Huntley House. His mother, even on her rumored deathbed, would be ruthless.
He strode downstairs to his study and stared at the mountain of correspondence on his desk. Usually, he would receive a bundle of anything urgent at his château in France, but he hadn’t returned to the Continent in months, having chosen to stay in the Americas before the most recent and unexpected voyage back to India.
Roland’s man of business and longtime solicitor, Mr. Longacre, had done an excellent job of managing the various tenant estates. His reports were meticulous and detailed, and Rhystan had never had any reason to doubt the man’s abilities.
“Where is Longacre?” he asked over his shoulder, knowing his ever-efficient butler was hovering in the foyer. “I sent word to his offices that I wished to see him.”
Morton cleared his throat from the doorway. “He has just arrived, Your Grace.”
A tall, twitchy, bespectacled man entered the room, carrying a pile of ledger books in his arms. After dumping the books on the edge of the desk, he attempted a clumsy bow. “Your Grace, welcome home. I have sent you letter after letter with no response. The estates are in disrepair, and I’m at my wit’s end with the creditors.”
Rhystan frowned at the outburst, gesturing for the harried man to sit. Disrepair? Creditors? “Since when?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Embry assured me that you were aware of the situation.” He shuffled some papers in the pile and shoved one of the ledgers toward Rhystan, cracking it open to the last page. Rhystan was good with numbers, but even he had a hard time calculating the staggering losses accounted in one of the columns. He thumbed through the book, eyes scanning pages upon pages of meticulously itemized costs and sums in the negative.
His frown deepened as he reached for another ledger and flicked through the accounting. “How did this happen?”
“Lord Roland was in debt up to his ears, Your Grace. He and Lord Richard had several bad railroad investments go wrong when the railway company up and disappeared with their money. It was a secret that only came out after his death when his many creditors came calling. The dowager duchess ordered me to leverage the earnings of the ducal holdings and to increase tenant taxes. Many of the farmers have left, and the country staff has been culled significantly.” His face flamed with obvious embarrassment. “I, too, am owed several months of wages.”
Rhystan blinked in dumbfounded surprise—he’d known none of this. The duchess could have reached him at any time, but for whatever reason, she’d chosen to keep the state of their finances from him. Roland, the favored son, had thoroughly decimated the family coffers.
Why hadn’t he asked for help?
Pride, Rhystan supposed. Pride and stubbornness. No one wanted to ask the purported prodigal son of the family for a farthing, even if said son had enough fortune to share. The former duke, if he’d been aware of the misfortune, would have forbidden it for sure. His mother hadn’t let anything slip of the decline, and if it wasn’t for Longacre, Rhystan would never have been the wiser.
Was this behind her ploy of illness?
He released a breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Longacre. I have more than enough funds to cover the debts and pay any outstanding wages.” With another longer glance to the totals in the columns, he wrote out a check to his bank, Barclay & Co., in London for a significant amount of funds to be paid to the bearer. “There, that should cover it. If you need more, do not hesitate to return.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“And, Mr. Longacre,” he said as the man gathered his belongings. “Thank you for your discretion and long-standing constancy. In the future, please direct any and all financial or fiduciary concerns to me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Coloring at the unexpected praise, the solicitor paused at the door. “Do you intend to stay in London, then?”
Rhystan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and nodded. “For now.”
At least until the state of the dukedom was sorted out.
And God knew how long that was going to take.
* * *
Sarani sighed with sublime delight as Asha brushed and dried her hair in front of the fire. She had just taken the longest, most decadent bath known to humankind. The bedroom she’d been shown to was tastefully opulent, but the sumptuous bathing room was what had knocked the wind from her lungs—all rich wooden paneling and hand-painted porcelain tiles, and almost as large as