Page 3 of The Reclusive Earl’s Scandal (Vows and Vanity #1)

Deep in the heart of Mayfair, London, in Bancroft Manor, Lady Rebecca Bancroft read the letter in her hand, watching as it trembled in her grip.

Around her, the sun room faded out, her tea set beside her long gone cold in the late morning.

“This… this cannot be,” she whispered to herself, rereading the letter as if she had not done so at least three times. “This cannot be .”

To the Duke of Bancroft,

We are writing to inform you that your request for another loan has been denied…

… Late repayments…

Creditors are declining…

… Debts have considerably stacked up in your name, Your Grace.

The phrases blurred, running together into one, large mess of a realization.

Rebecca’s father, the Duke of Bancroft, had gambled away most, if not bordering on all, of the family’s money.

Once again, Rebecca lowered the letter, letting it flutter on top of her teacup.

A droplet of tea from the cup’s rim bled through the paper, and it forced Rebecca’s attention to one particular phrase.

Repossession of items in your residence.

How long had this all been going on for?

How long had her father drowned the family in debt, throwing away oars and lifesavers, while distracting his family from the very sinking ship they stood on?

Nothing made sense, and Rebecca stood, her feet already moving light and quick, pacing back and forth.

If she was caught with the letter her father would be furious.

If he did not outright deny the claims he would no doubt attempt to tell her all would be resolved in due course. The letter did not sound like it would be, and she couldn’t look away from the reality: the Bancroft fortune was a swiftly-dwindling thing, waiting to be utterly drained dry.

“Oh, Father,” she whispered, stopping behind the chair she’d been sitting in, gripping the back of it.

She leaned her weight into the furniture, trying to find an anchor.

Something to stop the whirling of her thoughts, something to stop the spinning feeling that had accompanied the realization of the letter.

How could he do this to them? And for gambling, no less.

She contemplated the innumerable nights upon which her father had clandestinely departed from the dwelling, utterly unaware that Rebecca had perceived the weighty tread of his steps as he departed, only to return hours later in a state of altered gait, more akin to staggering shuffles, as he muttered to himself in a disjointed manner.

Did he still think his family slept while he drank their last coins away, bet a fortune he no longer had on a game of cards and dice in a gaming den that surely would not welcome him soon enough if he couldn’t pay?

Her breaths were shaky, and Rebecca squeezed her eyes closed, forcing her breathing to even.

Panicking would do her no good. Her mother would not read a word of the letter, she knew, for she had fallen in love with Dominic Sterling back when he had been young and recently inherited his dukedom. Her love would blind her.

Even in the last few weeks, Rebecca had quietly mentioned that her new gowns had not arrived ahead of the start of the Season, only to dig around for information and have the modiste report her order had not been paid for.

Another time, Rebecca’s younger sibling, Amelia, had commented that they were missing their usual French brioche buns at breakfast, only to be told from the cook that there had been no ordering of food for a very delayed week.

A day later, the pantry had been full, but another of Rebecca’s siblings had pouted, stating that some of her favorite books from their household’s library were gone. Things had not made sense, and Rebecca had endlessly dug and dug; until she had swiped her father’s letter and found the truth.

Her father had plummeted their family into debt, and their possessions were already starting to pay for his mistakes.

Releasing her death grip on the chair, Rebecca stood, closed her eyes for a moment, and smoothed down her morning gown.

“I shall fix this,” she decided. “I shall—I must —salvage what is left.”

***

Mary Pricely, the daughter of the Marquess of Avery, sat next to Catherine Browning, the daughter of the Marquess of Barrickshire, and the two of them gaped at Rebecca as she told them about the letter later that day.

The three ladies had gathered, as they often did, in Avery Manor, huddled in the music room as Catherine plunked away on the pianoforte. Today, the tinkering of the keys helped to cover Rebecca’s revelation regarding her father.

“I do not understand how this has happened,” she said, frustrated.

“I understand why he would not have said anything sooner, or admitted such a defeat, but to let it get so bad? My father is a duke—surely, he has connections somewhere , somebody he could have gone to for help before it was too late.”

“He ought to,” Mary insisted. “His high rank must garner him something.”

Catherine scoffed. “Unless he had connections and squandered them. Perhaps he received help and then could not repay those who provided it.”

Rebecca sighed, sinking down onto the stool next to one of the harps in the room. “I must do something, and I have the perfect plan.”

“Rebecca,” Mary exhaled, shaking her head. “It should not be on you to fix your father’s mistakes.”

“Indeed not, but my mother will not listen, and she simply says your father will protect us, Rebecca, you shall see , as she has always done. As he has always led her to believe. I do not believe it any longer. Other than that, I am the eldest of five. It falls to me to marry well this Season.”

She planned as she spoke. “If I marry well then, I can help my family. I can connect us to a wealthy family.”

“What of your dowry?” Catherine asked, wincing as if she already knew the answer.

“Based on this letter, I have very few hopes of possessing one. Amelia and Hannah have no chance at all if that is the case, I imagine.”

“So, you must marry well even though your future husband will find out the little money you will bring with you?” Mary asked quietly.

Rebecca fell silent, nodding. “Yes. Indeed, I fear that is what I need to do, no matter what it takes.”

“How, though?” Her friend asked.

Behind Mary, Catherine played, listening in, but Rebecca recognized the furrow in her brow as well as her scheming face.

Her blonde hair, styled back into a pretty updo, caught the sunlight spilling into the music room, while Mary’s own brunette hair was pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck.

They were all rather opposites, friends pulled together through finding husbands in a sea of debutantes.

Except I am not a debutante. Not anymore. I am three and twenty, and my time is running out.

“I must charm him enough to fall in love with me so greatly that he will not question my finances,” Rebecca decided as though it would be easy. Heavens, she knew it would not be at all, but she spoke on as if she had it worked out. “Yes, that is it. I will—I will charm him well.”

“Do you think using your father’s title will work?” Catherine asked.

“Perhaps,” she said. “If word has not travelled of his habits, then I still have a chance.”

Her friends nodded, but the silence was thick enough that it made her doubt her confidence.

The two of them were also looking for husbands.

Catherine had debuted last Season, but left society due to an unfortunate bout of illness, and Mary had been overlooked by other debutantes simply for being a bit more of a wallflower.

Their fathers, of course, were not pleased at the delay.

“My father has been rather angry, lately,” Rebecca said, thinking aloud, piecing more of his behavior together.

“More forceful in my success this Season. He is more insistent than ever, and it makes sense as to why. He is likely hoping I marry a rich husband with whom he can no doubt enter some business venture, promise investment, reap the rewards and…”

And leave me bearing the humiliation of explaining it all when my father would not pay his share.

Rebecca chewed on her lip, frowning down at the smooth, shining surface of the pianoforte. Catherine’s tune was pretty and distracting, helping her to think.

But then Mary’s next question was voiced, knocking everything off-kilter: “What of Harry Maudley?”

Rebecca’s heart rate spiked at the mention of the man she’d harbored affection for. “What of him?”

Catherine stopped playing, looking on in interest. “Harry Maudley, as in Mr. Maudley from the music shop? The one who fixed my father’s broken violin last year?”

“That is him,” Rebecca confirmed. She had not spoken in length about her interaction with the man who was far below her social rank, yet she had met him when she was younger, the two of them the same age.

Mrs. Maudley had been Rebecca’s tutor, and had often brought her son with her when they could not afford anybody to watch over him.

The two had grown up giggling in the library, with Rebecca sneaking him sweet treats after lunch.

“I suppose… well, I had possessed intentions to try my chances with him,” she said sadly.

“We have flirted with one another at length, and I confess I had been thinking of marrying him. I think we could have a very simple, lovely life together. I would have brought a sum of money to the marriage, and we would have continued to fall in love.” The words sounded so foolish when she said them aloud.

She thought of Harry’s tight curls, his kind, easy smile, and the way he never once let a silence go unfilled.

“My father would not approve of me marrying someone so lower class than me, but up until now I had not cared.”

“Oh, Rebecca,” Mary sighed, reaching for her hand. “I am so sorry.”

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing has happened between us, after all. Nothing official, at least. I do suspect he has hopes of asking me to be more with him, but our class difference puts him off. His mother was a stern tutor—she has likely filled his head with the thought that I am too high to notice him in such ways.”

And it was not true, of course. Rebecca didn’t want to care so much about all of that.

She just wanted to settle and be happy. The ton was a maze, and she had wielded it well so far.

She was learning every dangerous path and how to avoid them, and she was building her knowledge of how to trick her way into the center to find what sort of prize awaited her.

Harry Maudley would not be that prize, though.

He didn’t attend balls, and he couldn’t provide for her the way she had now realized she needed to be provided for.

Rebecca sighed. “I need a husband who can not only take care of me, but hopefully provide some stability to get my family back into good financial graces. My parents would never support me wedding Harry, but now I fear I cannot support myself with it, either. I need a financial backup, someone to support me when I cannot. When my father cannot.”

“That should not be your responsibility,” Mary mumbled, toying with a length of ribbon in her lap, tugged loose from her hair without her quite realizing.

“It should not,” Rebecca agreed sadly. “But I must take it on regardless. I cannot see my family go destitute. This Season, I must find myself a husband. It will only be a convenient arrangement, of course. I do not have to love him, nor him me, in order to be provided for.”

“A loveless match?” Mary echoed; her voice dismayed. “Rebecca, but a love match is something you have wanted!”

“Who cares for love if she has not two coins to rub together?” Catherine finally spoke up again.

Her own tone was tight and clipped, and she set a fierce gaze on Rebecca.

“I shall help you find a good husband. No doubt your parents will involve themselves, but I will also scope the next ballroom for you. My father has good connections, and I will make use of them to ensure you dance only with the richest men who will want to shower you with wealth.”

“Of course, but please do make sure they are at least not old enough to be my father.” Rebecca winced at her blunt request, and Catherine only laughed, tipping her head back.

Speaking with her friends had already helped, and it would do more wonders, for Avery House’s housekeeper called them to say their tea was set-up in the garden.

The three of them ventured outside, Catherine already telling her about the upcoming ball at the Montgomery residence in a week’s time. Lady Montgomery notoriously held the first ball of the Season, and she would continue her tradition.

Rebecca knew she had to make every ball count. She would find her match.

As she poured her tea, she gazed out into the Avery gardens. She would find a husband, and he would help her save her family, and even if she did not tell him the whole situation, she could find a way to tell him enough to garner sympathy.

The Season would bring her luck.

She could bank her anger at her father for now. The best resolution was turning her focus and energy to what she could do, and Rebecca would stop at nothing.