Chapter 1

Destitute!

“Good God!” gasped Jonathan, running his fingers through his thick auburn hair, and adjusting his ink-stained clothing.  He had just seen his mother at the entrance to his student apartments in Oxford.  He ran to her. “Mother!  What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

She was clearly distraught, dressed in black clothing, wearing crepe over her face as a veil, and tears staining her face.  As soon as he realized this was not merely a social call, he embraced her heartily, catching himself before expressing his displeasure at seeing her in his Oxford flat.

Jonathan Anderson-Reese, the third of that name, only son and heir to the Earl of Yarmouth, was a brilliant young gentleman of twenty-two, excelling at Oxford, both academically and socially.  He studied mathematics, just at a time when mathematics was vitally important to the world, or so he told everyone.  Having excelled at Oxford for nearly four years, he was now well-connected in the best circles of Liberal Tories who had been exerting their powers and their desire for modernization throughout the realm. In his opinion, a first at Oxford, especially in Math, was of critical importance to his future.  The fact that he was more than usually handsome, his tall, lean form causing many of the young maidens who frequented the town of Oxford to swoon, was a very helpful and fortuitous godsend.  He had large blue eyes framed by longer and darker than usual eyelashes, a straight and well-formed nose, and long auburn hair that fell over his face in a fetching manner.  The fact that Jonathan seemed totally oblivious to his effect on young ladies was a particular boon to his popularity.  He was a modest man and very kind.

One of the most fascinating things about Oxford was how it often made one forget one’s connection to one’s own family. And so, the sudden appearance of Margaret Anderson-Reese, Countess of Yarborough, was a shock to his system, almost making him forget his manners.  Nevertheless, his love for his mother allowed him to embrace and console her, despite the shock of seeing her in his dormitory, forbidden to women.

“Oh Johnny!” she cried in despair.  “I bring the direst news!”

“What can it be, mamma?” he said, knitting his handsome brows, perplexed.

“It’s your father!” she said through a veil of tears.

“Why what has become of the old goat?”  he said jokingly.

“Johnny, he has died,” she said flatly before beginning to sob.

Jonathan stopped smiling abruptly. “Dead?  What do you mean?  How can he be dead?”

She took him by the arm, away from his comrades, Peter Nunn and Simon Northridge, who were trying their level best to hide the fact that they were eavesdropping.  She pulled him into his bedroom, which was in a shocking state of disarray, and whispered the dreaded news to him, directly into his ear.  “Three days ago, your father… took his own life!”

Truthfully, Jonathan had wondered how the old duffer had lasted so long.  He was far older than his mother, who, at forty-one, was still a shapely and attractive woman. Jonathan had the good fortune to have inherited her good looks, while his father, also named Jonathan, the Earl of Yarmouth, was nearly sixty, and looked a good deal older.  Years of dissolute living, drink, and cigars had taken their toll on his face and his corpulent body, and he looked old enough to be her father.  Nevertheless, in deference for his mother’s feelings, he bowed his head and nodded.

“Well, mother, we must soldier on.  These are not times for inaction.  What needs to be done?”

“Johnny, you must come with me today and help.  I am in despair and there are people asking awkward questions.”

“Momma, forgive me.  This is very distressing news.  And, I don’t mean to be indiscreet, but may I ask how it happened?”

“He used his pistol.”

“Father had a pistol?”

“He had just received this awful weapon, only weeks ago.  Some sort of thing called a revolver.  They say he shot himself in the eye.  And Johnny,” she added, again weeping copiously.  “It was I who discovered him in his study.”

“Oh mother, that is ghastly!” said Jonathan, trying to collect himself, and trying to sound confident.  “Now mother.  Would you please allow me a few minutes to collect my necessities, and I shall join you?  I’m afraid this news has yet to hit me.”

“Of course, Johnny.  It is terrible, terrible news.”

“Yes, it is.  But, mother, I am afraid that ladies are not allowed in the bedchambers of young gentlemen.”

“But I am your mother!” said Margaret.

“Be that as it may, you saw how my chums were ogling you.  You are far too handsome a woman to be able to convince the dons that you are my mother.  And I am such an old crow myself.”  Jonathan said these words with the intention of calming his mother, whom he loved very much, and did his best to cover the shock and dismay of losing his father.  True, his father had been a cold and somewhat aloof man, but he was still his father, and Jonathan had loved him regardless of all his flaws.  He was not a kind man or a generous man, but he was the only father he had, and Jonathan slowly came to realize that losing his father, even under these circumstances, was heart-wrenching.

Jonathan had entered Oxford at nineteen and was now twenty-two – ancient in the eyes of many of his peers, who had entered at sixteen and were matriculating at twenty.  Jonathan himself had only a single term remaining before he graduated, and so he was at first loath to abandon his studies.  It was late January, moreover, and it was rather unpleasant to travel in winter, regardless of the mode of transportation.  Especially if one had to go to Lincolnshire, which was a fair distance away.

His mother withdrew forthwith, and Jonathan began to assemble his necessities.  As a student at Oxford, he was unaccustomed to dressing as the son of an Earl, but that, it seemed, was about to change.  He would assume the mantle of Earl forthwith, he surmised.  But, as he himself acknowledged to his friends, Peter Nunn and Simon Northridge, as he packed, he hadn’t the foggiest idea what was going on at the time. He was utterly befuddled by this news of his father passing and so he packed several combs but no socks, a periwig he had used in the Christmas pageant, but no topcoat.

“I say, lads,” said Jonathan, after he had ushered his mother into the drawing room and returned to his chambers.  “Something quite grim has happened.  You see, my father, The Earl of Yarmouth, has had an accident and has been shot.”

“Dear God, man!” said Peter Nunn with a look of consternation.  “That’s rum luck.  Is he to be alright?”

“I should say not,” said Jonathan. “He’s dead, you see.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Simon Northridge with a shudder.  “Dead, you say?  That’s a bit of bad luck.”

“Quite!” said Jonathan.  “But the thing of it is, as the eldest son – indeed the only son – I must see to his estate.  No time for emotion. I must spring into action, if only to preserve my mother’s emotional state from disaster.”

“What?  You’re leaving Oxford?”

“I’m afraid so, Simon!” said Jonathan.  “But it shall only be for a term, I think.  It can’t be avoided.  The old man was a bugger with numbers and his estate is sure to be in tatters.”

“Well it’s in good hands now, old man,” said Peter in a soothing voice.  “You’re running first!  Of course, if you leave now, I daresay, I shall take first.”  He looked at Jonathan, who was clearly upset and decided to change his tone.  “But, do know I shall be thinking of you every day, old sock.”

“Thank you, Peter,” said Jonathan, pulling his valise to the top of the stairs.  “I’ll be back just as soon as I can.  Wish me luck!”

“Yes, of course, old man,” said Peter.  “Anything we can do, you let us know.”

“Perhaps you could find me a young woman of means.  I have a ghastly feeling father has spent our fortune.”

Peter and Simon laughed, slapping him on the back, knowing full-well that Jonathan would never have trouble attracting a woman.  Even among his friends at Oxford, both of whom were very handsome, he was known as the handsomest one.

“Don’t be daft, man!” said Simon, trying to sound helpful.

Jonathan turned and bumped his valise down the wooden stairs.  He collected his mother at the foot of the stairs.  “How shall we travel, mother?” he asked.

“I have hired a carriage,” she said.  “It is waiting outside.  It shall take us home.  Nan travelled with me; you remember Nan, do you not, Johnny?”

He was distracted and ignored her comment.  Nan, the mistress’ personal maid, was a mousy old crone with a pinched face, and Jonathan had never liked her much.

“Well, it is before noon, but even so, it shall take days.  It’s two day’s travel to Stafford Manor.  And I should think his solicitor is in London, is he not?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion, Johnny.  That is why I need you so.”

“I see,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.  “Do you know the name of his solicitors.  Do you have his will, mother?”

“Oh, Johnny!” she replied.  “I am still in the depths of despair having lost your father only three days ago.  How can I turn to these sorts of things?”

She had a point.  However, practical matters were most important in moments of trial and tribulation, as his philosophy professor had often noted.  He decided to rest up on his trip to Lincolnshire and drifted off to sleep without comforting his mother.

The coach was relatively comfortable and the driver more than able to handle the difficult terrain.  They stopped in a pleasant roadside inn halfway and took rooms while changing the horses.  They arrived at Stafford Manor before supper the next day.  When he managed to dig himself out from under the many blankets and wraps in the coach, he cleared frost from a small patch of the glass, to look out over his lands.

Lincolnshire in January was an uninspiring place, in a constant repeating pattern of greys, browns, and blacks.  The trees had lost their leaves and stood silent sentinel against the winter cold.  The snows had not arrived yet, which was a blessing as Lincolnshire could get large snowfalls at this time of year.  Mercifully, there was nothing like that.  It was just the hardened, frozen ground over which the coach had to travel that made the final few miles so uncomfortable.

Stafford Manor came into view before long, its pointed roofs standing in noble strength against the slate grey sky.  It was coming toward darkness when they pulled into the courtyard, greeted by two grooms who took the horses and fed them.  The coachman helped Nan and Jonathan’s mother from the coach and attended to the luggage.

Soon, the butler, Ponsonby, and two younger valets appeared.  “Master Jonathan,” said Ponsonby, smiling sadly.

“So good to see you, old chap,” said Jonathan wearily.  “Would you be a good man and have my rooms made up? I am simply beat.”

“That has been seen to, my Lord.”

Jonathan looked at Ponsonby in confusion.  “So, he’s really gone, then.”

“He is most definitely dead, my Lord.  I am most terribly sorry.”

The words sunk in with weight to Jonathan’s weary soul.  Suddenly, he became aware that he was the sole provider and soon to be Earl of Yarmouth.  This was a dread he had avoided for many years, and only now, when his old friend Ponsonby had begun to call him the title previously reserved for his father, did he realize the gravity of this whole series of events.

“And, where is he?”

“Well, he has been taken to the embalmers.  I trust that was the right thing to do.”

“I suppose it is.  But honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea.  And his solicitors?”

“I know not.  However, there are two gentlemen expected here in the morning at ten, and I hope they will be able to shed some light on his frightful affair.  I am told to prepare you for some grim news, my Lord.”

“Grim, eh?  Well, then I shall need my rest.  First, mother and I are famished.  Nan too.  Can you rustle up something for us, and find a place for the carriage driver?  I don’t know his name.”

“Jim is our man, my Lord.  He has a room here.  And your repast has been prepared and is awaiting your presence.”

“I see.  Many things have changed in just a few years then,” said Jonathan.

“Yes, my Lord.  And may I say, ‘welcome home,’ my Lord.”

“Thank you, Ponsonby.”

Jonathan climbed the stairs, paused on the landing, looking at his childhood bedroom, and felt a wash of comfort roll over him.

“These two gentlemen…” Jonathan started looking back at Ponsonby, “who do suppose they are?

“I really don’t know, my Lord, but I fear the worst.”

“The worst?  Has there been some sort of trouble?”

“If I may be candid, my Lord, I suspect your father was involved in some frightful business.”

“Frightful business?  What sort of frightful business?”

“I’m afraid it will have to wait until morning when someone with more knowledge about this nasty business can let you know.”

“Dear God, Ponsonby!” said Jonathan.  “This is most worrisome.”

“Good night, my Lord.  I trust you will sleep well.”

“Thank you, Ponsonby.  That will be all.”

Sleep well? he thought.  Dear God!  What if father was involved with the criminal element?  What shall I do then?

Chapter 2

Messrs. Braithwaite and Kerr

Jonathan did not sleep at all well that night, despite the comfort of his childhood bed and the memory of the plush animals in his youthful menagerie.  Throughout the night, because of the shock of hearing about the death of his father, thoughts of nefarious characters filled his dreams with dread.

The following day, Jonathan rose and breakfasted with his mother and Cecily, his younger sister, who was just entering society.  At eighteen, she was rather glibber than was fashionable these days, but she was a beautiful, brown-eyed brunette with a great deal of sense and an impeccable sense of style.  Her bright brown eyes were inherited from her mother, and she was a very pretty young woman, tall and thin like Jonathan, and exceedingly clever.  She had a way of dealing with grief by saying shocking things, which could be off-putting for others, although Jonathan understood her and loved her for this quality.

“Johnny,” she said, toying nervously with a rigid piece of toast.  “I should think you are at that age when marriage would be a good idea.  And, what with father having shuffled off this mortal coil, I think it’s your chance to introduce me to the good people.”

“Cecily!” said Margaret in exasperation.  “That is a shocking way to speak of your father.”

“Oh, tut-tut, mother,” said Cecily.  “We all knew he was a spent shell.  I shan’t go through with this charade. Father was a man of very little character, and I am sorry that he felt so poorly about himself, but I must admit, he was a modest man with a lot to be modest about.”

“Cecily, please!” said Jonathan in alarm.  “We must be clear: you must always speak good of the dead.”

“Well, daddy’s dead.  Good!”

“Go to your room, young lady!” thundered Margaret, tears forming in her eyes.  “I will not have this shocking display in my house.”

“Mother.  Before you fly off the handle again, I think you should have a word with Josiah Braithwaite and Alastair Kerr.  I encountered them as I took my morning constitutional.  It appears they are here to collect on a gambling debt of your husband’s.”

“I beg your pardon?  Who are these gentlemen?”

“You shall see.  In the meantime, Jonathan, I believe it is time for you to go a-courting.  Some rich young thing who will restore the family fortune.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.  Are these fellows Father’s solicitors?”

“No, brother, they are not.  Father never had the good sense to hire a solicitor.  You can say what you like about him, but he did not think much of the future, despite his decrepit state of body and mind.  These men are what one would call moneylenders.”

Cecily was an outspoken woman at the best of times, but this display was unlike anything either of them had experienced before, and both Jonathan and Margaret were shocked as she left the room.

“What’s gotten into her?” said Margaret.

Jonathan shook his head and sighed. “You know this is how Cecily deals with grief.  She is usually a rather caring and loving person, but she cannot accept death, and so she makes it into a joke.”

“I see, but it is very difficult to absorb.”

“I understand, mother. But, honestly, did you know about any of this?” asked Jonathan quietly, moving his knife and fork to the sides of his plate.

Margaret looked into Jonathan’s handsome blue eyes and saw none of her husband reflected back.  Johnny was a very handsome young man and she was, in many ways, happy that he would inherit the title. Even so, she had many fears about his ability to take on what she imagined would be a crushing debt.

“Well, Johnny,” she said, trying to put the best face on their misfortune.  “You know your father was somewhat secretive about his affairs, and I must admit, I had no knowledge of any of this.”

“And these two so-called moneylenders?  Who are they?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Margaret weakly.

Jonathan could see that the events of the last few days had taken their toll on his mother. Jonathan being a kind and sensitive soul, who loved his mother very much, decided to let it go for now.

“Very well,” said Jonathan, rising from the table.  “I shall see to these two gentlemen.”  He bowed to his mother and left the room, making for the drawing room.

“Good day, gentlemen,” said Jonathan affably, as he strode into the drawing room, dressed as he imagined a young earl might dress.  It was winter and chilly, and every fireplace in the manor was going with all its might.  He wore a topcoat of deep aquamarine, with a high collar, and tight-fitting trousers that accentuated his shapely legs.  His shoes were Oxfords and he wore spats and carried a top hat under his arm.  He was the picture of what he imagined would be his role.

The two gentlemen – and this term was used loosely by Cecily, it seemed to Jonathan – rose from their seats, and smiled in a way that made Jonathan think that they had lost the required muscles to master the smile.  Both of them were somewhat ragged, greasy men, and hunched with avarice.  There was a definite smell of something unhealthy that clung to their dress.

“Eh, my Lord Earl of Yarmouth, I presume,” said the first.  “Allow me to introduce myself and my colleague.  This is Mr. Alastair Kerr of Cheapside, and I am Mr. Josiah Braithwaite, also of Cheapside.  We found that we had quite a lot in common, you see,” he continued.

Jonathan frowned in incomprehension.  “And what is your custom with me?” he asked quizzically.

“Well, we are both what you gentlemen call ‘moneylenders’ you see,” said Alastair Kerr in a pronounced Scottish accent.  “We wouldna bother you but for the pressing nature of our business.”

“I see,” said Jonathan.  “And what is this business of yours?”

“Well,” said Josiah Braithwaite, cutting in.  “We heard about your father’s death in the papers almost a week ago and made our way here as soon as we could.  We have been staying at The Merry Tax Collector for the last two days, awaiting your return.  There’s the matter of the repayment of a rather substantialized lend made to your father, the late Earl of Yarmouth.”

“I see.  And how much is this ‘substantialized lend’?”

“It is in the amount of twenty-five thousand guineas,” said Mr. Kerr.  “Ten thousand to Mr. Braithwaite, and fifteen thousand to my person.”

Jonathan was taken aback.  “What on earth?  That is an astronomical sum!  Do you have some papers to attest to this?  I was planning on looking into his papers today.”

“Aye, we do,” said Mr. Kerr, holding out a damp sheet of paper.  Braithwaite, similarly, held out a crumpled piece of parchment and Jonathan could clearly see the scrawled signature of his father, and large sums of money on them.

“Please, give them here -” he began.

“I think not!” said Kerr.  “You may peruse them to authenticate their authenticity,” he said, clearly getting confused by his own words.  “But we shall be submitting these to the courts on the first of March if complete repayment is not made.”

“Well, I confess, I do not know the state of my father’s affairs, but I shouldn’t think that will be necessary.”

“If you’ll forgive me for being so bold,” said Braithwaite. “I’ve had dealings with gentlemen like yourself before, and I have found not a few times that the courts were the only place I could get satisfaction.  You see, I’m not a rich man -” and it is true that from his dress he looked to be frightfully poor – “and I need my money, to conduct my commerce.”

“I sail aboard the self-same ship as my colleague Mr. Braithwaite,” said Mr. Kerr with a bow of his greasy head.  “We shall sail now, good sir, and will leave our calling cards should you find yourself in the city.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Jonathan, maintaining his composure.  “I shall be in touch forthwith.  Good day.”

Both gentlemen slithered out of the room before he had a chance to bid them farewell, and Jonathan knew he had a problem on his hands.  Cecily, who seemed to have known about all of this, had been correct, despite her unforgivable rudeness at breakfast.

Jonathan strode warily into his father’s study and began to rifle through his papers.  The whole room was in disarray, and it appeared to have been neglected by the servants for months.  There were bits of food and empty glasses with the dregs of port and brandy scattered here and there.

He opened a drawer of his father’s desk and saw the revolver his mother had mentioned.  He picked it up feeling the weight of it in his hands.  It was, as the box said, a Collier five-chamber flintlock revolver, manufactured in England.  It was a magnificent weapon, with a beautiful burnished wood handle inlaid with what appeared to be silver.  Why his father had this thing was beyond Jonathan’s understanding.

He wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and put it in his coat pocket.  Then he set to work to try and find some evidence that his father had spent any time at all on his finances.

After an exhaustive search, he found several crumpled papers in a wastebasket at the foot of the desk that contained notes about his debts. Jonathan smoothed the papers and began to add them up.  After a few minutes, he realized that the debts were equal to the debts to Messrs. Braithwaite and Kerr.

What on earth was father up to?  wondered Jonathan.  And why was he in such a state of mental agitation that he took his own life?  I must investigate.

He resolved to travel to London to find a reputable estate lawyer who could help him untangle this mess.

There were hundreds of papers scattered hither and thither in the room that seemed to have some connection to the running of the manor, including notes of account to the servants, and many promissory notes indicating that most of them had not been paid in many months.

He rang for Ponsonby.  Presently, the butler appeared at the door and popped his head in guiltily.  “Shall I enter, my Lord?”

“Why of course, Ponsonby,” said Jonathan.  “I rang for you.”

“Quite right sir,” he said smiling tensely.  “It’s only that my Lord forbade anyone from entering this room.”

“Well, that explains the state of disarray,” said Jonathan.  “But may I enquire, Ponsonby, the last time you, or any of the servants, were paid?”

“Well, sir, that is a rather tricky proposition,” he said looking askance.

“Come, come then,” said Jonathan.  “I need to know my good man.”

“Well,” said Ponsonby.  “The fact of the matter is, we’ve lost three of our maids because they hadn’t been paid since September.  And as for me, if you’ll forgive me, my Lord, I haven’t been paid since December.”

“That is most unacceptable.  I shall make sure that you are paid forthwith.”

“That is very kind, my Lord,” said Ponsonby.  “But by your leave, I think you will find it a trifle difficult.  You see, my Lord, your father had something of a penchant for Pharaoh, and it seems that his demise may in fact be attributable to this tendency.”

“Tendency?” said Jonathan.  “What is Pharaoh?”

“Pharaoh is a card game.  A betting game, you see,” said Ponsonby.  “It is very popular in Cheapside.”

“Cheapside?  That is where those moneylenders come from.”

“Quite,” said Ponsonby.   “Those gentlemen were frequent visitors to Stafford Manor.”

“I see,” said Jonathan, realizing his father had left him in a bit of a spot.  After furrowing his brows for several minutes, during which time Ponsonby stood shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, he looked up.  “Please do ready the carriage, Ponsonby. I must go to London and I shall be staying at the house on Wimpole Street.”

“I shall make the appropriate arrangements, my Lord,” said Ponsonby as he backed out of the room with a bow.

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!