Read Chapter 4: The Debt's Shadow

The offices of Whitmore & Sons occupied a narrow sliver of a building wedged between a haberdasher’s and a tea shop off Chancery Lane, the brass plaque so polished it gleamed like a mirror catching the weak afternoon sun. Eleanor had expected marble columns and mahogany—something befitting her father’s grand talk of prudent investments and prosperous futures. Instead, she stood in a cramped waiting room with a cracked leather chair and a clerk whose cravat had seen better days.

“Miss Wentworth,” said the man who emerged from an inner office, his spectacles pushed up on a bald head. He introduced himself as Mr. Whitmore the younger, though he looked old enough to have shaken hands with the previous century. “I must say, your letter arrived at an opportune moment. I had intended to write to you myself.”

Eleanor smoothed her gloves, the lie of her outing—a shopping trip with Clarissa, who was even now being entertained by ribbons in a shop two streets over—settled uneasily on her conscience. “My father’s affairs. I trust everything is in order.”

Mr. Whitmore’s mouth tightened. He gestured for her to follow him into his office, where papers lay scattered across a desk like autumn leaves. He did not offer her a seat, which struck her as odd for a man receiving the daughter of a client.

“Your father, Miss Wentworth, was a man of… considerable optimism.”

She knew that tone. It was the same one her aunt used when discussing Eleanor’s prospects. “I beg your pardon?”

“When your father died, he left debts.” Mr. Whitmore picked up a sheet of paper, scanned it, and set it down again. “Substantial debts. The estate was liquidated to satisfy his creditors. What remains, after all claims have been settled…” He named a figure so small it took Eleanor a moment to understand it. “And the house in Hertfordshire has already been sold to cover the mortgage.”

Eleanor gripped the back of a nearby chair, her knuckles white against the dark wood. “That cannot be right. My father was meticulous. He spoke of portfolios, of railway bonds, of—of his legacy.”

“Your father spoke of many things.” Mr. Whitmore’s tone softened, but only slightly. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news. The sum I mentioned is all that is left. I will have a draft prepared for you by the end of the week.”

A draft. A pittance. The fortune that was to be her dowry, her safety net, her reason for tolerating Aunt Prudence’s endless rules—gone. Melted into the smoke of her father’s grand ambitions.

Eleanor’s breath came shallow. She thought of the locket at her throat, of her mother’s warning whispered years ago: *Trust no one with your future, Nell. Not even your father.* She had thought it a bitter woman’s words from a disappointed marriage. Now she wondered if her mother had known something Eleanor had not.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitmore,” she heard herself say. “I shall return for the draft.”

She walked out in a daze, nearly colliding with a gentleman in the doorway. He caught her elbow with practiced ease, steadying her, and she looked up into a face she vaguely recognized from the society pages—sharp cheekbones, a thin mustache, and eyes that smiled before the mouth did.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, releasing her slowly. “Are you quite well, miss? You look pale as milk.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Eleanor said, pulling herself together. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait.” He held up a hand, and something in his manner made her pause. “You are Miss Wentworth, are you not? The American heiress. I saw you at the Fentons’ soiree. Lord Wexham, at your service.”

So he was titled. Of course he was. The name surfaced from Clarissa’s endless chatter: Lord Wexham, a viscount with a reputation for charm and a fortune that was rumored to be as thin as his patience.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall,” Eleanor said.

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I was across the room, watching the Duke of Ashworth fail to hide his fascination with you.” Wexham’s smile deepened. “A rare sight, I assure you. But that is not why I stopped you.”

Eleanor’s pulse quickened. “Oh?”

“I happened to be visiting my own solicitor in the neighboring office when I saw you enter Whitmore & Sons.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I also happen to know the state of your father’s accounts. Forgive my bluntness, but you look like a woman who has just learned an uncomfortable truth.”

Everything in Eleanor screamed to walk away, to dismiss this oily stranger with a cutting remark. But the numbers were still echoing in her head. The nothing that was left.

“What do you want, Lord Wexham?”

He seemed pleased by her directness. “Your father owed me a debt. Personal. Unofficial. One thousand pounds, to be precise.”

Eleanor’s stomach dropped. “My father never mentioned such a debt.”

“Your father mentioned many things to many people. He was a man who kept secrets.” Wexham’s eyes glittered. “I am not an ungenerous man, Miss Wentworth. I do not wish to see you ruined. Word of your reduced circumstances would, I imagine, considerably diminish your prospects for the Season. The marriage market is a cruel place for a woman without a fortune.”

She wanted to slap him. Instead, she kept her voice steady. “What is it you propose?”

“I have no desire to call in the debt publicly,” Wexham said. “But I find myself in need of a favor. There is a letter in the possession of a moneylender in Cheapside—a man named Silas Grubb. The letter was entrusted to him some years ago by your father. It is of no value to anyone but me, and I would very much like it back.”

“And you cannot retrieve it yourself?”

“Grubb is a suspicious fellow. He does not trust titled gentlemen, and he has refused my offers to purchase the document. But a young lady? Particularly one whose father was the man who left the letter with him?” Wexham shrugged. “He might be persuaded to release it to you.”

Eleanor felt the trap closing around her, smooth as silk and just as strong. “And if I agree, you will keep silent about my father’s debt?”

“I will consider it paid in full. You will owe me nothing, and I will speak of this conversation to no one. Your reputation—and your fortune, such as it is—will remain a matter of your own choosing.”

She studied him. There was something in his manner that did not sit right—a slickness, a too-eager shine. But what choice did she have? She could barely afford a new gown on the sum Whitmore had quoted. If her aunt learned how diminished her prospects truly were, Eleanor would be packed off home by Easter.

“What is in this letter?” she asked.

“A matter of personal significance. Nothing criminal, I assure you.”

“And this moneylender—he will simply hand over a letter to a stranger?”

Wexham’s smile widened. “I told him to expect you. I mentioned that his old client’s daughter might call on him.” He withdrew a card from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hand. “The address. Go today, if you can. The sooner the letter is retrieved, the sooner we are both free of this matter.”

Eleanor looked down at the card. Cheapside. Not a long ride, but a world away from Mayfair society.

“I will consider it,” she said.

“Do not consider too long,” Wexham said lightly. “Silas Grubb is not a patient man, and I have other means of securing what I want. I would simply prefer to settle this quietly.” He tipped his hat, the picture of gentlemanly grace. “A pleasure, Miss Wentworth. I look forward to our next meeting.”

He was gone before she could respond, disappearing into the flow of foot traffic like a fish into murky water.

Eleanor stood frozen on the pavement, the card clutched in her gloved hand. One thousand pounds. A letter. A moneylender in Cheapside. And a duke who was already too curious about her mind.

She thought of Mr. Ellery, of the column that was even now making its way through the postal system to the offices of the *Financial Chronicle*. She thought of the fortune that was supposed to protect her, now reduced to dust in her hands.

Perhaps it was time to take her own advice.

*Trust no one with your future,* her mother had said.

Eleanor tucked the card into her reticule and hailed a hackney.

She had a moneylender to visit, and a disguise to prepare.