Lucius Felton.

The man responsible for giving the Sausage her dowry.

The man married to the Sausage’s sister.

He’d never felt sicker in his life, just sitting there and watching his father’s red face as he said that his mother’s jointure was secure, of course, and so they would be retiring into the village where she grew up because there was a small house. One of his brothers was entering the Church.

“Mr. Felton,” his father said, and the words filtered through the haze in Thurman’s brain, “has been kind enough to buy your youngest brother a commission in the army.”

He stopped.

Thurman just waited. Surely there was more. Surely Felton had told him? Had told his family what he had done?

But Felton hadn’t, because his father was looking at him with a horrible expression of pain and pity and despair. “I’m the saddest about you,” he said. “Your mother and I will be happy in the village. You know we like a simple life. But you…I shouldn’t have played ducks and drakes with your inheritance, son.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Thurman said sharply. “How could you get yourself into the hands of someone like Felton?”

“I didn’t know…he was always most kind, but then…” In five minutes Thurman saw it all. In the last week, Felton had bought up all of his father’s outstanding loans. He had taken over the printing press. He had kindly “spared” his mother’s jointure, and given them, as an act of charity, the money to buy his brother a commission.

“So there’s only you,” his father said.

“Me?” Thurman replied, still not quite following.

“There’s no money, lad. This house—” He glanced around. “Well, the rent is paid for the next week. You’d best tell your man to leave immediately. And what are you to do then, Eliot? Have you an idea of a profession, lad? You must have learned a great deal off at those schools of yours.”

Thurman was silent.

“I’m trying not to worry about you,” his father said. “Not you, with all your friends from Rugby. They’ll help you out of this tight spot. Get you a position somewhere. Perhaps you could be a secretary to a great man. You were always clever with a pen.”

Thurman could barely make his lips move. “Out,” he said.

“Well, now—”

“Out! You’ve taken my inheritance and destroyed my life. The only good thing about this is that I won’t ever have to listen to the foolish ravings of an imbecilic old man like yourself any longer! We were never of the same stock, never!”

Henry Thurman rose slowly. “You’ll always have a home with us, Eliot. We know you’ve grown above us. But you’ll always be able to come home.”

“Never,” Thurman spat. “Never.”

Henry Thurman stumbled out of the house, feeling as sick as a man could. Of course, he had ruined young Eliot’s life. Eliot was raised to be the hope of the family, the young gentleman who was going to move into the aristocracy. He was friends with all those lords. Surely he’d fall on his feet. His fine friends would help him. That Darlington, for instance, whom Eliot always talked of.

Inside the house, Thurman was bellowing at Cooper. “The card,” he said hoarsely. “The card!”

Cooper had listened at the door just long enough, and then ducked into the back to wrap the silver in a cloth. He knew where the card in question was. “I’ll look for it, sir,” he said, heading to the back of the house so he could wrap up the silver teapot and a pair of candlesticks he’d always fancied.

After a reasonable period of time, when he had everything he wanted crated and tied in two large boxes, he brought Thurman the card.

Just as he expected, Thurman glanced at the inscription, HARRY GRONE, THE TATLER, and banged out of the house. That gave Cooper more than enough time to whistle for a hackney, load up the two crates, and hop into the carriage.

He left the front door swinging open, just in case anyone cared to enter.

As it happened, two gentlemen did choose to enter. They strolled into Thurman’s sitting room and glanced around at the furnishings.

One of them, the Earl of Ardmore, stripped off his coat.

The other, Lucius Felton, flipped through the meager invitations ranged on the mantelpiece. Then he walked to the window and drew back the curtain just a trifle.

They had to wait until evening.

Thurman did Grone’s little errand, sweeping into a printing press that was all sixes and sevens as the news was out that it had a new owner. He bullied his way into the files and left.

But Thurman hadn’t gone home directly with the bag of sovereigns Grone handed over. He’d taken it to the Convent, and bought everyone round after round of drink. He couldn’t stop thinking that by tomorrow the news would be everywhere. By tomorrow it was all over.

But for one last, golden evening he could still be a rising young gentleman, an heir with plenty of the ready. He threw a sovereign on the counter as the tapsters curled their lips in a semblance of smiles. He threw a sovereign in the air when a barmaid perched on his knees. He pretended Darlington and Wisley and the rest were with him…even though they weren’t.

When he finally staggered home, the remnants of Grone’s bag in his pocket, he was no longer worrying about the day to come. He’d deal with that tomorrow.

He fell out of the hackney, giving the driver a sovereign when he asked for eight pence. The curtains in his sitting room twitched, though he didn’t notice.

He banged through the front door and just stood there, sodden with beer and gin, shaky and drunk. He threw back his head like a wolf howling at the moon. “Cooper!” he bellowed. “Cooper!”

Cooper didn’t come, but the door to the sitting room slowly swung open, so Thurman lurched through that door.

41

From The Earl of Hellgate,

Chapter the Twenty-sixth

Not every man is lucky enough to fall in love with a woman of this sort. I know I don’t deserve her…and yet, Dear Reader, I am lucky enough to carry her promise in my heart. She will marry me. I will roam no further…the empty places in my heart are filled by her goodness and sweetness.I will spend my life cherishing the ground she walks on.

S omehow she’d ended up falling asleep in Darlington’s arms again. It was all too easy, now that Josie was married and she had returned to her own little house. He came for tea, and before she knew it, she was in his hackney…

Why shouldn’t she marry him? Griselda asked herself. People would make jokes. They would make fun of her. They would say she was baby-stealing. She looked at the tumble of hair next to her again.Sometimes he seemed older than she. There were people like that, people who were old before their time.

And he needed her. She would lead him to a happier relation with his father, and stop him from being spurned by his family. She would celebrate his writing.

Perhaps she should wake him and tell him her decision?

It would do him no harm to worry. She swung her toes out of bed as quietly as she could. Thank goodness he didn’t have servants, the way every other person did. Her clothes were in a crumpled heap in the entryway; Griselda had to stop and press her hands to her hot cheeks once, from the pure shame of it.

She wasn’t quite certain how to get home. She would have asked a footman to fetch her a hackney, but Darlington had told the servants not to return until noon.