The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,9

the estate was a disaster.

But as sympathetic as he’d been, he couldn’t stay. “I hope you understand, Claire, I am the only doctor for miles and I cannot simply leave Trentham.”

It had taken nine long months to find a replacement physician for the small village where he’d lived for five happy years. During those months he’d made frequent trips to Cornwall to deal with the most pressing estate matters, but there had never been enough time to delve into the disorganized ledgers and mountains of bills.

At the time of Cadan’s death Jago had not seen his sister-in-law for eighteen years—not since the night he’d left Lenshurst Park carrying only a small valise and portmanteau.

He’d been shocked at the changes the years had wrought on Claire’s face and body.

When Jago left Cornwall Claire had just turned nineteen. Even back then—when they’d only been married two years—Claire and Cadan had already grown to despise one another.

Jago knew it was his brother who’d been largely to blame for their miserable marriage; Cadan had always resented that financial exigency had forced him to marry a woman from the merchant class and he had never let Claire forget that.

It had been an exceedingly unhappy household and his brother had spent far too much time in London, gambling away his wife’s fortune.

And so it had fallen to Jago to befriend and comfort the lonely young woman, and he and Claire had become friendly, even though he never felt that he knew her well.

Jago had hoped that she would find solace in her children, but he’d learned, upon moving home, that both Cadan and Claire had ignored their two daughters, leaving them to all but raise themselves.

Not only that, but his sister-in-law had developed a terrible reliance on laudanum. Jago had been appalled when he’d discovered how much she consumed daily. He’d confronted her on the subject and had gradually helped her scale back her use.

Thankfully, Claire had seemed to welcome Jago’s interference, rather than resent it.

“I am grateful for your help—and glad that you care enough to offer your assistance. I want to help you raise my daughters, Jago,” she’d said, when he’d confronted her with her addiction. “I will do what I have to overcome my reliance.”

As for the estate itself, Jago had believed that he’d finally discovered the depth of the financial problems months ago, but just this past week he’d found a letter from a bank—not their family bank—jumbled among bills, dunning notices, and heaps of other documents. The letter referred to a loan that would shortly come due.

A large loan.

Just thinking about the amount made him sick to his stomach.

Jago glanced at the clock on the mantle; it was two o’clock and he’d been at his desk since nine. It was time for something a bit more enjoyable.

He pushed up from his chair and went to the trestle table beneath the Tudor diamond-paned windows.

Spread out on the table’s surface were the plans for the new hospital in Redruth. Just looking at the drawings was enough to soothe his frazzled nerves.

Jago had known that his days as a country doctor were numbered the moment he’d received word of Cadan’s death. He would never practice medicine in the hospital he was designing. It was unheard of for an aristocrat to do something useful with his time, no matter how badly he needed money.

But while an earl was not allowed to pursue a career, he would be permitted to indulge in philanthropy.

Stephen Worth, the wealthy American banker who’d recently married Jago’s dear friend Elinor had asked Jago to help him design a hospital that would be unlike any other in Britain: a hospital built by a doctor with doctoring in mind, rather than spiritual salvation or moral reformation.

As Jago gave his attention to the engrossing project the pressing troubles of the earldom fell away. He was in the process of correcting the architect’s interpretation of a dispensary when the sound of a throat clearing startled him.

He turned to find Nance, his ancient butler, standing in the open doorway.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I knocked several times and there was no answer.” Nance had been the butler at Lenshurst Park when Jago was a boy; the poor old codger deserved a pension and a cottage.

Unfortunately, Jago had neither for his aged servant, so he gave him an apologetic smile, instead. “I’m afraid I was deep in thought, Nance. Was there something you wanted?”

“Lady Trebolton is entertaining Mrs. Valera in the Yellow Salon and begs