Chapter 5

Early next morning, Marcus, dressed conservatively yet impeccably in a suit of navy superfine with a modest cravat tied very plainly, stepped into White's in search of his uncle, Lord Parminter. Ever since his father's death nine months ago, Marcus had allowed his uncle to oversee the family finances while he dealt with his grief and familiarized himself with the workings of the earldom.

Marcus had taken over the estate management, finding himself adrift in a sea of unfamiliar tasks. His father had died at the young age of forty-seven, very unexpectedly. Marcus, therefore, had little experience or education regarding the running of the earldom's estates. His father had encouraged him to enjoy himself, live life as he pleased, always saying, "There'll be time to learn all the stuffy business later." Well, later had arrived all too soon.

Still, not quite a year after Father's death, he'd managed to right the damage done by the thieving steward. That was something. His tendency toward wild gambling sprees, which he put down to his desire to clutch at his old life and deny the responsibilities of the new, must come to an end before he bankrupted what little he'd managed to save.

White's was quiet this time of day and the best place to find his uncle. The coming interview would prove almost as, if not more, difficult than the one with Ainsley last evening. He hoped to God it would end more successfully—with a severe scolding and a promise of funds as soon as the banks opened.

He gave his hat and stick to Morton, the club's newest butler, and finally spied Uncle Parminter, huddled in a comfortable red leather chair reading The Times . His uncle, his father's younger brother, had had the great good fortune to be rewarded ten years before by the then Prince Regent. He'd garnered the prince's favor when he assumed the blame for a little contretemps that would've been most embarrassing to His Royal Highness had it come to the public's attention. The grateful prince had waited a year, while Marcus's uncle had sat in social exile, then created him first Viscount Parminter.

Although Marcus had always liked his uncle, recently he'd come to dread their weekly meetings, in which Uncle Parminter informed him of the current crop of financial problems in their investment line. Today's meeting, two days before the scheduled one, would likely be even less pleasant. As he approached his uncle, Marcus braced himself. The older gentleman's dark, forbidding scowl made his heart sink.

"Good morning, uncle." Marcus tried to infuse his greeting with the proper inflection of optimism without overplaying his hand.

"Huh." Parminter glanced up from his paper, registered Marcus with a raised brow, and returned to perusing the financial section.

Damn. Just his luck the old boy was in a dour mood today. Marcus sat in the companion chair, a momentary bliss assailing him as the soft contours of the leather embraced him. He waited while his uncle folded his paper. The calm before the storm. "How are things on the Exchange today?"

Uncle Parminter fixed him with a doleful stare. "Disastrous, I tell you. Disastrous."

Marcus sank back in the chair, gathering his wits before asking, "What do you mean, uncle?"

"Weather, Haversham. Damned weather'll ruin us yet." He glared at Marcus as though holding his nephew responsible.

"Coffee, please." Marcus had snared a passing waiter. "How so, uncle?"

"A typhoon in the South China Sea, a hurricane in the North Atlantic, and now a sudden blight in the South of France, all within the last two months, have sent our investments in tea, coffee, and wine plummeting."

"God." Marcus grasped the cup of coffee just set down before him and sipped, wishing it were brandy. His stomach clenched.

"According to Roberts down at the shipping office, the Valorous went down in the Atlantic in March with all hands and the season's coffee crop from Turkey. Ten thousand pounds' worth steeping in the ocean, plus the loss of life and the ship." His uncle shook his head and stared at Marcus. "We might've been able to weather the one incident, although I don't know how we're going to replace the ship. Then I received a letter yesterday from Monsieur Martel. The grape crop is faring poorly so far this season due to some sort of vegetative disease. The vines themselves are dying." Uncle Parminter shuddered. "As far as wine production, that in itself won't affect us for a year or so, but futures will be low, and that will hurt us now."

"You also mentioned a problem with the tea?" Good God. With all their investments hit at once, the timing for his request was particularly horrible.

"The ships haven't been able to leave the port in Shanghai." Uncle Parminter's voice rose, and his fist crashed onto the table, making his cup and saucer dance. "Received that message overland late last week, although I hope to God they've left by now. The letter was sent in March, saying the February sailing had been delayed due to a series of storms. So who knows when or if they will arrive?"

Marcus slumped in the suddenly uncomfortable chair. He was doomed. How could he tell his uncle about the ￡3,000 when their fortunes had just taken such a crippling turn for the worse? Dear Lord, how would he pay off Ainsley tomorrow if he couldn't procure the funds from his uncle? The sinking feeling hit his stomach so hard it threatened to cast up his accounts. He breathed slowly, counting to ten. That sometimes helped.

Putting on a mask of calm determination, he said, "Bad luck comes in threes, they always say, and we seemed to have proven them right. At least the estates are still producing well." If the crops failed this fall, they'd be ruined for certain. "So what's to be done, uncle?"

Uncle Parminter studied him then shrugged. "I suggest you begin searching for a rich wife." He picked up the paper again. "You're not the first peer to do so. No shame in it."

Marcus swallowed, though a bitter taste clung to his tongue. "I had thought of that." He nodded as if agreeing. "There are several good prospects this Season."

"Huh." His uncle readjusted his newspaper a third time. "Then you'd best start dancing attendance on them in quick order. When the ton hears of our financial woes, you won't be able to procure an introduction to an heiress, much less her hand in marriage."

Except for one. Marcus stifled a groan. "Is there no other way out?"

"I daresay you could look into a new line of investments." Parminter folded the paper and laid it on the table. He continued to tap it with his fingers, the rattle of the sheets like a cold wind. "I hear from Lord Hamilton that Lord Finley's returned from America full of tales about a bond investment that just paid off magnificently. He and Finley are putting together some capital for another such venture. If you've got the chinks at the moment, they may take you in as a third investor." His uncle scowled until his brows hovered over his nose. "I suppose you have no ready money, Haversham? All mine is tied up in this blasted shipping venture."

Ready money. The phrase sparked a memory of a conversation with Ainsley once as they'd been passing a counting house.

"Don't get yourself involved with these fellows, Haversham." He'd sneered and nodded toward a narrow doorway. Over the worn, dark brown door hung a thin sign that read, Messrs. John Dear however, he did have Abbey Park, a small unentailed estate in the southwest corner of Cornwall. A pretty prospect and profitable enough. It could be sold for a tidy profit, had he the months it would take to find a likely buyer. King might be willing to take the property as security for a loan in a much shorter period. If the worst happened and the investment failed, at least he'd only lose a pound of flesh rather than his soul—as he would do should he marry Miss Locke.

"As it happens, I may be able to lay my hands on a couple of thousand if the investment indeed offers results in a matter of weeks." Marcus stroked his chin, hoping to God he looked thoughtful. "But I'm afraid I've not been introduced to Lord Finley."

"Hamilton can introduce you." Uncle Parminter nodded briefly at the portly gentleman in the corner. "Finley comes here almost every evening, though I've not met the man. Tonight is Hamilton's whist night, so he should be able to accommodate you." Uncle Parminter gave him a keen look but nodded. "Well, if you can reap the benefits of the scheme, you'll have my gratitude, Haversham."

Marcus rose, resolve thick in his veins. He'd best get over to Ainsley's and ask for a bit of time. He was certain his friend would see reason when he heard about the financial disasters that had befallen him.

On the way to Locke Terrace, he'd stop at John King's and start that process along then be back tonight to scrape acquaintance with Lord Finley. It would be a dashed busy evening but hopefully with better luck than last night's.