Engaging the Earl. Mandy Goff

the ships are gone?” Marcus asked. He was unwilling to give up hope that everything might, in fact, turn out fine.

      However, his solicitor, Mr. Wilbanks, an older gentleman who had served Marcus and his father before him for years, was silent; obviously, he thought the worst.

      â€œThe numbers aren’t good, my lord,” Wilbanks said with the same dejected manner as Grimshaw. “In your grandfather’s time,” he explained, “the entirety of the family’s income came from the rents on your estates. It was your father who made the decision to begin investing in various enterprises with the surpluses from the estate funds—a practice which you have continued, and which has doubled your income.”

      Marcus already knew the family’s financial history, and he wanted to tell Wilbanks to speed up the explanation. But instead of barking at the solicitor, he tried to wait patiently.

      Wilbanks took a steadying breath before continuing.

      â€œBut all of the monies in the investment accounts were used for this timber project of Lord Rutherford’s. If the ships are lost, that portion of your income is gone. It will take years of surpluses from the estates before you would be able to build those accounts up enough to begin investing again.”

      â€œHow much is going to be left?” Some claimed Marcus was rich as Croesus, which might have been an exaggeration, but the truth of the matter was that his accounts had been quite large. And now they were empty—and would remain so, unless the ship and its merchandise could be recovered.

      All was not lost, Marcus supposed. He did still have a vast amount of property at his disposal. Property that earned a fair amount of income—enough so he would hardly have to worry about starving, or lacking a roof over his head.

      But all the other uses he made of his money—the charitable donations, the investments into facilities to help the underprivileged, all his plans to use his wealth and position to drive interest in generating labor and housing reforms … it would all have to come to a halt. The very thought was appalling.

      Wilbanks fumbled, but Grimshaw seemed to take pity on the solicitor, naming a number that made Marcus wince.

      â€œIt’s enough to maintain your estates until the next round of rents come in,” the estate manager continued, trying to be consoling. “And to cover moderate personal expenses. Not much more than that, though. No lavish living,” he finished.

      â€œMr. Wilbanks,” Marcus said, turning toward the solicitor, who looked like he might rather be having his teeth pulled out one by one and without any numbing effect than to be sitting in the room with them. “Is that right?” Marcus didn’t care so much about the not living lavishly part … but it would have been nice if there had been something other than eking by on the horizon.

      â€œFrom what I can tell of the paperwork …” Wilbanks sighed. “Yes. It is, unfortunately, true.”

      â€œHow long?” Marcus croaked, his throat and mouth parched.

      â€œHow long until what precisely, my lord?” Wilbanks asked. He looked twitchy and uncomfortable. Grimshaw didn’t look much better.

      Marcus scrubbed a hand down his face. “How long until we can recoup?”

      The solicitor consulted some papers in front of him. “It is difficult to say. The estates generate sufficient funds to cover most living costs. Unfortunately, most of the income from the recent rents collection went into the investment funds. The estate expenses are, of course, paid first, so there are no outstanding costs there, but the monies in your personal funds will have to last you until the next rent collection date. At that point, the situation should become more stable—and if you are careful with your expenses, then you may still have some surplus to go back into the investment accounts.”

      After Marcus muddled through the headache-inducing explanations, he decided that at least that was a bit of heartening news.

      â€œI will also see about possibly leasing out some of your secondary estates to bring in some more funds,” Wilbanks continued, “but any significant expenditure—” Wilbanks tiptoed carefully around the reform investments Marcus had discussed with him so many times “—will have to wait for … I’d say six or seven years, at the least. If you begin to conserve, make cutbacks, then the funds will, of course, accumulate faster—”

      â€œI don’t care about whether or not I’ll be able to go purchase a new pair of boots every week,” Marcus interrupted.

      â€œWould you be willing to temporarily raise the cost of rent from your tenants?” Wilbanks asked bluntly.

      â€œNo,” Marcus said before the man even had time to close his mouth on the question.

      â€œNot even to help—”

      Marcus slashed his hand through the air. “I said no.” He wasn’t going to burden his tenants to fund his own social-reform agenda. “We’ll find another way.” He didn’t know whom he was trying to convince—the two downtrodden men, or himself. “And I won’t abandon all hope that the ship is, indeed, safe.”

      Grimshaw opened his mouth to speak then promptly closed it again. Another time or two of the same routine, and the estate manager finally found his voice. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, my lord. No one has heard from the ship. Nor have any of the rescue ships sent out located any sign of it.”

      â€œI’ll continue to pray,” Marcus said.

      The two men stayed for only a few more minutes. Really, there was nothing left to discuss. And when Marcus was left alone in his study, he felt the weight of his predicament bearing down on him.

      What was he going to do? The urge was strong to stay in his study and keep searching his finances for answers. Pouring over ledgers and account books wouldn’t make a difference in the reality of the situation, however. He trusted Wilbanks and had no reason not to take the older man at his word. If anyone knew the state of the family’s coffers, it was the solicitor who’d been serving the Fairfaxes for years.

      Marcus was trying to devise an outing that would occupy his mind for a bit when his butler brought in a letter from his sister, Olivia.

      Drop whatever you’re doing. I urgently need to see you.

      Less than half an hour later, his sister’s butler, Mathis, barely had time to open the front door of the house before Marcus was pushing his way in. In the time it took him to ride to the Huntsford town house, he’d had ample opportunity to envision what might be wrong. After Wilbanks and Grimshaw’s ill tidings, the earl was primed to expect the worst.

      Mathis’s stoic exterior should have given Marcus some reassurance that things were fine, but the butler’s expression never changed. A thief could have a gun trained on him, and the most the older man might do was blink.

      And because of his completely unflappable nature, Mathis didn’t say a word about seeing the Earl of Westin with an eye that was an impressive display of mottled blues and purple.

      A butler who didn’t feel the need to offer unsolicited commentary on everything … it was a refreshing change.

      â€œYour sister will meet you in the yellow parlor, my lord,” Mathis said.

      Without asking the location of the yellow parlor, Marcus headed down the hall. In the months since his sister’s marriage, Olivia’s new home had become as familiar to him as his own.

      Marcus paced the length of the room while he waited for his sister to appear. Just when he was seriously beginning to contemplate going and finding her, the door opened.

      â€œGood morning, Marcus,” Olivia said cheerfully.

      â€œWhat