The Golden Season Read Free

the site of the fabled lost continent,” she said primly. “Pray, continue.”
    “And need I mention the full staffs kept at three separate houses, the horses, gowns, bonnets, jewelry, the weekly salon you host, the parties and balls—”
    “No,” Lady Lydia cut in smoothly. “You needn’t. But you misunderstand me, Terwilliger. I do not want to know how I exhausted my funds, as you so picturesquely put it, but how exhausted my funds are.”
    At this, Terwilliger made an exasperated sound. “They have expired.”
    She scrutinized him closely and seeing no wavering said, “I will sell the Derbyshire farm.”
    “It’s already been sold.”
    She frowned. “It has? When?”
    “Three months ago. I wrote you and asked you how you intended to fund the Atlantis expedition and you wrote back saying I should sell whatever was necessary. I did so. I sent you the contracts by messenger and you signed them.”
    “Oh. Yes. I recall. But surely there’s something left from that sale?”
    He shook his head.
    “Sell one of the houses.”
    “They are all on the market and no one has made an offer and I doubt anyone will. There are few people these days looking to purchase properties without acreage.”
    “The coal mine, then,” she said decisively. “I have never liked owning—”
    “It is no longer producing.”
    “All right,” she said in the tone of one capitulating to an unreasonable request. “Sell some stocks.”
    He shifted uncomfortably. “Since the war ended, the stock market has collapsed. I have tried to be prudent, but I have failed you here. Your stocks currently have no appreciable value.”
    Now, finally, he’d breached the wall that wealth and entitlement had built around her. Her smile wavered.
    “Tell Honeycutt to sell my shares of Indian Trade fleet,” she said, naming the man who oversaw the shipping venture that to the greatest part had financed the Eastlake empire.
    Terwilliger stared at her.
    “Well?”
    “But . . .” he stammered, flummoxed. “There is no fleet.”
    She frowned. “Of course there’s a fleet. At last word, they were preparing to return from India fully laden.”
    “Two weeks ago, all five ships were captured by pirates off the east coast of Africa.”
    “What?”
    “I wrote you about this. Twice. I sent word seeking an interview, but you—”
    “The crews!” she interrupted, blanching.
    “Your shipping company had just enough available capital to pay the ransom demanded,” he hastily assured her, and she drew a relieved breath. “No lives were lost. But the ships and their cargo are gone. I wish you had read my letters,” he finished fretfully.
    “So do I,” she murmured. “I would never have purchased that barouche.”
    He watched her, miserable, and told himself he had done his best, that he could only offer advice, which Lady Lydia oft ignored, and while he was willing to admit that his advice had been bad of late, every one of the financiers and bankers and investors he knew had been just as culpable in their failure to predict the country’s current financial predicament.
    In great part, her situation was of her own making. Then why did he feel terrible? He hadn’t captained the fleet, spent the money, or ruined the stock market.
    He felt terrible because he sincerely liked Lady Lydia. She was a flame, a life force who burned brilliantly, fascinated, warmed and, yes, was possibly destructive, but still one would hate to see a fire such as hers extinguished.
    “I see,” Lady Lydia finally murmured. “What can I do?”
    No good would come of equivocating. “Your property, both real and intangible, is gone. When liquidated, your personal assets may pay off those debts you have incurred and leave you enough so that, if carefully managed, you might live adequately.”
    “Adequately? That sounds encouraging,” she said, brightening. “What exactly does that mean?”
    “I estimate two hundred fifty pounds a year. Enough for a small town house, a