“I do.” He sighed. “She did it to spike my guns.”
“What do you mean?”
“She knew I would try to buy the man off, and she circumvented my ability to do so.”
“I don’t understand. You’re rich as Croesus, aren’t you? Surely you’re richer than your mother. If Foscarelli is truly the blackguard you think he is, why don’t you just keep raising the amount of your offer until you reach a figure he finds acceptable?”
“It’s not that simple. Most of my mother’s wealth—which is considerable, by the way—is in funds and shares which can be easily converted to cash.”
“Surely you have funds and cash, too?”
“Yes, but most of mine is tied to the estates and the title in some way, either through the lands themselves, most of which are entailed, or in funds and shares that support the estates with their earnings.”
“And converting those funds to cash would be a problem for you?”
“Not for myself. One man can live very well on a very small income. But if I liquidate assets, many others would suffer. There are hundreds of people who depend upon me and the income generated by my estates. I won’t hollow out the title and risk the livelihoods of all those who depend upon me in order to buy off a fortune-hunter, not even for Mama, and she knows it. She knows her offer is a better one than I can ever make him. She is buying him, and as a result, she will be chained for life to a man wholly unworthy of her.”
“A conclusion you cannot possibly make until you have met him. For myself, I refuse to believe things are as black as you paint them. It’s clear that she loves him.”
“But love is not always tied to happiness. He is a fortune-hunter. Do you really think my mother could be happy with such a man?”
“Maybe.” She gave a shrug. “My mother was.”
“Your father was a fortune-hunter?” He stared at her, astonished. “But your family had money when your father was young, didn’t they?”
“Did your private detectives tell you that?”
He saw no point in prevaricating. “They did, yes. My understanding is that Deverill Publishing was once a thriving, prosperous concern. Your father surely had no need to marry for material considerations.”
“Oh, but he did. You see, as a young man, my father was a wastrel—wild and irresponsible. He was also terrible with money—still is, I’m afraid. He had the unfortunate habit of spending every penny of the very generous salary my grandfather paid him in the company. He had no interest in the newspaper business, and no desire to arrive for work every morning on schedule after drinking himself under the table the night before. My grandfather—who was quite a tartar, by the way—became thoroughly exasperated with him. He gave my father the sack, disinherited him, and tossed him out of the house. He told Papa not to come back until he had accomplished something in the world besides gambling, drinking, and chasing women.”
“So your father went to find an heiress, and the result was that he married Ellesmere’s daughter? But it didn’t work,” he pointed out when she nodded. “After your parents eloped, the viscount disinherited his daughter and refused to provide a dowry.”
“True, but that wasn’t the point. Grandfather was proud that we had a real lady in the family, a viscount’s daughter, and that installed my father back in his father’s good graces. And he actually managed to stay there. My mother, you see, was able to do the one thing my grandfather never could: keep my father up to the mark. He gave up drink and worked hard to live up to what she expected of him.”
A man who consumed enough brandy to remain drunk every waking moment could hardly be described as up to the mark, but he did not point that out.
“It was only after my mother died,” she said as if reading his thoughts, “that Papa took to drink again. For the fifteen years they were married, he didn’t touch a drop of liquor or sit at a single gaming table. But when she died—”
Miss Deverill paused, a hint of pain crossing her face, and she looked away.
“Go on,” he said. “When she died . . .”
“You’ve undoubtedly seen the result for yourself.” She faced him again, shrugging as if it didn’t matter, but he knew it did. “Papa fell completely apart. Grandfather tried to help him—he didn’t want to see his son backslide, I’m sure. But then Grandfather died, too, and my father had no one who could help him after that. My brother tried, but after a series of violent quarrels, my father disowned him, and he went to America.”
“And your brother left you here on your own?”
“Papa wasn’t so bad then as he is now. And since Papa tossed him out, what else could he do but go off to make his own way? I tried to help my father as well, but that was no good either. I think Papa just didn’t see the point of being responsible anymore, not without my mother.” Irene looked at Henry again, and there was unmistakable affection in her face that he felt her father did not deserve. “He loved her, you see. He may have been fortune-hunting when he met her, but he also fell in love with her. And she loved him.”
“But after your mother’s death, things went downhill, I take it?”
“Yes.” She gave a laugh, forced and devoid of humor. “Despite all my grandfather’s efforts to teach him, my father never could develop a head for business, poor lamb. He began drinking again, and making reckless, unwise investments. The more he lost, the more he drank, and the more reckless he became.”
“Yes, chasing losses is very common for men who are fond of gambling, I’m afraid. And drinking heavily impairs the judgment. Hard on you and your sister, though.”
“That doesn’t matter. I can take care of myself and my sister. But don’t you see why I’m telling you all this? While my father may have been a fortune-hunter and a rake, he nonetheless made my mother happy.”
“Against tremendous odds.”
