Page 5 of How to Tempt an Earl

Baron Newbury halted outside the parlor doorway. “Grace? What are you doing up so early?”

“What are you doing out so late?”

He took a step forward, wavered unsteadily on his feet, and braced himself with a hand on the doorframe. His graying hair looked as if he’d repeatedly run his fingers through it in agitation. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol and tobacco.

“You were at the Raven Club, weren’t you?” she asked.

Newbury rubbed his temple. “Have you been waiting up for me?”

“Better me than Stevens.” Their aging butler had been with them since Grace had been a toddler. His wife, Mrs. Stevens, worked as housekeeper and cook, and the couple remained in their employ despite not being paid on a regular basis.

Newbury stumbled forward and collapsed on the closest piece of furniture—a velvet settee.

Good God. Grace immediately fought the urge to grasp his arm and drag him to his feet. The cushions would carry the smell for a week.

“You’re right,” he said. “Stevens makes a horrible valet.”

“That’s because he’s in his eighties. Now how much did you gamble tonight?”

“That’s not a question a daughter asks her father.”

“It is if the daughter has been maintaining the household ledgers and holding the creditors at bay.” The tradesmen whom she dealt with for their household needs had tired of her excuses. They were polite, as she was the daughter of a baron, but at the same time they had declined to issue her credit. Grace struggled to keep her family and their small staff of servants fed, clothed, and warm.

“You should be married by now, not asking about my wagers. Viscount Newton’s youngest son would make a good husband for you,” he slurred.

“Don’t avoid the question. How much did you gamble?”

He dragged his palm across his face. “Only two hundred pounds.”

Two hundred pounds! She wanted to scream.

Worse, she doubted if Father was telling her the truth. If he owed more, they were in deeper trouble than she’d thought.

If he did not control this compulsion, then in a few months’ time they’d have to let their remaining servants go—including Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Grace’s dwindling dowry would soon be gone along with any decent prospects of marriage. Her father’s matchmaking efforts were for naught. Mr. Harris was the youngest of Viscount Newton’s five sons, and he must seek a woman with a substantial dowry.

Grace refused to be defeated, and she’d never been one to sit aside and weep about her circumstances. She’d done what was necessary by secretly seeking employment with a milliner. Not in the shop, but rather assisting a widowed proprietress with her ledgers. Grace was talented with figures and worked at home, then had her maid, Rose, carry the ledgers back and forth. Whatever small amount she’d earned had been poured into the household.

Meanwhile, she’d have to sell her mother’s remaining jewels. Only a set of pearl combs and the diamond necklace remained. She knew the necklace was worth a tidy sum, but she also didn’t know the full amount of her father’s debt to Ian Swift. Would their value be sufficient?

Even if they were, parting with the pieces was dispiriting thought. She’d wanted to keep the jewels as a memory of her mother. Of a time when things had been good and their household had been filled with love and laughter.

Where he lay, on the settee, her father began to snore. She stood with arms crossed staring down at him as a sudden fury overcame her. She wanted to hit him with the fireplace poker. Throw a bucket of cold water on his head. He was blissfully unconscious, oblivious to their problems and to their imminent ruin.

She clenched her fists at her sides. She forced herself to count to ten until her anger slowly abated. What good would it do to vent her temper on a drunken man?

There was no sense waking the servants to move him upstairs, and Stevens was too old to help. She decided it was best to leave him there.

Grace sighed, suddenly weary. She watched the baron’s chest rise and fall. He was not an evil man, but a grieving, pitiful one. Her parents’ marriage had been a rare love match. The baron had doted on his wife, and when she died from a fever, he’d never recovered. He loved nothing now but the shake of the dice and the turn of the card.

“Grace? Is that you?”

Grace turned at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. She quickly stepped out of the parlor, hoping to block the view of the baron’s slumbering form sprawled across the settee. Her ten-year-old brother was dressed in a nightshirt and held a candle.

“Adam, darling. Are you all right?” Grace shut the parlor door and approached the child.

His fair hair stuck up in angles and he rubbed his eyes. “I was having a bad dream and couldn’t sleep.”

“Come,” Grace said, taking his small hand. “I’ll fix you a cup of warm milk.”