“Don’t be such a boor,” Gil interrupted. “I thought she was an amusing little thing. Quite droll for a girl her age.”
“She snorted!” James retorted. “Hardly ladylike.”
“For God’s sake, she’s just a child!”
“And a damned ugly one,” James retorted. “Did you notice all those marks on her face?
The earl interrupted then, his face flushed. “The chit’s seventeen, and if she looks a bit peaky, it’s because she’s been very ill. She was at death’s door a few weeks ago.”
The brothers exchanged identical surprised looks. It wasn’t like their father to notice a little nobody like Rose Davenport, much less defend her.
“Anyway, enough about that,” the earl continued. “Need to talk to you, Waite. Come and see me in the library.” He limped out of the room without another word.
James raised his brows at Gil. “What’s all that about? It’s usually me being called in for a dressing down.”
Gil shrugged.
Despite his show of unconcern, Gil felt edgy as he walked to library. When he was younger, a visit to the library had always involved the meting out of paternal punishment. It had been a few years now since his father had beaten him, but he still felt like a boy as he made his way down the corridor.
Having been ordered to attend, he entered the library without knocking. It was an oppressive room, the walls lined with leather-bound books, the furniture dark and heavy. The earl sat at his huge mahogany desk, his face weary as he stared unseeingly at the polished surface, apparently unaware that Gil had arrived.
Gil felt an unexpected and unfamiliar stab of concern. He had never been close to his stern father, but today the old man looked every one of his fifty-six years. Older, in fact. He seemed to have aged a decade in the eighteen months since his countess had died. For all the earl’s grim autocracy, it was the countess who had been the stronger partner in their marriage, and he had adored her. Since her death, he had floundered. Gil had heard reports from concerned friends and relatives about his father’s uncharacteristic behaviour. It worried him, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to talk to his father. The earl was not a man to confide in his sons. He would be horrified if he knew just how much Gil had learned.
“You wanted to see me?”
The earl looked up, seeming almost surprised to see him for a moment. “Shut the door, Waite,” he said. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, quite different from his usual gruff bark.
As Gil shut the door, his father turned to the silver tray beside him and poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to Gil and swiftly draining his own. Gil held his untouched glass tightly, watching as the older man put his empty glass down and passed a shaking hand over his mouth.
There was a silence before the earl spoke, and when he did, he kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “I’ve made the most god-awful mess of everything, m’boy. And now I have to ask you to fix it. For all of us. For me, and for you as my heir. And for James and Antonia.” He looked up then, finally meeting Gil’s concerned gaze, and his pale blue eyes were pleading. “Wish I didn’t have to ask this of you, Gil.”
It was that, that use of his Christian name, that made him realise something was truly wrong. His father never called him Gil. Always Waite.
Gil kept his voice calm. “Ask me what? What’s happened?”
The older man set his shoulders back. He took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve lost all the unentailed property. Weartham and Kilburton, and Lofthouse too.”
“What?” Gil said faintly. All he could feel was numb bewilderment. It was shocking. Impossible. “What?” he said again, more distinctly this time. His grip on the glass tightened, and he sloshed brandy on his hand. Absently, he noticed the coolness of drying alcohol on his skin. “How?” His voice was weak, disbelieving.
“At the tables. I’ve lost a fortune over the last few months. And then, two weeks ago, I found myself in a very deep game. I was so sure I was going to win! So I staked them all.” The earl was sitting up very straight, his back like a ramrod, not even touching the back of the chair. “And I lost.”
Gil felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He knew what this meant. Stanhope Abbey was entailed; untouchable. But its existence depended upon the income from the unentailed estates. This meant ruin.
He’d been standing, but now he dropped into the chair on the other side of his father’s desk, feeling as though his legs had been cut out from under him. For the last two years, he’d been learning about estate management, thinking about changes that could be made. He’d secretly planned to make Kilburton over to James when he became earl so James would have his own estate. Now these things would never happen.