date by which all overdue funds must be fully repaid with interest, on condition that the exorbitant monthly sum would be received by the first of every month without fail. But there wasn’t enough money. Not yet.
He slid a trembling finger beneath the wax and began to read.
It was the twenty-fifth of April. He had missed this month’s payment and only provided half of the last month’s sum. They were very sorry, but he would not be able to keep the town house through June after all. Unless he balanced his account within the week, the mortgage would be in foreclosure and he would be evicted at the end of May.
Not only would there be no end-of-season gala, there would be no end of season at all. No more House of Lords, no more London, no more Chloe.
Lawrence crumpled the letter in his palm. If the crops had not failed, he would have had the money. But last year had been the Year Without a Summer. Crops had failed all over England—all over Europe. Lawrence wasn’t the only one whose income had suddenly shriveled to nothing.
Which was likely why the bank would allow no more postponements. They knew his fallow fields would not become fertile on the morrow. He had made good progress on his father’s debts—fine progress, exceptional progress—but the balance remained overdue, with no way to pay it.
No way except to secure a healthy dowry as quickly as possible.
He would have to wed Miss York sooner rather than later.
Mrs. York would be pleased. She had strongly suggested to Lawrence that tonight would be a fine night for a proposal. He suspected she’d dropped hints into all of her friends’ ears as well. His fingers dug into his palm, compressing the foreclosure notice into a jagged little pellet.
It was time for the show.
* * *
The Wynchester carriage rolled to a stop at the end of a long queue.
“I’m going to be ill,” Chloe moaned.
“You’ll have to wait until later.” Tommy looked out of the window glumly. “We’re here.”
Chloe took an unsteady breath and reached for her basket of tricks.
Many years before, Graham had teased her for carrying a basket instead of a reticule. It wasn’t all of the time, she had retorted hotly, and besides, she’d like to see him hide a change of clothing and a stolen paperweight inside a tiny silk reticule.
The truth was, baskets held special meaning for Chloe. Her first interaction with one had been when she was abandoned at the orphanage, only a few days old. Since then, she had determined that the baskets in her life would contain items of value, of worth. If something was inside a basket, it was because it was important, and she wanted to be certain she could find it again. To keep it with her at all times.
Tonight her basket contained cosmetic baubles that would help her pretend the York ball could not hurt her. That she did not need the Duke of Faircliffe. That she was better off without him. He should be crumpling to the floor in tears because he was the one who was missing what had been right in front of him.
She reached inside and pulled out an exquisite diadem of amethyst and gold.
Was there such a thing as a revenge tiara? She slapped it on her head and affixed it angrily in place. There. She’d float through the door, sparkle beneath the chandeliers, and march back outside to her carriage as soon as her presence had been registered by the one and only person who might actually notice.
If he didn’t notice…
No. She wouldn’t think about that.
What was the alternative? She could admit she possessed a substantial sum of money. But she did not want to “win” Lawrence that way. It would be no victory. Besides, dowries were for husbands. Chloe’s trust was designed to let her do as she pleased.
And what she wanted was to be chosen for herself, not her money.
Was that too much to ask?
She alighted from the carriage with her head held high and put each foot in front of the other all the way to the Yorks’ front door.
The party was absolute madness.
“Mrs. York must be in heaven,” she whispered to Tommy in reluctant awe. “Every one of Graham’s scandal columns will dub this night the ‘Crush of the Season.’”
“All other hostesses might as well surrender now,” Tommy agreed. “Even Great-Aunt Wynchester couldn’t make herself heard in this din.”
“Try.” Chloe nudged her sister forward. “If we have to