raise the necessary funds in a swifter fashion.”
“I suppose I could propose to Lord Renfield’s daughter,” Robbie said with a frown after taking a sip of whiskey. “She’d accept, I’m sure, in spite of the fact that Moira jilted me.” He gave Gordon a sardonic grin. “The last time her family visited here, when my father was still alive and I was a mere stripling of seventeen, I found her waiting in my bed, naked.” He gave a dramatic shiver. “I’ve never been less tempted by a woman in my life. I covered her up in a blanket and sent her back to her room.”
He owed it to Robbie as a client, as well as a friend, to give him the best advice he could. “Marrying for money is never wise. In my experience, a man or woman pays a steep price in misery and unhappiness if they do.”
“Then I have no choice but to sue and hope Lady Moira’s very wealthy father is forced to pay, or settle out of court for a substantial amount. I don’t want to, Gordon, but…”
Robbie’s gaze faltered and when he next raised his eyes, Gordon saw a vestige of the boy he’d known, or thought he had. “I’m not proud of having to resort to such measures, but what else can I do? Sir Robert Mc Stuart can hardly advertise for a job.”
“There’s the law,” Gordon suggested, glad he had broached the subject. “You could be a barrister.”
“Are you forgetting I was never much for study? Besides, that would take more time than I have. I need money now, not years from now, or I’ll have already lost the estate and town houses and what would be the point?”
Gordon surveyed the walls of the drawing room. “You could sell some of the art.”
“I’ve borrowed against most of the good pieces,” Robbie replied, “and if I were to try to sell all the rest, I might as well advertise in the Times that I’m bankrupt. I can just imagine what my creditors will do then.”
“Perhaps I could contact your creditors on your behalf—discreetly, of course—and try to negotiate different terms for repayment or an extension. In my experience, lenders are often willing to receive something rather than nothing.”
Robbie’s face brightened, and he looked better than he had since Gordon had arrived. “Do you really think they’d do that?”
“It’s certainly worth pursuing,” Gordon assured him.
“That would be a damn sight better than asking Horse-face to marry me,” Robbie said as he grinned and walked toward Gordon to shake his hand. “I swear, Gordo, inviting you here is one of the best ideas I’ve ever had in my life!”
Perhaps it was, but Gordon wished he’d never had it.
“Ouch!”
Sticking her index finger in her mouth before she bled on her embroidery, Moira pushed the frame away with her other hand. This was the third time she’d jabbed herself with the needle since she’d started.
She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece of the upstairs sitting room. The late-afternoon light was brighter in this part of the house if the day was sunny, so she kept all her needlework here. Today, however, had not been sunny, so there was another reason she’d chosen this relatively isolated room to spend her time.
She could see the whole long driveway from her vantage point by the window.
It was nearly time for tea, and her father still hadn’t returned from Glasgow, although he should have been back by noon.
Frowning, she wrapped her handkerchief around her finger and put the small scissors, pincushion and yarns in their box, then closed the lid. This delay could mean nothing; he might have had more business to do than she suspected.
Besides, she would have to tell him about Robbie’s lawsuit when he got home, and that was not something she was looking forward to. Still, the dread of telling him about that was less distressing than the dread of learning that her father had broken his vow not to imbibe to excess.
She hoped she wasn’t disappointed. Again.
Sighing, she looked out the window once more, to see her father’s carriage turn onto the long sweeping drive.
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