Yorkshire

July 1816

"How the hell did he let it become such a disaster?" Jack said, pushing aside the ledger. Every time he'd looked at the bloody thing he'd held out a faint hope that circumstances weren't as bad as they appeared. And every time he was wrong.

The large, leather-clad account book was one of several piled haphazardly before him on the library desk. On the other side of that pile sat Atticus Lindsey, the longtime estate manager at Stonefell and a truly estimable man. He had to be, because he'd put up with years of financial messes and managed to ameliorate some of the worst effects. But even Lindsey's business acumen and dedication to the family could no longer stave off the inevitable.

Thanks to Jack's uncle, the previous marquess, Stonefell Hall stood on the brink of ruin, and the Easton family fortunes weren't far behind.

His estate manager struggled to articulate some positive news — and failed.

"It's all right, Lindsey," Jack finally said. "I know we're teetering on the edge of the abyss. The only question now is how to walk ourselves back from it."

The middle-aged widower, whose kind face and gentle manner were combined with a whip-smart mind, pulled a grimace. "There are a few things we can try, my lord. We can take down the remaining viable timber in the home wood, for one. The income from that would stave off the creditors till the next quarter."

Jack hated that idea. So many noble trees had already been lost. Stonefell's woods had once been the finest in this part of Yorkshire, but they were now a pale imitation of their former glory.

"We'll do that only as a last resort," he said. "I'm hoping the harvest will be better this year. The revenues from that should take us well into next year."

Lindsey eyed him. "Of course, sir."

In other words, good luck with that, you bloody fool.

He certainly wouldn't have blamed Lindsey if he'd said those words out loud. Jack had rarely involved himself in estate business, even though he'd known for two years that the Lendale title would fall directly to him. That was when Jack's father, heir to his older brother, had died of apoplexy, brought on by a life of drinking and excess. His father had evaded responsibility whenever possible. Even in death he'd run true to form and had left Jack to pick up the pieces of a family all but in ruins.

As for the recently deceased marquess ... well, Uncle Arthur had been a kind man, loyal to family and friend alike. And he'd been more than generous to Jack, always providing him with a safe haven from his warring parents and helping him achieve a military career by purchasing his commission.

But as a man of business and a caretaker of the family fortune and legacy, the third Marquess of Lendale had been an absolute disaster.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Lindsey said in a tone warm with sympathy. "I wish I had better news to impart, but the tenant farmers are barely holding on as it is. We'll need years of good harvests to make up for the ground we've lost."

Jack repressed the impulse to bang his head on the pile of ledgers. Maybe if he did that long enough the figures would somehow untangle themselves. He'd spent so many late nights pouring over the damn numbers, searching for even a thread of good news, he could barely see straight.

For years he'd tried to escape all the family drama by focusing his energies on his military career. He'd worked his arse off, climbing up the chain of command until serving directly under Wellington himself. And even though the fortunes of war were often bleak, he'd loved his work. If fate had decreed otherwise, he'd still be in the army.

But fate had decreed otherwise, and now he was someone he'd never wanted to be — the Marquess of Lendale. The title had been shared by a disreputable group of aristocrats more known for their spendthrift, rakish lifestyles than for nurturing the blessings graced by God and king.

Well, he'd be damned if he was the one to bring the estate crashing down around his mother and sister. They deserved more than that, as did the tenants and staff who worked at Stonefell and in the mansion in London.

And he could never forget Lia and Rebecca, who were as much his responsibility as anyone else under his care.

"What about that idea you floated in your letter to me a few weeks back, when I was in Lincolnshire?" he asked Lindsey.

He'd been there for the wedding of his closest friend, the Duke of Leverton, to the unconventional Miss Gillian Dryden. It had been a welcome respite from his problems, although their marriage had raised a tricky issue he had yet to work out.

Lindsey brightened. "You mean Stonefell's potential for ore and coal mining? The surveys have yielded some very positive results, but in order to proceed, we need ..."

"Additional investments," Jack said grimly.

"Yes, sir, for more surveys and preliminary explorations. And to go ahead with any sort of comprehensive venture at this point, we would need a substantial investment."

"Would selling the rest of the timber in the home wood be enough to get us started?" Jack loathed the very notion, but he'd be willing to make the sacrifice. A productive mining operation would not only provide jobs for his struggling tenants and villagers, it could alleviate the debts encumbering the estate.

"I'm afraid not," Lindsey said with a regretful shake of the head. "There's no doubt we need outside backers to establish a viable operation."

But any investor worth his salt would want to see profits as soon as possible. No one would be inclined to invest if they had to wait several years until Jack restored the estate to health. There was another alternative, of course, but he wasn't particularly thrilled about that one either.

He closed the ledger in front of him with a thud. "I think we've both depressed ourselves enough for one day, Lindsey. I'll be traveling to London in a few weeks. I will speak to my bankers about finding potential — and patient — investors while I'm there."

Lindsey stood up. "Very good, my lord. I can put out feelers to a few private investors when I'm next in Ripon, if you like."

"Do that but quietly. We don't need word getting around that things are as bad as they are."

"As you wish."

After Lindsey collected the ledgers and soft-footed his way out, Jack eyed the remaining work on his desk. It felt as if he'd been confined to the stuffy old room forever. Normally, his uncle's library — his library now — was a favorite place to while away the time. It had always been a welcoming retreat, with its elegant Queen Anne furniture richly mellowed by age, a collection of books lovingly built up over the generations, and several truly impressive globes his uncle had acquired over the years. The handsome room spoke of the taste, wealth, and power of the Lendale line.

Today it felt more like a prison.

He stood and headed for the French doors, his hand automatically reaching out to spin the largest and oldest of the globes as he passed.

You really ought to sell that, old boy, along with the rest of them.

It just might come to that. Along with the antique volumes on the shelves, the globes would attract a pretty sum from a collector.

Shoving aside that unpleasant thought, he stepped onto the terrace, lifting his face to the late afternoon sun. It had been a cool, rainy summer, so...