come to this.
“My father had an income of over fifty thousand pounds per annum, Jack,” he protested. “He could have built Rome and London and had blunt left to spend. Where did it all go?”
Jack held out his big palms in a helpless gesture. “He frittered it away building that monstrosity he called home. He didn’t care much about the land after your mother died. You know that.”
“But Edward did! He lived for counting sheep. Couldn’t he have taken things in hand?”
“Lately, he caught the building bug just like your father. He wanted to build fancy new cottages and move the village out of sight. He spent more time talking to architects and landscapers than to his own tenants. Money has to be managed to grow, and no one’s managed yours in many a year. We haven’t seen fifty thousand in a long time.”
To Harry, even half of fifty thousand was a sum so enormous that he couldn’t imagine spending it in a lifetime, much less a year. Even living in the expensive town house, he’d carefully managed his two thousand pound allowance to cover his living expenses with sufficient left over to invest. His parliamentary duties for his father’s pocket borough were light but offered opportunities for investment and earning a little extra. He lived quite comfortably on his income.
He didn’t see how his father and brother could have spent fifty thousand in the entire course of their lives. They didn’t come up to London or have wives or daughters to eat up the income with gowns and new furniture and entertaining. Harry couldn’t remember the last time his father had entertained.
“I’ll go to Sommersville and take a look at the books,” Harry agreed wearily. “They must have snugged it away somewhere.”
“I keep the books, Harry,” Jack reminded him. “There’s nothing to snug away and debts higher than a mountain waiting to be paid. We need cash just to buy seed and plant the fields this spring. There’s none will lend us a tuppence until your father’s debts have been paid.”
“I’ll talk to our creditors,” Harry said desperately. “Maybe they can be made to wait another year. Surely, once the rents are paid in the fall—”
Jack shook his head. “We need to show them cash up front. The dowry your betrothed brings will hold them off until the fall. You need to set a date and marry, Harry.”
Marry! The new duke collapsed in his chair and swung around to gaze out the floor-length window. Christina was nowhere in sight: happy Christina, blithe Christina, addlepated, mischievous witch Christina.
A duchess?
***
April 1755
“Lord Harry has made an appointment to see your father this afternoon,” Cousin Lucinda announced excitedly, entering Christina’s bedchamber without knocking.
“The Most Noble the Duke of Sommersville, you mean.” Christina plopped down on the edge of the bed and began to pry off her boots. “Or His Grace, the Duke of Sommersville.” She dropped the boot on the faded carpet and pried off the other. Then she shimmied out of her half brother’s breeches and stockings. “I expect he’s come to cry off.”
“Christina!” Shocked—not by her cousin’s breeches but by her assertion—Lucinda tucked the outlandish clothes into their usual place in the bottom of the armoire. “He cannot do that. You have been betrothed for ages .”
With the ease of expertise, Christina untied the old skirt that hid her breeches. She’d spent these past weeks exploring inside London’s inner city walls looking for the ghost of Hans Holbein, the artist Lucinda most admired. It was much easier—and less conspicuous—to skulk about disguised in boy’s clothing.
“Sinda, my dear, do you remember when all London whispered in astonishment after you painted the portrait of the earl’s daughter in her casket—before the child died?”
Lucinda clasped her fingers and looked nervous. “I thought they’d ride me out of town on a rail. I want my work to be recognized, but
“My father had an income of over fifty thousand pounds per annum, Jack,” he protested. “He could have built Rome and London and had blunt left to spend. Where did it all go?”
Jack held out his big palms in a helpless gesture. “He frittered it away building that monstrosity he called home. He didn’t care much about the land after your mother died. You know that.”
“But Edward did! He lived for counting sheep. Couldn’t he have taken things in hand?”
“Lately, he caught the building bug just like your father. He wanted to build fancy new cottages and move the village out of sight. He spent more time talking to architects and landscapers than to his own tenants. Money has to be managed to grow, and no one’s managed yours in many a year. We haven’t seen fifty thousand in a long time.”
To Harry, even half of fifty thousand was a sum so enormous that he couldn’t imagine spending it in a lifetime, much less a year. Even living in the expensive town house, he’d carefully managed his two thousand pound allowance to cover his living expenses with sufficient left over to invest. His parliamentary duties for his father’s pocket borough were light but offered opportunities for investment and earning a little extra. He lived quite comfortably on his income.
He didn’t see how his father and brother could have spent fifty thousand in the entire course of their lives. They didn’t come up to London or have wives or daughters to eat up the income with gowns and new furniture and entertaining. Harry couldn’t remember the last time his father had entertained.
“I’ll go to Sommersville and take a look at the books,” Harry agreed wearily. “They must have snugged it away somewhere.”
“I keep the books, Harry,” Jack reminded him. “There’s nothing to snug away and debts higher than a mountain waiting to be paid. We need cash just to buy seed and plant the fields this spring. There’s none will lend us a tuppence until your father’s debts have been paid.”
“I’ll talk to our creditors,” Harry said desperately. “Maybe they can be made to wait another year. Surely, once the rents are paid in the fall—”
Jack shook his head. “We need to show them cash up front. The dowry your betrothed brings will hold them off until the fall. You need to set a date and marry, Harry.”
Marry! The new duke collapsed in his chair and swung around to gaze out the floor-length window. Christina was nowhere in sight: happy Christina, blithe Christina, addlepated, mischievous witch Christina.
A duchess?
***
April 1755
“Lord Harry has made an appointment to see your father this afternoon,” Cousin Lucinda announced excitedly, entering Christina’s bedchamber without knocking.
“The Most Noble the Duke of Sommersville, you mean.” Christina plopped down on the edge of the bed and began to pry off her boots. “Or His Grace, the Duke of Sommersville.” She dropped the boot on the faded carpet and pried off the other. Then she shimmied out of her half brother’s breeches and stockings. “I expect he’s come to cry off.”
“Christina!” Shocked—not by her cousin’s breeches but by her assertion—Lucinda tucked the outlandish clothes into their usual place in the bottom of the armoire. “He cannot do that. You have been betrothed for ages .”
With the ease of expertise, Christina untied the old skirt that hid her breeches. She’d spent these past weeks exploring inside London’s inner city walls looking for the ghost of Hans Holbein, the artist Lucinda most admired. It was much easier—and less conspicuous—to skulk about disguised in boy’s clothing.
“Sinda, my dear, do you remember when all London whispered in astonishment after you painted the portrait of the earl’s daughter in her casket—before the child died?”
Lucinda clasped her fingers and looked nervous. “I thought they’d ride me out of town on a rail. I want my work to be recognized, but