Page 67 of Real Earls Break the Rules

Brandon turned back to Amelia. “We’re not finished talking.”

She fought the pull between them and shook her head. “There’s nothing left to say.”

A flash of challenge darkened the green depth of his eyes. “I once told you before that I don’t like to take no for an answer when I want something. Nothing has changed.” Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brandon made his way to the drawing room and opened the door to find a heavy-set man with a balding pate of dark hair sitting in a chair sipping a glass of the old-earl’s finest brandy.

“I was told you were waiting to see me,” Brandon said.

The man jumped to his feet, and liquor splashed on his lace cuff. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. “My name is Edward Arnold. Thank you for meeting me, my lord.”

Brandon ignored his outstretched hand and studied his face. “Have we met before?”

Arnold lowered his arm, then smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “No, my lord. There was never an opportunity. I was an acquaintance of the late earl.”

“What type of acquaintance?”

“A business one.”

The hairs on Brandon’s nape stood on end. This couldn’t bode well. “State your business, Mr. Arnold.”

The man reached for a leather case on the settee and pulled out a document. “You father signed an IOU and borrowed twenty thousand pounds from me to pay for gambling debts.”

Brandon eyes narrowed as he stared at the paper in Arnold’s hand. “My father has been dead for a year. I haven’t learned of any IOUs.”

“Perhaps he failed to mention it to you.”

His father’s documents weren’t in order. They were haphazardly scattered in his study at Rosehill as well as in his London mansion. His solicitor hadn’t even known of all the old earl’s business ventures or debts. It had been a mess that had taken Brandon months to sort out.

Cold centered in Brandon’s gut. “Let me see.”

Arnold handed over the paper. Brandon recognized his father’s handwriting at once. His bold script had always been flowery and a touch sloppy, just like the old man himself. Disbelief coursed through Brandon as he studied the document. The last line contained his father’s unmistakable signature. “This says the Earl of Vale offered you a Hampshire textile mill and land from Rosehill as collateral.”

“That’s correct.”

Was it possible? Could his father have borrowed money from a moneylender and offered the textile mill and acres from Rosehill for collateral without anyone knowing?

Yes.

“It’s impossible,” Brandon said tersely. “All the land is entailed. It cannot be mortgaged.”

“Not all of it, my lord. Your father assured me there are five hundred acres that were acquired by your great-grandfather and are not part of the entailment.”

He couldn’t believe that his father had put up the acres in question. It was where a dozen Rosehill tenant farmers resided and farmed the land. He knew the tenants well. He could picture their faces and those of their children—people that depended on Brandon for their survival as much as he depended on their rents to add to the earldom’s coffers. He’d be damned if he allowed any of his land to fall victim to a greedy moneylender.

His eyes were drawn back to the second paragraph. His father’s crime was twofold. The textile mill was also listed. Brandon seethed with mounting rage. His father had offered the land and the mill as collateral.

“When is payment due?” Brandon asked.

“The document is clear. Two weeks.”

Brandon checked and confirmed the unbelievable truth.

Two weeks.

He had two weeks to come up with twenty thousand pounds. It was unheard of. What had his father been thinking? Had he ever been completely lucid? Hadn’t he cared at all about his family?