Captivated By a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor #2)(7)

By the expectant look on the man’s fleshy face, there was something he expected. Christian rolled his shoulders. “And?”

“And it did little to cover the previous debt left.”

Of course. That whole wizarding business Redding hadn’t managed to accomplish. Christian’s annoyance snapped. He unfolded his knee and rested his booted feet upon the floor. “Will you get on with it?” He’d hardly expected the sale of the late marquess’ horseflesh to cover the years of neglect and debt to the estates.

The other man pursed his lips like an old Society matron who’d had her soiree invaded by rakes and rogues. “Very well.” He folded his hands together and leaned over his clasped hands. “Even with the sale of the horseflesh, as well as the inherited and since sold jewels belonging to the late marquess, you are still unable to maintain the staff at your present level.”

The muscles of his stomach clenched. He’d known those words were coming and yet hearing them did not lessen the power of hearing them flippantly tossed out by Redding.

“Might I speak freely?”

“Please,” Christian said brusquely.

“Your household is overrunning with inadequate maids and footmen. You need but a handful of the servants you presently employ, but certainly not the crip—inexperienced,” he swiftly amended at the black glower Christian trained on him. “—men you now call servants.”

And here it was. The argument in favor of cutting his present staff had been a long time coming. One year, six weeks, three days, and a handful of hours if one wanted to be truly precise. The leather of the winged back chair Christian now occupied cracked as he shifted. He placed his palms on the edge of the man’s desk and leaned forward. “They are not men I call servants.” He dipped his voice to a menacing whisper. “They are servants.” All the highhanded insolence demonstrated by the man in their previous exchanges faded as Redding’s throat muscles moved, hinting at his nervousness. “And they are not going anywhere.” From the moment he’d inherited the debt-ridden marquisate from his late father’s distant cousin with nothing more than a housekeeper, butler, and scullery maid, Christian had set out to build an altogether new staff; hiring men he’d wronged, who were, as such, in need of work. By God, he’d not turn them out. “Are we clear?” he repeated, infusing a steely edge to those three words.

Redding gave a jerky nod, looking like a chicken pecking at the farmer’s feed. “V-very clear, my lord.” He withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-dampened brow. “You would see to the security of those crip—men,” he hurriedly corrected. “As such, it will present problems for your mother and sister.”

Always in these meetings, Redding emerged triumphant in his cold, callous dealings. For with that slight but powerful reminder, he neatly kicked the legs out from under Christian’s already uncertain world. One could say the old solicitor was harsh, cold, and heartless, but the man spoke the truth. Unwilling to let him see the effect his words had, he leaned back in his seat and settled comfortably into the leather folds. All the while, furious energy pumped through his veins. A desire to throw his head back and snarl at his own failings and his inability these years to oversee all the debt left by both his father and the demmed cousin who’d left Christian nothing more than a title. “How much longer do I have to maintain the staff at the present level?”

“Three months, perhaps a bit more.”

Christian swallowed a curse. Three months. Three months with which to find a fortune that might save his sister, mother, and staff. Suddenly, he wished the other man were, in fact, a wizard with answers to solve his tenuous situation. “What of my investments in steam?”

He may as well have spoken treason against the king. The other man pursed his lips, having made clear his opinion on his new employer’s foray into trade and investment ventures. “As of yet, they’ve proven little return.”

Unable to feign indifference any longer, Christian swiped a hand over his eyes. Knowing the miserable, if meticulous, solicitor as he did, the traditional-thinking man of affairs had likely worked through his own solution to Christian’s impending doom. “You’ve surely some idea as to how I might,” avoid debtor’s prison and see to his responsibilities this time when he’d so failed before, “see to the mounting debt?”

Redding inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord.” Then with a casualness that set his teeth on edge, the older man put aside his spectacles and flipped open the leather folio. He ruffled through several thick, ivory sheets, containing columns of numbers and then paused. With his short, stubby fingers he proffered a single page.

Christian eyed it a moment and then took the sheet. He furrowed his brow. “Throw a ball?” he repeated back the words on the page. “How in bloody hell is throwing a lavish ball going to do anything but further deplete my already nonexistent coffers?”

Wordlessly, Redding held forth another piece of parchment. Christian accepted the second sheet. He quickly scanned the handful of sentences and numbers contained upon the page. Tamping down another black curse, he gave the man a questioning look. “What in blazes is this?”

The old solicitor jabbed one finger toward the loathsome page. “That is the most immediate, definitive way to salvage your family, staff, and holdings without relinquishing control of those investments you’re so determined to retain.” Redding’s lip curled in distaste.