Silas Anson, the eighth Earl of Lichfield, glared across the vast, disorderly expanse of what he’d recently come to view as his desk, not the unfamiliar, cluttered stretch of flat surface that had once belonged to his father.

A man he barely remembered and could not conjure in his mind.

On the receiving end of Silas’s scowl was none other than Mr. Horace Peabody, Esquire.

The solicitor had also come with the Lichfield title and estate.

Though Silas silently debated which was of lesser value to him: his non-existent heritance or his father’s trusted advisor.

“You are telling me—“ Silas clamped his mouth shut, pondering and discarding his next statement as overly crass and unwarranted, no matter the validity of it. “You are telling me I was summoned back to England, ripped from my home in France, to inherit a title and estate so entrenched in debt that ruination can only be staved off for a month’s time?”

Mr. Peabody, who surprisingly in no way resembled a pea of any sort, stared mutely at Silas from behind his rounded spectacles, his hands clenched on the stack of folders in his lap. Did the man realize how cliché he appeared? Glasses, ink-stained fingers, nerves so frazzled he shook, and the piles of paperwork. Lord above, the man had arrived with an entire forest’s worth of the stuff. One could only imagine the mines exploited to collect the graphite needed to scribble all the nonsense that’d been presented to Silas.

And the solicitor had appeared anxious since his arrival.

“This plan you’ve so graciously detailed for me is the only viable option you have been able to ascertain for rescuing the Lichfield name?” Silas needed to hear Peabody verbalize his recommended course one last time; but the solicitor only nodded, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Silas wondered if he shouldn’t seek other counsel in this matter—and every matter to come. “My estate is bankrupt, the title worthless, and my only recourse—if I refuse to throw myself at the mercy of my mother’s family—is as outlined on this single sheet of paper?”

To further punctuate the absurdity of the situation, Silas retrieved the aforementioned document with its hastily written paragraph and held it high for Peabody to inspect.

“That is, indeed, my recommendation, my lord,” Peabody croaked, bowing his head.

If his father were not solidly in his grave, Silas would do away with the previous earl himself.

Bloody damnation, but Silas—along with his mother and siblings—had been content and otherwise entertained in Paris all these years. That was before he’d been unceremoniously summoned back to his father’s homeland to usurp a title he’d never thought to possess.

Silas slumped in his seat and scrubbed his face, attempting to gain some clarity on the situation—yet, it eluded him still.

His mother, Mary Louisa Anson, Lady Lichfield, had absconded from England over fifteen years prior, her three young children in tow, never to see her husband again. Edmond Anson hadn’t come looking for his family, hadn’t sent so much as a messenger to check on their whereabouts or safety, nor the authorities to return his offspring to their rightful place in England.

As the years passed and no one came for them, Silas and his siblings adjusted to life in France as their mother pursued her passion for art. He’d assumed his father had forged a new life and continued as if his twin sons and young daughter had never existed.

The solicitor perked up, a new spark of hope lighting his otherwise lackluster stare. “You can always reach out to Mrs. Hambly. I have heard she is a fair woman who loves her relations. Do not so readily cast her—and your other aunts—aside. Perhaps the Countess of Somerton will be willing to step in and assist—”

Silas snorted. Yes, he’d been regaled with tales of the formidable Regina, his mother’s sister, for years, and none of them spoke to her fair nature or love for her family, but rather to her need to be in control. “If my aunt cared a whit for her relations, she would have pursued my mother and offered assistance. Yet, my siblings and I lived on little more but stale bread and broth for years, residing above a butcher’s shop in an unsavory part of Paris.” Silas would not go into detail about the horrid conditions of his childhood—not with this man, at least. “No, that is not an option, at least not at this juncture.”

“My plan will only solve a fraction of your problems, my lord.” Peabody sighed, glancing toward the closed door of the study, his wide stare begging for any interruption as a means for escape. “And the solution itself is only temporary, at best.”

“How could my father allow his estate to fall into such shambles?” Silas mused, expecting no answer, for any retort would not satisfy him.

“Because he was heartbro—“ The solicitor’s words cut short, and he swallowed. The tall clock chimed four times, echoing through the cavernous corridors of Ditchley Hall. “If there is nothing else you require, I will see myself out and prepare to depart for London.”

Peabody stood, his lean, lanky body spoke of a man trapped behind a desk in a moldy room for over half his day, his pale skin in desperate need of sunlight.

Silas wanted the man gone, out of his office and away from Ditchley altogether. Away before word traveled to his siblings about the dire state of their affairs. Yet, that would not improve his family’s situation nor hold the creditors at bay for long.

“Sit.” His command reverberated off the walls and shook the windowpanes, sending a shiver down his spine. That was one positive of Ditchley Hall: his voice was a fearsome sound in every room. “I wish to speak further about my course for the next several months if I entertain your plan.”

Regaining his seat, the solicitor shuffled through his folders in search of something, likely the means to keep Silas’s wrath at bay a bit longer.

“An arranged marriage…”

“Yes, Lord Lichfield,” Peabody nodded. “My notion to rescue the estate—at least for the time being—and keep your name and that of your siblings from the gossip mills, is to secure a mutually beneficial match.”

“Mutually beneficial?” Silas had never envisioned himself wedded, especially after his parents’ disastrous match. The only ones to suffer were the children of Edmond and Mary Louisa Anson. “What have I to offer a woman with a healthy enough dowry to sustain Ditchley Hall and provide for my siblings’ immediate futures?”

Silas was speaking in questions once again, yet, when a man had no answers of consequence, all that was left was questions.

His entire life since fleeing England had been about finding answers…solutions to the many looming problems that plagued his family. When his mother had embraced her creative ways once across the Channel and neglected her children’s upbringing, it had been up to Silas to find the means to educate his siblings, Slade and Sybil. He’d spent countless hours at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, first teaching himself to read, and then returning to their meager flat with the tomes necessary to instruct his brother and sister.

“You have a generations-old—and might I add, respected—title with connections to far more powerful members of society.” Peabody recited the line as if he’d practiced it the entire journey from London. “That being said, I do not think it wise, or advantageous in your precarious position, to speak of the strained ties between you and your most notable relations.”

Silas fairly growled. “Do you think me foolish enough to begin every conversation with the scandalous details of my mother’s banishment?”

The solicitor’s gaze swung back to Silas, his brow furrowed. “Your mother—errr, Lady Lichfield—was not banished. Has never been spoken of in anything but the highest regard by my employer, I mean to say, the previous Lord Lichfield…your father.” Peabody held up a single finger as he riffled through his papers once more. “Ah, yes, here it is. Your father commissioned this letter in the event that your mother returned to England after his death. It states that in accordance with British law, she is, always has been, and will remain, Lady Lichfield. While you are the Lichfield heir, your mother is entitled to a hefty allowance and an estate, if she so chooses to accept it.”

Chooses to accept it.

Most peculiar phrasing, indeed.

“I’m assuming this has the stipulation that it is only enforceable after my father’s death.” The statement drew another uneasy glance from the solicitor, and bloody hell if Silas wasn’t remorseful over his lack of enthusiasm to review the piles of paperwork littering his desk. “Because there is no other reason my father would have allowed his family to live in squalor in Paris if there were funds and property set aside for my mother.”

The solicitor once again focused on the folder before him, flipping pages until he found what he searched for. He lowered his head further, his lips moving as he read. “There is no such clause, my lord.”

“Then why—” Silas stopped himself once more, knowing his fury would find no peace by harming the messenger. There was little use demanding to understand the inner workings of his late father. “Let us return to your original plan.”

“Very good, my lord.” The man’s head bobbed up and down, obviously aware he’d avoided Silas’s displeasure for the time being. “I have it all written down before you.”

“Yes, however, there seems to be one crucial flaw.”

“Oh?” the solicitor asked, leaning forward over his stack of papers to see the page on Silas’s desk. “What would that be?”

Silas snatched the document and held it before him. “It details my need to wed—and marry for a healthy dowry—however, it does not purport whom, precisely, I should espouse.” When the solicitor remained silent, he continued. “Being new to society, you should be well aware I am blissfully unaware of whom, exactly, has a sizeable dowry—and who will only bring increased hardship to the Lichfield name.”

“I would never seek to command you in whom to wed, my lord.”

Odd, as the man had sent numerous correspondences about what was needed to keep the earldom afloat for another quarter.

Silas massaged his temples as he eyed the solicitor.

Would anyone truly miss the incompetent man if he were not to make it back to London?

Yet, he must needs remember he was in England once more, not the uncivilized country of France—as most Englishmen were fond to classify those who chose to live across the Channel.

“By chance have you any suggestions for proper, financially well-endowed ladies I should seek to court?”

Peabody broke into a broad smile as if Silas had finally asked the exact question he’d been waiting to hear. “I happen to have a client who—”

“How very fortunate…”

“Yes, well, he is not actively seeking a marriage for his daughter but has sought my advice on several occasions in regards to finding a match for her.”

“Her worth?”

“Pardon?” Peabody said with a gulp.

“What is her worth? If I am to sell myself to the highest bidder, I would know the reward is sufficient to see me through for several years.” Silas would never entertain a union unless he reaped adequate benefits: funds enough to see his siblings accepted into society, and prestige to overshadow his mother’s estranged family. “Also, I suppose I should hear what you know of the girl.”

“Her dowry is sufficient if you adhere to my other advice on managing your estate and investing in appropriately modest ventures. The woman in question is the only daughter of a marquess—a wealthy and connected marquess. If you have aspirations for the House of Lords, he will be an admirable advocate.”

“I have never seen myself as a political man.”

“Then, perhaps, you will be more in line with her brother. He is an earl and quite the man about town. A confirmed rakehell with an untouchable reputation in business, and a propensity for the gaming tables.”

This earl seemed more suited as a friend for Slade, as opposed to an ally for Silas. “I would have the family name.”

“The Marquess and Marchioness of Blandford.” The solicitor again searched his paper, his finger running down the page until he found what he sought. “Their daughter, aged eighteen summers, is Lady Mallory Hughes.”

Silas only hoped the woman did not have a third eye—or worse, the facial hair of a man. Silas supposed the son of a flighty countess could not expect much on his return to England, and the advantages of the match certainly outweighed the negatives. He needed money and means to see him and his siblings settled among the ton. Things that his father hadn’t seen fit to provide.

“You will handle the paperwork?” Silas inquired, his brow rising in challenge.

“Without a doubt, my lord.” Peabody pushed to his feet again, clutching his folders to his narrow chest as the stack threatened to escape and cascade to the floor. “I will write him at once upon my return to London. I am certain he will entertain the match.”

Silas remained seated as Peabody scurried from the room. Odd a man of such height and thin frame could scurry, but that he did. With any luck, the solicitor would arrive in London and secure the proper paperwork within a fortnight.

The grandfather clock chimed once more—five loud gongs, echoing through the house, reminding Silas he was to meet his siblings in the grand hall for supper.