Page 5 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

L ucy trailed Sally to the drawing room without protest, wishing she could ask about Marsden and knowing she could not.

The name lingered at the edge of her mind, a vague memory she should recall but could not quite grasp.

Sally would never tell her anything, and it was unwise to give away that she’d been listening.

As to Pendergast and Estwood, she wasn’t entirely sure what Father had done to gain Pendergast, but whatever it was had likely resulted in his falling out with the Duke of Granby since the duke and Estwood were close friends.

What Lucy did know was that Father had paid double what Pendergast was worth, which had been ridiculous under the circumstances.

She’d seen the numbers on the ironworks and knew that while the business had been profitable, it hadn’t merited such a high purchase price.

She’d seen the documents pertaining to the sale tossed carelessly on Father’s desk.

He’d stormed about the house in a frenzy for nearly a week prior, yelling at his secretary, summoning Hopps at all hours, before returning several days later, triumphant.

He’d crowed to the solicitor about finally ‘ putting that filthy mongrel in his place’ as he’d gone to his study.

Estwood must have been the filthy mongrel, though Lucy hadn’t known it at the time.

To be fair, Father used the slur on a great many people, but she should have guessed, given how much he hated Estwood.

After all, Estwood had dared to invade polite society and reach above his station.

A blacksmith’s son. Gerald Waterstone took it as a personal affront.

Just as he had when Estwood had expressed interest in Lucy.

She took a seat on the settee, pushing down the swell of regret, of chances not taken, of the blind obedience that was still part of her nature no matter the defiance knotting inside her.

Lucy glanced at the cushion beneath her fingers, surprised to find a spring poking through the fabric because of a small tear.

Sally was meticulous in keeping up the Waterstone home.

Odd that she would have overlooked the stuffing threatening to spill out of the cushion.

“Let us enjoy a glass of ratafia, daughter.” Sally took a seat on the other side of the settee, casually tossing a pillow over the tear to hide it from view.

“Very well.” Lucy kept her words soft and barely discernible out of habit, though there was no one but Sally to overhear her horrifying impediment.

“What do you think of Lord Dufton, Lucy?” Sally said as the butler placed a glass of ratafia on the table at her knee before departing with a bow.

“I find him to be polite.”

Sally took a sip from her glass. “He’s certainly handsome, don’t you think? Utterly charming. I confess, when Mr. Waterstone first introduced us, I was quite taken with him.”

Lucy merely clasped her hands.

“And Dufton invited you for a carriage ride.” She gave a deliberate sigh. “If not for Mr. Waterstone, I might be jealous.”

“Hmm.” Lucy lifted her own glass and took a careful sip. Dufton was hardly smitten with her, though he’d made his interest clear with the invitation of a carriage ride.

Sally’s lips pursed. “I shall speak plainly, Lucy.”

Splendid.

“Mr. Waterstone and I both agree it is well past time for you to wed. Your poor father has despaired of you ever making a match, given your”—her fingers fluttered in the direction of Lucy’s mouth—“affliction. Dufton’s attention is most welcome and fortuitous, don’t you agree?”

Lucy took another mouthful of the ratafia.

She detested the overly sweet wine but as with everything else, her opinions were unimportant.

Just as protesting that her lack of dowry probably accounted for some of her undesirability would have been useless.

Any suitor who approached Lucy would have been made aware that she had no dowry, which, in turn, would have meant a great deal of gossip.

The pompous Gerald Waterstone stealing his daughter’s dowry would be just the thing for the gossips.

And appearances were everything to Father.

“ Goodneth, ” Lucy said, hating the lisp invading her words. She took a slow, deep breath.

Compose yourself.

“Given my unsuitability…” She struggled over each syllable.

“I am surprised that Lord Dufton might consider me.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, soft and polite so Sally wouldn’t hear the sarcasm.

Better Sally believe Lucy’s intelligence was that of a potted fern, incapable of independent thought.

“Such matters can be overlooked. You are from a good family. Moderately attractive.” Sally’s eyes drew over Lucy in an assessing manner. “Reserved. Modest. His mother, the dowager countess, will certainly approve.”

How wonderful that there is a market for ancient, well-mannered virgins .

“Even with my affliction?” she asked innocently.

Sally’s smile faltered. She peered at Lucy, searching for any evidence of a backbone. Finding none, she sat back once more. “His admiration of you speaks well for a future together.”

Admiration? Dufton had admired the lamb on his plate far more than he had admired Lucy.

“A countess. Just imagine.” Sally reached out and patted Lucy’s hand. “We could not have hoped for a better match. Mr. Waterstone is most pleased.”

Lucy said nothing, only swirled the ratafia about in her glass.

“When he calls…” Sally’s voice raised an octave, annoyed Lucy wasn’t mooning over Dufton. “You will receive him.”

“I believe I’ll retire, Sally,” she murmured, declining to agree.

“The day has been rather tiring, and you’ve given me much to consider.

Please bid Father good night.” It was unlikely Dufton and Father would rejoin them after a brandy.

The hour was late, and she had dined with enough of her father’s business associates to know that much.

“Good night, daughter,” Sally replied in an overly sweet tone. “Sleep well.”

A short time later, Lucy sat on the edge of the bed garbed only in her robe. Dufton had departed over an hour ago, the wheels of his carriage rattling on the cobblestones outside. Another half an hour passed before Father’s heavy tread came up the stairs, followed by the sound of Sally’s heels.

Lucy watched the clock next to her bed tick off the minutes until the house went silent, then exited the room.

Carefully, she made her way down the stairs, intending to first have a slice of the lemon torte and then to visit Father’s study.

She had questions about Pendergast and the contracts Dufton had mentioned.

And if there was anything to tell her what exactly Marsden was and why it felt so familiar , the answers would be in his desk.

And to be honest, a part of Lucy longed for any mention of Harry Estwood.

I would never, under any circumstances, consider even a dance with you. The idea is absurd.

She shut her eyes for a moment against the memory. How Estwood must hate her. Lord Foxwood had howled with laughter. But he could just as easily have been mocking her.

Lucy breathed and opened the door to Father’s study, entering in silence.

Others might consider her unintelligent, but they were wrong.

She was exceptionally well-read, with a working knowledge of every business Father had ever been involved in, because she often did research on his investments.

When she’d been little more than a child, Lucy had spent a great deal of time with Father in this room.

Organizing notes and articles. Bringing him books from the library.

Staying silent so as not to anger him with her lisp.

Unfortunately, as she’d grown older, it had become apparent the lisp was no childish affectation, and Father had equated the impediment, never more pronounced than when around him, with stupidity.

Since Sally had arrived, well…Lucy had become nothing more than a burden.

She glanced at the top of Father’s desk and, seeing nothing of interest, moved behind the massive piece of mahogany and opened the bottom drawer.

The ledgers were arranged, the same as they had always been, but on top was a stack of papers.

Leafing through them, Lucy could see each one was a demand for payment.

Sally’s modiste bill, which was outrageous.

The tobacconist. A carpenter who had made extensive renovations to the Waterstone home, at Sally’s request. The gardener, Mr. Milner.

Lucy sat back. The shrubs were in dire need of pruning. Weeds sprouted in the beds. Now that she considered it, she hadn’t seen Mr. Milner in some time.

Pulling out one of the ledgers, a newspaper clipping slipped from beneath the pages.

An account of a ship sinking during a storm en route to England from Bombay.

She recognized the name of the ship immediately.

Father had invested heavily in the venture after a meeting with the shipping company.

Lucy had advised against such a commitment because of the storms that time of year. She’d consulted an almanac.

Opening the ledger, Lucy fell back, fingers trembling as she scanned the columns.

Oh, Father, what have you done?

The small estate in Surrey where Lucy had spent her summers as a child had been sold.

The shares in the Liverpool and Manchester Railway were gone.

Two textile factories. The warehouses. A trail of divested assets met her eyes, each pointing to the future poverty of Gerald Waterstone.

The only reason Pendergast hadn’t been sold was because no one wanted a nearly defunct ironworks.

According to correspondence, stuck into the back of the ledger, he’d tried to rid himself of the ironworks for the last six months, pleading with several associates to purchase Pendergast, but all had declined.

Estwood was his last resort.

The only asset not touched was the horse farm. Father’s pride and joy. He would never part with his precious horses.

She put aside the ledger and searched the drawer further but found only more demands for payment and…a small stack of contracts. The Pendergast contracts. The work commissioned by a variety of London companies, along with the sums already deposited.

And Father had already spent every pound.

There was a note from someone named Colm at Pendergast, stating he wouldn’t be able to put off certain inquiries much longer. But there was nothing about Marsden. Not so much as a scrap to tell Lucy what it was.

She sat back on her heels, making sure to place everything back exactly as she’d found it. Clearly, Father’s financial situation was…dire. Now he planned to sell back to Estwood the ironworks he’d once taken from him, with a nasty little surprise.

Don’t let me soil your skirts, you snob.

Lucy would never forget the look of utter contempt on the face of the only man—well, she’d nearly forgotten. The mention of Estwood had brought it all back.

Quietly, she came to her feet.

Father had once been a fair and decent man of business. A loving father.

An exaggeration, Lucy.

But now he teetered on the edge of impoverishment, his dealings covered in deceit and lies. She’d never thought Father to be a stupid man. Only petty. Arrogant, perhaps. Controlling.

Lucy was reconsidering her opinion.