Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1) (3 page)

“You can shift for yourself,” Thorington said. “I’ll take care of Anthony.”

Anthony was still quiet. At nineteen, he was everything Thorington might have been then — alternating between cocksure confidence and moments of boyish doubt, simmering rebellion and childish clinging to safety.

Thorington had seen every tantrum, heard every sullen recrimination. But he’d also played spillikins with him, told stories to him, given him dreams of princesses and castles rather than the reality of what a younger son faced. He should have bought Anthony a military commission or found him a clergy position as soon as he had left Eton. But the memory of Anthony, a squalling newborn in his arms, as their father threw their mother out of the house…

That memory sometimes made him soft.

He forced his face into something distant, something unassailable, and waited to speak until he knew his façade was back in place. “If you’ve wondered why I’ve dragged you all into Devon for the summer rather than going to our family seat, the Maidenstone estate is two miles from here. We will go there this afternoon.”

Anthony’s face turned pale, nearly matching his perfectly starched cravat. He always dressed immaculately when Thorington called them on the carpet, even if he claimed not to care. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “Ferguson would never invite you.”

That was true. The party’s organizer — Ferguson, the Duke of Rothwell — had no love for Thorington. But Thorington had secured an invitation through other channels. This wasn’t an opportunity he could afford to lose.

“Maidenstone?” Rafe asked. He sounded entirely sober now. “I knew it was close, but I didn’t think you’d have any interest there. You don’t mean to go after one of the Briarley heiresses, do you?”

Thorington snorted. “I’m far too old for any of those chits. And I’ve already married for a large dowry once. It’s time for Anthony to earn his keep.”

The reference to his dead, mostly unlamented wife further soured the mood. “I would think you, of all people, would refuse to condone another arranged marriage after what Ariana did to you,” Anthony said bitterly.

“It wasn’t arranged — it was forced.”

They all knew it was. She’d trapped him most effectively, in one of those situations where he had to do the gentlemanly thing and marry her despite having no love at all for her. But then, giving her the title she wanted for the dowry he needed had saved his whole family from disaster.

Anthony, with his romantic notions and no memory of their former poverty, wouldn’t see it that way. “Making me marry one of the Briarley heiresses wouldn’t be forced?” he retorted.

Thorington shrugged. “You can choose whichever of them you prefer. That’s a better option than I had.”

Anthony scowled. “It isn’t my fault you lost at cards. And I shan’t pay your debts with my heart.”

It was a brave, bold phrase, one he tried to back up with a puffed-up chest and dramatic inhale. But Thorington’s arched brow was sharp enough to puncture his resolve.

“You aren’t paying my debts,” Thorington said. “This is for your benefit, not mine. If you prefer not to marry an heiress, I can use my influence to make you a private secretary to a richer man than I. Is that what you prefer?”

Anthony’s pale face was the ghost of a memory. He had been so sickly as a child, so likely to slip away from a mere cough or infected cut. It sometimes felt like a miracle that Anthony had survived, when Thorington could only see the fevered child rather than the healthy adult.

“I want to have a choice,” Anthony said.

Thorington almost relented then. What if the Briarley heiresses were like Ariana — conniving social climbers who would always demand more? Could he condemn Anthony —
Anthony
— to that?

“Choice is a luxury, not a right,” Thorington said. Anthony flinched, but this wasn’t the time for mercy. “We can’t afford that luxury at the moment. I’ve ordered your valet to pack your things. We will make our grand entrance at Maidenstone this afternoon. Our residence in Salcombe has been of long enough duration that you can get a marriage license from the bishop at Exeter as soon as you offer for one of them — no need to wait for banns.”

The seriousness of the situation, and how much he had planned for it, seemed to strike all of them. The girls turned pale. Anthony, with his blond hair and fair cheeks, was always pale, but a flush slowly spread over his skin. “You can’t force me to marry any of them,” he said.

“I won’t have to,” Thorington replied. “You can choose between the security of an heiress and the peril of being disowned. I don’t have to be a prophet to know what you’ll decide.”

“You aren’t my brother,” Anthony said.

There was an awful moment of silence. The girls both looked at their feet. Rafe dropped his arm over his eyes again. But Anthony didn’t back down this time — he met Thorington’s coldest look without flinching.

Thorington couldn’t make his life better, though. If Anthony didn’t marry someone, preferably someone wealthy, before the direness of Thorington’s situation came to light, he might never get another chance. Third sons with no wealth were not in high demand.

And Thorington would rather see them all settled well, even if they hated him, than risk ruining their lives because of his debts.

“You are welcome to say whatever you wish about our relationship,” Thorington said. “But I remain your guardian. And I will see you in the carriage this afternoon even if I must order the servants to drag you there. I trust you know better than to cause such a scene in the neighborhood where you may someday be the master of the estate.”

Anthony stared at him for another long moment. Then he left, not asking to be excused. Portia cast Thorington a reproachful glare before rushing after her favorite sibling. Her voice, calling after their brother, scoured him. Every footstep rushing up the stairs was a body blow; the slam of a faraway door was a shot to his stomach.

Then, silence.

He looked at Rafe. “Nothing to say?” he asked.

Rafe dropped his arm, along with all pretense of nonchalance. “Serena, be a dear and excuse us?”

Serena ignored him. “What happened? Why are you so put out by a few losses at the gaming hells?”

“Don’t concern yourself,” Thorington said. “There’s enough left for your dowry.”

Only if she married before the middle of September, when the quarterly bills came due. But he didn’t clarify, and she didn’t care anyway. “My dowry doesn’t matter,” she said. “And you’ve only lost five or ten thousand in recent months, according to the
Gazette
. That’s hardly enough to signify.”

His losses had been reported in the gossip sheets, unprecedented as it was for him to come out the loser. Thorington shrugged. “You shouldn’t discuss gambling debts with a gentleman.”

“But…”

“Serena,” Rafe said gently.

Serena glared at Rafe, then turned her focus back to Thorington. “What if I want to worry? I’ve precious little else to do with my time. Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I’m not your responsibility,” he said. “If you want to worry, do so — I can’t stop you. But you can’t help me, save by marrying someone appropriate.”

Serena’s mutinous scowl was answer enough. But she followed it with, “I wish you would find someone who can cut you down. Heaven knows you need it. Then the rest of us mortals may have a chance to help you.”

It would have made him laugh if it didn’t sound like a curse. Thorington knew something of curses. It was the reason he was in his current predicament. He didn’t want to learn anything more about them.

He gestured to the door. “Pack your things.”

Serena scowled again, but she didn’t fight him. She flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her. No one came to investigate all the noise — but then, with the extravagant sum he had paid to rent every room in the small establishment for the last three weeks, he could tear the entire building down from the rafters to the floorboards and the owner would probably offer to build him another one.

Thorington examined his cuffs. “Do you wish to follow her?” he asked Rafe, not looking up.

“Of course,” Rafe said. “I’d be a fool to stay when you’re in your ‘savior of the family’ mood.”

“It hasn’t bothered any of you to be saved. Or if it has, you’ve never spurned my money.”

Rafe moved to a chair directly across from Thorington’s. The shift in position brought him uncomfortably close — made the grim light in his eyes more apparent, more direct. “You’ve never given a damn for what bothered us. How bad is it?”

“What is the opposite of whatever luck I’ve had in the last decade?”

Rafe whistled. “I would pour you a drink if the thought of another round didn’t make me ill. Surely it isn’t…”

“It is,” Thorington said flatly. “Everything I could have lost is lost.”

“I know you’ve been losing at cards, but surely the rest is safe,” Rafe said.

“You should disabuse yourself of the notion that you know my affairs better than I do,” Thorington said.

That skin-flaying voice usually won the day, but Rafe was immune to Thorington’s charms. “Your money is in land, shipping, and industry,” Rafe said. “Serena’s right — ten thousand pounds lost in a gaming hell is nothing to you. That isn’t reason enough to sell Anthony into marriage. And you are incapable of staying broke for long.”

Thorington drummed his fingers on the table again. “That’s no longer true.”

Rafe led himself to the obvious conclusion. “So your curse is truly broken? Allow me to say I’m disappointed.”

If it were anyone else, Thorington would have laughed and called it a bit of superstitious nonsense. But Rafe was the only person in his family who knew exactly where their unlimited funds had come from over the past decade. And it wasn’t just luck. Nor was it from Thorington’s own efforts — he had no illusions about his business acumen. Dukes were bred to rule countries, not count shillings. It made them singularly ill-equipped for modern life.

All the luck he’d had over the past decade could be attributed, solely and completely, to an ancient curse. He’d thought it was a joke at first. How could it not be a joke? He had been so sure that he and his friend Alex, the Earl of Salford, were having a lark when they had found that ancient Egyptian dagger, cut their palms, and made their wishes.

Thorington had wished for wealth, as any man would who faced inheriting a bankrupted estate. And his wish had come true. Sure, his father had died immediately, which had stopped the old duke from draining the last of his coffers. And Ariana had tricked him into marriage — not the bride he would have wished for, but she brought with her a fortune as the heiress of a City merchant. Those consequences were bad enough that he’d never been happy about his wealth, even as it had made life easier for his siblings.

The curse had a dark sense of humor. He never forgot it; never let himself be lulled into a false sense of security, since it could kill anyone who threatened his finances too completely. But the money had flowed. His family had been beautifully clothed and sumptuously fed while idling around his house.

Until Alex, his former friend, had broken the curse three months earlier. And as quickly as Thorington’s wealth had arrived, it abandoned him.

“I am disappointed as well,” Thorington said. “Much as I’m relieved that the curse won’t find another bored, unhappy heiress for me, I can’t say I’m pleased that the books won’t balance anymore.”

Rafe steepled his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “The duchy is in better financial shape than it’s been at any time in the past two centuries. Don’t gamble or do anything particularly stupid, and you should be fine for years. There’s more than enough time to retrench and plan for an estate that isn’t held up by this curse of yours.”

When Rafe was sober, his mind was sharper than anyone’s. But he didn’t know the extent of Thorington’s woes. “I would assume the same, if I didn’t know how fast everything is slipping away.”

If the curse had had a dark sense of humor during its existence, it was positively diabolical in its absence. Every investment, every business venture — all of it had failed, or was sliding over the precipice.

Rafe couldn’t believe him. “You have thousands of acres of farms and forests,” he said. “That’s never going to change.”

“The land is poor,” Thorington said. “The rents cover the cost of improving the ground and staffing the manor house, but not much else. Why do you think no previous duke was as rich as our peers?”

“Our forbearers were all idiots,” Rafe said. “No surprise they couldn’t manage anything beyond drinking and wenching.”

Thorington laughed. “You’re descended from the same stock, unless you’d rather claim bastardy.”

Rafe shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind it if Mother had gotten me from someone with a bit more soul than Father.”

Of all their mother’s children, Rafe and Gavin were the only ones whose parentage had never been questioned. “You’re out of luck there,” Thorington said.

Rafe sighed, as though that knowledge was worse than anything else Thorington had told him. “The old man left you with a damnable mess. But you have the coal mines, even if you don’t have arable land.”

Coal had been miraculously discovered near Fairhurst, his country estate, a few weeks after the curse had begun. He shrugged. “They ran into a wall of solid granite the day after the curse ended. I doubt they’ll find coal there again, even though they’re blasting for it.”

Rafe frowned. “Factories, then. You have a host of them making supplies for the war…”

“They’ve all decided to strike,” Thorington said.

“At the same time?”

“Indeed. My agents are trying to find strikebreakers, but it is proving difficult.”

Rafe’s frown deepened. “What about your ships? They can’t strike — the sailors would be whipped for it.”

“I’ve had word that the whole of the Caribbean fleet was captured by American privateers.”

“All five of them?” Rafe asked. “Those damned Americans have grown bold.”

“Quite bold.
Crescendo
almost made it to Jamaica, but some incompetent Navy captain cost me her as well. The rest are no doubt being sold or scrapped as we speak.”