Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(6)

“Oh, come,” Maxwell scoffed. “You know I’m hardly amused by your lot. You, however, are making a good deal more of it than you ought. You merely need to wed a deliciously lovely beauty with an abundant fortune.” How very easy the other man made it out to be. As they walked, he slapped Christian on the back. “How very difficult should it be to find such a lady to wed the sought-after, heroic Marquess of St. Cyr?”

Maxwell would speak so flippantly about Christian selling what little remained of his honor for some young woman’s fortune. A dull flush burned his neck. Maxwell knew all the details surrounding Christian’s honorable showing at Toulouse. He was grateful to be spared from answering, as they came to a stop outside the offices of his solicitor.

The air stirred with a cold, winter wind. It tugged at the sign hanging above the establishment which creaked noisily in the morning quiet. He momentarily eyed the name etched in the wood. Gideon Redding. God, how he despised the curt, no-nonsense man of affairs. He looked to Maxwell. “I will be a short while.” For the other man’s constant presence and support, and everything he already did, in fact, know about Christian’s life, there was the humiliating rest, he’d keep to himself—that was the full extent of his finances.

A half-grin tugged at the other man’s lips. “Good God, man, I’ve little desire to interfere in your affairs, if that is what you were thinking.” Actually, he hadn’t thought as much. Even with their lifelong friendship, they’d taken care to not discuss the serious parts of either of their lives. For which Christian was grateful. He was content to wallow in the disgrace of his own making without having the words dragged forth by Maxwell or any other. “I shall leave you to your business while I go see to mine.” He winked. “A bauble for my mistress.” Christian hadn’t two farthings to put together for either a mistress or a bauble. The earl tugged out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. “There are less questions from my interfering mother determined to see me wed when I’m with you, chap.” He stuffed the piece back inside his cloak. Lifting his hand in salutation, he turned on his heel and continued on down the street.

Christian stared after the other man a long moment, hating the envy slicing through him; sentiments which had nothing to do with the widow necessitating his friend’s trip to Bond Street this day, and everything to do with the clear conscience carried by Maxwell. He’d never been the failure Christian himself had been and, as such, was deserving of that carefree half-grin. The fake that Christian was, however, and his own patent rogue’s grin was perfect for one such as him.

Shoving aside the guilt that would never be fully gone, he pressed the handle and entered. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark office; an all too familiar office which he paid weekly visits to, with the answer always the same and, as such, always bleak.

“My lord, I have been expecting you.” There was a touch of impatience in the tone of the solicitor who rushed forward. The other man had made little attempt at concealing his disdain for Christian; the very distant and last male issue connected to his former employer. Alas, Redding was one of just a handful who’d fully gleaned the current Marquess of St. Cyr’s worth.

Nonetheless, he’d be damned if he would be demeaned by the rotund, condescending solicitor. Christian turned a dark frown on Redding, which immediately slowed the other man’s steps. His inherited man of affairs had the good grace to turn red. “Redding,” he greeted coolly. He’d not bother to explain there had been a fleeting streetside exchange with a slip of an English miss which had momentarily distracted him and also proven a much-needed diversion from his own circumstances.

Redding cleared his throat. “I-if you will follow me, my lord?” The aging solicitor did not wait to see if his request was obeyed, but instead turned on his heel and started down the narrow corridor. His boot steps filled the quiet of the empty office.

Christian continued after him. Each trip to this godforsaken building was not unlike the trek he’d been forced to make to his father’s office when he’d been a troublesome boy wreaking havoc on his tutors. Odd, regardless if one was a boy of six or a man of twenty-six, the guilt was equally strong.

They entered Redding’s immaculate office. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust upon the mahogany surface of his furniture. Redding was as meticulous in attending his office as he was in his precision with numbers.

“Please sit, my lord,” Redding said as he came around his desk. He motioned to the opposite chair.

As he did each week, Christian slid into the seat hoping the situation had somehow miraculously worked itself through, all the while knowing nothing short of a bloody miracle could salvage the floundering estates left by the late marquess.

The other man wasted little time. “I am afraid your circumstances are even more dire, my lord.” He gave him a deliberate look. “Very dire.”

In an attempt at nonchalance, Christian bent his knee and hooked it over his opposite leg. He infused a droll tone to his response. “If you can spare me your dramatic commentary and instead focus on the numbers.”

Redding bristled. “Very well.” Then with an almost gleeful relish, he plucked his spectacles from his face and snapped them shut with a grating click. He set them down upon the leather folio containing the details of Christian’s estates. “The late marquess, as you know, lived heavily on debt for years. Since our last meeting, I’ve seen to his mighty steeds.” Seen to, as in sold off. The other man’s horseflesh mattered not. But for his own loyal mount, Valiant, he didn’t give a jot for the prized stallions and mares that had been passed down and since sold by Redding.