“I am not a schoolboy, sir, who has exceeded his allowance. Living in Town necessitates some expenditures,” Lucien said.
“Doubtless that explains the residence on Maiden Lane occupied by a Fanny . . .” Amherst lifted a single sheet in one elegant hand and pretended to peruse it. “Grinton.”
Lucien stiffened. How the devil did he know about Fanny?
“Miss Grinton is not your concern.”
“Everything that affects the well-being of the Nephilim concerns me. It is my duty to watch out for you. For all of you. I would not object to your supporting a mistress. But apparently there are several other, ah, women residing in the house with her.”
Lucien stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve been spying on me.”
“You are not the only man seen entering the premises. Callers have been observed coming and going at all hours.”
Lucien gritted his teeth. “Are you accusing me of frequenting a brothel? Or of running one?”
“Whichever it is, it stops now.”
Fury tightened his throat. “You have no idea . . . You have no right—”
Amherst raised a hand, palm out. “Spare me your explanations. I have tolerated a certain wildness from you, Lucien, but I’ll not fund meaningless extravagance.”
A hot band settled around Lucien’s head and squeezed like a vise. “I haven’t asked for your assistance. I can support myself with the income from Leyburn.”
Barely. The realization settled coldly in his stomach. He would have to economize somewhere. Fanny would balk. She complained she could hardly manage now. But there was no choice for either of them.
Amherst regarded him with frustration. “And that is all your interest in Leyburn? The income you derive from the estate. You’ve never even visited the property.”
“You wish me to visit Leyburn?” Lucien asked slowly.
He was not averse to the idea.
Fair Hill was home. Or as close to a home as his earthly existence allowed. Unlike Gerard, the oldest of the Fallen, or Tripp, who had been raised by the earl since early childhood, Lucien had never accompanied Amherst on a tour of his other estates.
But Leyburn had provided him with a living since leaving Oxford. Amherst had made similar arrangements to support his other Fallen fosterlings. There was even an unspoken understanding that the earl would divvy his various unentailed properties, Leyburn included, among them when he died.
Lucien trusted—indeed, he hoped—the earl wouldn’t pop off anytime soon. The Nephilim could live almost twice the normal span of human years, and Amherst was a vigorous man.
Still, it could do no harm to take a look at the place.
“I expect you to do more than visit,” Amherst said. “You need to take some responsibility for the property. For your life.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Lucien with cool gray eyes, obviously determined to force his compliance. “I will give you three months. If you can learn to manage the estate in that time, you’ll continue to receive its income.”
Lucien’s muscles were rigid. “And if I refuse?”
The earl’s face tightened in resolution. “I will cut you off without a penny. You’ll do as you are told.”
It was a punch in the stomach. A slap in the face. Lucien’s ears rang with it.
In his mind, he understood Amherst’s offer as fair and reasonable, even generous. But his soul rebelled at the ultimatum, the choice between abject obedience and penury.
Knuckle under or be cut off. Cast out. Again.
Insurrection flared in Lucien’s blood. Pride hardened his voice. He would not plead with the earl for understanding. “I’ll be damned first.”
“Not damned. But condemned, nevertheless, to a significant decline in your standard of living.” Amherst tilted his head. “Possibly even to debtors’ prison.”
“Unless I marry,” Lucien threw at him.
Amherst stared as if a second head had sprouted suddenly from his shoulders. “Marry?”