The other estates, he’d been told, could not be let to anyone in their present condition, with the ducal seat of St. Cyres Castle being in the sorriest state of all. The fortified manor house, its original keep held by his family since the time of Edward I, was apparently a deserted ruin, though he’d been assured it could be made fit to live in. It would cost about a hundred thousand pounds to replace the sold furnishings, fix the roof and the rotted timbering, repair the drains, stock the larder, rebuild the tenant cottages, till and plant the crops, and clear all debts to the village tradesmen.
A hundred thousand pounds? What a good joke. He couldn’t even afford beefsteak at the Clarendon. Rhys rested his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. Over the lurid music of Wagner, he heard Letitia’s voice, a voice that beneath her polished veneer of well-bred disdain echoed the sick fear that was forming in his own guts.
What are you going to do?
He thought of the enormous outlays of cash that would soon have to be made. Death duties for old Evelyn had to be paid to Her Majesty’s government. First quarter interest payments on the mortgaged De Winter lands were due in June. There were jointures to be paid, annuities, servants’ wages, tradesmen’s bills—the list was endless. Where was the money going to come from? He would apply to bankers for more credit, but there wasn’t a prayer they’d grant it.
A wave of frustration rose within him. He didn’t want this, not the titles, not the estates, and certainly not the responsibilities. Hell, if he’d wanted to be the next Duke of St. Cyres, he’d have murdered Evelyn and given the bugger his just deserts long ago. Instead, he hadn’t even waited for the ink to dry on his examinations at Oxford before taking the money left him by his father, money Evelyn hadn’t been able to touch, and running off to Italy, where he’d spent it all in grand style. He’d never been home, never given a damn, never looked back. Until now.
Now, destitution hovered at his elbow like the grim reaper. But really, hadn’t it always been there? Wasn’t that why he had lived so high for so long without thinking of the consequences, without contemplating what was down the road? During his days in Florence, plenty of other peers, Weston among them, had stayed with him. They’d been the ones to joke about dodging the bills at restaurants and living off one’s friends, coming abroad to escape their own inevitable future just as he had—a future of position with no income to maintain it, possessed of an absolute belief in their superior breeding, yet without the cash to pay for their own meals. He’d known it would come to that for him as well, a brutal truth that impelled him to spend his money twice as fast after each friend who’d come abroad to live off of him was forced to depart for home.
Despite his present circumstances, though, he didn’t regret a thing. If he’d been prudent and careful these past twelve years, it wouldn’t have made a dent in the mountain of debt already accumulated by his predecessors. Like himself, the past half-dozen Dukes of St. Cyres had lived on their capital, spending their money on extravagance after extravagance and having a hell of a good time in the process.
But now the ball was over. He just happened to be the duke who got handed the bill.
What are you going to do?
Rhys opened his eyes, making a sound of derision under his breath. Pointless of Letitia to ask a question that had only one answer.
He was going to marry an heiress, of course. He’d known that to be his only choice for a long time now. The reports he’d read today only served to underscore the inevitability of his course.
Might as well get on with things. He straightened in his seat and pulled his pair of opera glasses from the breast pocket of his evening jacket to officially begin the hunt for the next Duchess of St. Cyres.
He tried to banish his gloom by reckoning up what he had on his side of the ledger. He was a duke, and as Weston had pointed out, that still counted for something. He was also well aware of his appeal to women, and a most fortunate talent it was, too, when one had to marry for money. As an added bonus, he was sitting beside Cora Standish tonight, a woman who knew everyone in London society and could give him their financial status as well as their social position. If he came across a pretty face, Cora would know the name and dowry that came with it.
He began to scan the boxes opposite, and almost at once found his attention caught, not by an heiress, but by a far more intriguing sight. In a deliciously low-cut gown of pink silk, a simple strand of pearls at her neck and another woven into her dark hair, was the delectable wench he’d seen a fortnight ago mending gowns.
Since when did a seamstress wear pearls and silk and attend the opera? Rhys straightened in his chair and leaned forward, certain he had to be mistaken.
But after studying her for several moments, he knew there was no mistake. It was her. Desire began thrumming through his body, just as it had the moment he’d first seen her down on her knees in that deceptively submissive pose. He imagined her now as he had then, with his hand in her hair.
He shifted in his seat with a grimace. Such erotic imaginings, as delicious as they were, could not lead anywhere, not with this woman, and certainly not at this moment. Despite that, he found himself unable to look away.
He wondered why she was here. Her silk dress had been borrowed, no doubt, and the pearls had probably come from some Manchester manufacturer rather than from oysters, but that did not explain her presence in an opera box at Covent Garden. Perhaps his little seamstress had decided to embark on a more lucrative career. His gaze slid across a tempting expanse of smooth white skin and came to rest where the low neckline of her gown met the high, round curves of her breasts. Not for the first time, Rhys cursed his present lack of funds.
“What on earth are you staring at?” Cora asked, tapping his thigh with her fan. “I must know what has so captivated your interest that you choose to ignore not only your hostess and your fellow guests, but also the performance.”
He took a deep breath, striving to force down his arousal, but he didn’t take his eyes from the fetching sight across the theater. “I am ignoring the performance because I loathe Wagner. Valkyries always give me a headache. I am ignoring you because you are already married, my sweet, and one of those rare creatures in love with your own husband, a man who is hovering on your other side with tiresome possessiveness. And since Standish practices such strict economies nowadays, you can’t even grant me a loan.”
“So you have turned your attention in a more profitable direction? Some rich heiress, I suppose?”
“Alas, no.” He lifted his gaze, somewhat reluctantly, from Miss Bosworth’s splendid breasts to her face. It was not a beautiful face by any means, but pretty enough, with its dumpling cheeks, turned-up nose, and quite kissable mouth. But it was her eyes—those big, soft, dark eyes—that would make a name for her, if she were truly intent to become a woman on the town. “Much to my regret, the woman in question is no heiress.”
“You intrigue me. Point her out.”
“Straight across,” he obliged, “then two boxes to the right. Dark hair, pink silk dress and pearls.”
Lady Standish peered through her own opera glasses, scanned the boxes across the way, and gave a cry of triumph. “How you do tease, St. Cyres, to say you were not staring at an heiress when you’ve set your sights on the richest one in the room!”
That gained his full attention. “I beg your pardon?”
“The woman you’ve been gaping at is Miss Prudence Abernathy, the daughter of that American millionaire.”
Rhys began to laugh. “You’ve gotten muddled somehow, Cora. Her name’s not Abernathy. It’s Bosworth, and she’s no millionaire’s daughter. She’s a seamstress.”
“She was a seamstress, darling. But she’s also Henry Abernathy’s illegitimate daughter. You’ve heard of Abernathy’s Department Stores, I trust?”
Rhys decided to humor her. “How do you know this?”
“I saw the girl myself at Madame Marceau’s this afternoon.”
“Exactly. The Marceau woman is who she works for.”
“How you know which seamstresses work for which dressmakers baffles me, St. Cyres.”
He grinned. “I have devoted a lifetime to the study of feminine apparel.”
“Learning how best to remove it, no doubt,” she countered dryly, but didn’t give him the chance to reply before she went on. “At any rate, the girl wasn’t at the dressmaker’s to work, believe me. She was with her aunt, being fitted for gowns, and Marceau was in such a flutter as I’ve never seen, tripping over herself to make the girl happy. A friend of mine, Lady Marley, was with them—she’s slightly acquainted with the aunt and knows their cousin—Sir Robert Something. He’s a baronet, I think. Anyway, she introduced me, and later, after the girl had gone, told me the whole story.”
Cora leaned toward him, eager to share London’s latest gossip. “Henry Abernathy, the girl’s father, wasn’t always so rich. He was originally a Yorkshire farmer named Bosworth who had a fling with the daughter of the local squire.”
“How naughty of him.”