’s debts at home. One comes home to escape one’s debts abroad. In this way, a man can explore the entire globe for less than five hundred pounds.”
Everyone laughed, including Standish. “But where does a gentleman live while here in town?” the earl asked.
“Off his friends, of course!” Rhys clapped Weston on the back. “Have you a spare room, Wes, by the way? I can’t abide Milbray’s town house much longer. His butler’s far too courteous. Let my mother in a few days ago. It was ghastly.”
“Have you in my house?” Smiling, Weston shook his head. “Not a chance of it. I have my sister to think of.”
He grinned back at the other man. “Don’t you trust me?”
“With my sister? Not for a moment.”
A gong sounded, informing everyone in the Royal Opera House that the performance was about to begin, and Standish’s guests began moving toward the seats that overlooked the stage to the left and the floor below.
Rhys started to do the same, but Weston stopped him. “Have you been north since coming home?”
“Visit my own estates? God, no. Inflicting such depressing sights on oneself is unhealthy. If you ever tell me you are paying your estates a visit, Wes, I shall be quite concerned for you.”
Weston didn’t laugh. “I’ve seen St. Cyres Castle. Went hunting near there with Munro last autumn. It was…not in the best condition.”
“Exactly my point. Visiting one’s country houses is too depressing for words.”
“Rhys—” He broke off, then sighed. “You know the rumors floating through town, I suppose?”
Rhys’s smile flattened, but he kept it in place. After all, a gentleman was required to put up a good show. “I say, did you know I have the singular honor of possessing two ducal titles?”
Weston blinked at this seeming change of subject. “Two?”
“Yes. The day after I arrived home, Talk of the Town proclaimed me not only the Duke of St. Cyres but also the Duke of Debt. And, according to the Social Gazette, I can be had at a discount.” He took a sip of champagne and grinned. “So clever, these London journalists.”
“How can you laugh it off?”
He shrugged. “No sense losing one’s sense of humor.”
“All joking aside, my friend, are things as bad as they say?”
“If things were that good, I’d be celebrating. Unfortunately, they’re not. Evelyn, being an idiot as well as a prize bastard, kept everything in land. As if land is any use to anybody nowadays.”
“He had no funds? No other investments?” Weston was understandably astonished. “Even my father, as old-fashioned as he was, put a bit of money into Newcastle coal mines and American railroads. Those are the only things saving us now.”
“How fortunate for you. I, on the other hand, am the proud owner of over ten thousand acres of mortgaged farmland and pasture. But I am choosing to look on the bright side. I’ll wager my estates are the prettiest in Britain. Not a coal mine or railroad in sight to spoil the views.”
Weston laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Rhys. Truly. I’m mortgaged pretty heavily myself, but I might be able to raise another loan if you need—”
Rhys, who loathed pity, never gave it to anyone, and never accepted it when it was offered, turned away. “We’re missing the opera.”
“God forbid we should miss Wagner,” Weston murmured behind him, but being a tactful chap, he let the matter drop.
Rhys took his seat but paid little heed to the performance. For the first time, a feeling of genuine gloom began settling over him. He might make light of obtaining free meals at the Clarendon and sponging off friends, but beneath his laughter at his own expense was the inescapable taint of desperation.
He’d always been cynical, believing the worst because the worst was so often true, and in regard to the family holdings, he’d been particularly pessimistic. But after seven days home, he was realizing he’d been somewhat out in his assumptions. Things were far worse than he had thought possible.
If the reports he’d read that afternoon were accurate, then Winter Park was the only property he possessed in decent condition, no doubt because that residence was the one where Uncle Evelyn had spent most of his time. It was also a house Rhys loathed, the house where he and Thomas had spent that god-awful holiday the summer he was twelve. He had no intention of living there at the end of the season. He’d rather live on the streets. Winter Park would have to be leased.