How to Train Your Viscount

Chapter 3-2

Henry’s reverie was interrupted by a sharp voice behind him.

“Did Thomas Hope show you his new Eye of Ra?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Father,” Henry said, standing. “I would not say precisely that he showed it to me.” When he asked Mr. Hope for permission to view it, the man had refused, blathering on about his intention to show his Egyptian Room only once the decorations were complete. Not that Henry was the type to let that deter him, hence his sneaking around in the dark. “But,” he continued, “I managed to have a look at it, nonetheless. I’ve been admiring your new acquisition. Dare I ask how much you paid for the Arse of Anubis?”

His father sat behind the desk, glaring down his nose. “Why must you always be so crass? Returning to Thomas Hope’s Eye of Ra—what did it look like?”

Henry sank into his chair. “It’s made of faience porcelain, around this size,” he said, holding up his pocket watch for comparison.

“What color of faience?”

“The usual turquoise.”

“Did it have any other materials? Any gold inlay?”

Henry paused, thinking. “There was no gold. It had a dark stone for the eye—onyx, perhaps. It was a very standard Eye of Ra amulet, nothing special. I would wager you’ve seen dozens like it over the years.”

His father’s shoulders slumped. “I see. Well, thank you for going to investigate.”

“You seem rather curious about Thomas Hope’s antiquities. May I ask why you didn’t attend the dinner yourself? Mother mentioned that you received an invitation.”

His father snorted. “I will have nothing to do with Thomas Hope. Not after what he said about my collection.”

Henry suppressed a groan. Not this again. “Father, have you considered that you might be overreacting—”

“‘A few minor pieces,’ was how he characterized it!” the earl said, ignoring him. “I ask you, is there anything ‘minor’ about the sarcophagus of Mycerinus?”

“Indeed, there is not,” Henry said. “As it happens, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that. Do you really think the entryway the absolute best location for it?”

“For a man who knows nothing about antiquities, you have some strong opinions about where best to display them. First it was my canopic jars—”

“You had them in the dining room, Father!”

“I still do not see anything wrong with that.”

“The purpose of canopic jars is to hold mummified entrails, a fact you were all too eager to explain to your dinner guests—”

“My antiquities are fascinating. People enjoy hearing about them.”

“Not while they’re trying to eat. Mother had to keep smelling salts in the sideboard. Those jars are much better off here in the library. But returning to the sarcophagus, do you not think having someone’s coffin in the foyer is a bit… macabre?”

His father shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but it conveys a powerful message. ‘Memento mori,’ as the ancients say. It means—”

“‘Remember that you will die.’ Are thoughts of their impending death the first ones we wish to inspire in our guests?”

“I’m surprised you even recognize the quotation.”

Henry sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. “I do have a basic grasp of Latin, Father.”

“Not of Greek, I’ll warrant,” the earl muttered.

Henry sighed. His father was not wrong. In defiance of his erudite father’s hopes, he had been an indifferent student at Eton, and even worse at Oxford. This wasn’t a distinction, as most noblemen made little effort at university, and few took a degree. Henry had spent his days then much as he spent them now—on horseback. Many fathers would be proud to have such a son, a true Corinthian, who hadn’t lost a horse race, in the saddle or at the whip, in more than five years.

Henry wasn’t a complete wastrel. To be sure, he liked a fast horse, a willing woman, a strong drink, and a game of cards as well as the next man. But he also had pursuits, serious ones. He had started a breeding stable at his family’s estate, and although he had only been at it for three years, he was already turning a modest profit.

But Henry’s activities were not the sort to impress his scholarly father.

“Well,” Henry said, “I think you should extend an olive branch to Mr. Hope. He is from Amsterdam. English is not his first language. He likely meant no offense. And given your common interests, I wager you would find much to discuss.”

His father huffed in response. Henry waited a few beats, then rose from his seat. “If that was all you wanted to speak to me about—”

“Sit down, son,” his father said. Henry complied. After a moment, his father muttered a curse and reached for the decanter on the credenza behind his desk. Henry’s eyebrows shot up. He had never seen his father indulge himself at—he glanced at the clock on the mantel—half two.

Henry took a small sip from the glass his father handed him; the earl downed half his drink in one swallow. “What I’m about to tell you,” his father said, “is not to be repeated to anybody. In particular, you are to say nothing to your mother.”

Oh, dear God. It was common enough for a nobleman to keep a mistress, not that Henry had ever found evidence of the earl doing so. But this was the last topic he wanted to discuss with his father.

“We’re experiencing some financial difficulties,” the earl said.

“We are?” Henry furrowed his brow. “That’s odd—I thought rents were up in Brighton.” His mother’s dowry had consisted of dozens of terrace houses in Brighton. Farming could go up and down, but in recent years, Brighton had boomed in popularity thanks to the patronage of the Prince of Wales, causing rents to rise and, with them, the Greville fortunes.

It had never even occurred to Henry to worry about money. His family was envied because not only was their income significant, it was stable. What on earth could have—

“The Brighton terraces are gone,” his father said.

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“I sold them.”

Henry’s entire body jerked, launching a cascade of brandy into the air, most of which rained down upon the Arse of Anubis. “You what?”

“Henry!” His father hurried around the desk and began sponging the statue clean with his handkerchief. “You must be more careful. This is a priceless piece from the tomb of Ptolemy—”

“Who cares? You sold the terraces? Why did you— When was this?”

“Four years ago.”

“Four years ago! What have we been living on?”

“Savings.” Giving Anubis’s left buttock one final swipe, his father returned to his seat. “But those have been used up, so the time has come to enact a new plan.”

It struck Henry that the time to enact a new plan had long passed. As this was not the type of sentiment a son was permitted to express to his father, he drew in a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. “I should say so. What necessitated the sale of the terrace houses?”

His father’s jaw locked. “I needed to buy a ship.”

“A ship? What on earth did you need a ship for?”

“To transport some, er, items.”

“But why buy a ship? Why could you not pay someone who owned a ship to transport them for you?”

“No one was running this route, due to the situation in the Mediterranean.”

Four years ago, the situation in the Mediterranean had been fraught indeed. All of Britain had waited with bated breath while Admiral Nelson combed the Mediterranean, searching for the French fleet that had disappeared without a trace. In August, he found them in Egypt, and the Battle of the Nile ensued. Henry had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. “The Mediterranean, you say. Where exactly in the Mediterranean were these ‘items’ coming from?”

The earl said nothing.

“Father?” Henry pressed.

“Egypt,” the earl snapped.

Henry sagged in his chair, disbelieving. “You sold the terraces. An asset that would have supported our family for generations. All for a few crumbling stones and dusty trinkets—”

“These were not crumbling stones and dusty trinkets! My agent in Cairo had found the most magnificent treasures—a painted cedarwood sarcophagus, several large statues, including a rare one of the winged goddess Isis, bejeweled scarabs, a sandstone obelisk covered with hieroglyphs—”

“All of which you already have! And none of which could possibly justify risking the estate.”

“I did not expect you to understand. You have no appreciation for art or history.”

Henry was only half attending, his mind scrambling for a solution. “The terraces are gone, but what about the assets you purchased? We can sell this ship, and—”

“It was captured. The captain was unsuccessful in running the French blockade.” His father shook his head. “All of my priceless treasures, in the hands of those bourgeoisie scum.”

Henry was unable to contain a hint of acid in his voice. “To say nothing of the men who lost their lives attempting to run the French blockade.”

“There’s no need to be melodramatic, Henry. The sailors were taken alive. I understand they were impressed into the French Navy.”

“So, they were forced to commit treason before dying in the Battle of the Nile. How reassuring.” Henry drew another deep breath. “I know the conversation will be difficult, but we’ve got to tell Mother.”

“She is not to know.”

“She needs to know. She deserves to. Those terraces were her dowry!”

His father’s look of derision was one he had seen many times over the years. It stung, as it always did. “Have you absorbed nothing I have tried to teach you about what it means to be a man?” The earl rose and began to pace the length of the library as he recited the speech Henry must have heard a hundred times. “A man is strong. A man is stoic. A man is steadfast.”

Henry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from adding his own s-word to the list: spendthrift.

The earl continued, “A man does not burden those around him by whining about his problems. And the last person he should complain to is his wife. Women are emotional.” His father accompanied this pronouncement with a scowl. “Emotions, needless to say, must be restrained at all times. A man must present a strong face to the world, never show any weakness. Besides, women lack the faculties of reason to do anything in the face of financial troubles. Telling your mother would have no effect but to cause her anguish.” His father settled back into his chair. “No, a man should bear his troubles stoically and leave his wife out of them.”

“But… is Mother not planning a rout? We need to economize. How can she do that if she doesn’t even know?”

“There is no need to economize.”

Henry blinked. “No need to economize? I thought we had run through our savings.”

His father made a dismissive gesture. “We can still throw the rout. Those are tradesmen’s bills. We can default on those. It’s not as though they are a debt of honor.”

An image sprang unbidden to Henry’s mind of his washerwoman, a stooped old woman named Mrs. Dakers who had all of four teeth. Although his valet, Gibson, tried to shoo her from Henry’s bachelor apartments whenever she came to deliver the wash, Mrs. Dakers was impervious to his hints and insisted on greeting her employer. Henry found Mrs. Dakers, and the distress she induced in his very proper valet, amusing. He always took a few minutes to converse with her. Last week, Mrs. Dakers had been uncharacteristically silent when she came to drop off his linen, causing Henry to set aside the letter he had been working on and ask what was wrong. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she informed him that she had the care of her four orphaned grandchildren. They lived together in a single room in Wapping, down by the Thames. Last week her youngest grandson had succumbed to a fever that had swept through the neighborhood, and there was no money for his burial. She had no choice but to keep the body in the room they all shared, while his siblings played on the floor beside the little coffin. Henry remembered how she had sobbed when he pressed three two-guinea coins into her hand, and how she had sobbed even harder when he handed her one of his clean handkerchiefs to blow her nose.

Henry could not see anything honorable in failing to pay Mrs. Dakers, or anyone else, simply because they were tradesmen.

“We can have an auction,” Henry said. “There is a great interest in all things Egyptian right now, due to the artifacts that were seized from Napoleon’s army. We will get a good price for your collection, and we can—”

“Henry!” His father looked affronted. “We will do no such thing. There’s no need to worry. I have a plan.”

Henry’s patience was fraying. He struggled to summon his last few shreds of filial piety. “Do you, Father? Because from what I can see, we are on the brink of disaster, and you have done nothing to remedy it. To the contrary, you went out and bought the Arse of Anubis! Well, please enlighten me—what is this plan of yours?”

“You need not know the details—”

“I most certainly do—”

“Why? You think you have something to add?” The earl snorted. “That’s rich. You. Who has the barest grasp of Latin, and no Greek. The man who didn’t attend a single lecture in four years at Oxford. What do you have to contribute?”

Henry bristled. “The fact that I do not read Sophocles for leisure is beside the point. What this situation requires is some common sense—”

“Which you are also lacking. I don’t think a single week went by when I didn’t get a letter from the headmaster at Eton, detailing your abominable misbehavior. First it was that goat—”

“I was twelve years old, Father. That has no bearing on the man I am today.”

“The man you are today divides his time between drinking, gambling, and womanizing. When was the last time you rose before noon?”

“This very morning. I was up before dawn.”

His father arched an eyebrow. “Really. What was the occasion?”

Henry sighed. “I had a horse race—”

“A horse race. Well, there is the mark of a man of letters.” His father shook his head. “No, Henry, you have no head for business. The planning will fall to me.”

Henry wanted to protest. Whatever his faults, he couldn’t possibly do worse than the man who had driven a profitable estate into ruin in order to buy a second sarcophagus.

But the truth was, Henry knew nothing about running an estate, about choosing investments, or about managing money. He knew these were topics he would need to learn someday. He had thought he had plenty of time.

Little did he know he was already too late.

He sighed. “Then why did you tell me this, Father?”

“Because I will need a small amount of assistance in order to enact my plan. Your going to Thomas Hope’s party last night was the first such task. There will be others in the coming days. I need you to perform them without fail.”

“I will do my best. So, what did Thomas Hope’s new amulet have to do with all of this?”

“You recall my little Egyptian box, the one in the shape of the Eye of Ra?”

“I recall it well.”

“It is… no longer in my possession. I have reason to believe it has been stolen.”

The box was made of dark blue faience, an early form of porcelain, with gold inlay outlining the Eye of Ra and a touch of ivory for the white of the eye. The workmanship was exquisite and the condition of the box remarkable. It did not look anywhere close to its age. It was one of the most valuable pieces in his father’s collection, worth more perhaps than even the alabaster sarcophagus that graced the entryway.

“That is bad news indeed,” Henry said.

“There is more. I had to take out a loan to get us through recent months. For five thousand pounds. I offered the box as security on the loan.”

Henry leaned forward, tightness building in his chest. “And who is the holder of this loan?”

His father fell silent for a moment, then said, “Suffice to say, it is a debt of honor. This loan must be repaid. And it is due in two weeks.”

Henry sagged back in his chair. “So, what you’re saying is, we have two weeks to either recover your Eye of Ra box or come up with five thousand pounds, or we will be well and truly ruined.”

“Precisely.”

“Have we run through the full five thousand?”

“No, there’s a bit left. But it won’t last long.” His father cleared his throat. “I would expect that those who stole my box will be looking to sell. So, if you should hear anything about a newly acquired cosmetics box, or anything about the Eye of Ra—”

“Look into it. I understand.”

“Phillip, there you are,” a feminine voice trilled from the doorway.

Henry rose and forced a smile to his lips. “Good afternoon, Mother.” He bent to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Henry! I didn’t realize you were here. What a treat.” She turned to his father, who had risen from his position behind the desk and was making for the door. “Did you find the missing invoice I mentioned, Phillip? The one from the vintner?”

“I did not,” the earl replied.

The countess wrung her hands. “Shall I send a footman ’round to Clarke and Sons to request another copy?”

The earl was already halfway out the door. “No, no, I’ll take care of it.”

“But my rout is the week after next, and—” She sighed, watching her husband retreat down the hall. “Oh, bother.”

“What is it, Mother?” Henry asked.

The countess rubbed her forehead. “Oh… there’s been some sort of mix-up with the vintner. A missing bill that has gone unpaid. I’ve explained that it’s a simple mistake, but they are refusing to send us any wine. And with my rout coming up, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Henry did his best to maintain a neutral expression, but inside he was groaning. It would appear that his father’s plan to save money by defaulting on tradesmen’s bills was already in effect.

And now his poor mother was about to be humiliated before the haute ton.

He dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of bank notes. “I happen to have won a horse race this morning,” he explained, handing them to his mother. “Will this cover it?”

She flipped through the notes. “Oh, yes—the amount is nowhere near fifty pounds,” she said, trying to hand a few of the notes back.

He curled his mother’s fingers around them. “Why don’t you keep them? Just in case. That way you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

She beamed up at him. “Thank you, Henry. You are the best son in the whole entire world.”

It was nice that one of his parents thought so, Henry mused as he stepped outside. He found he was in no mood to stand amongst his father’s antiquities while he waited for his phaeton to be brought around. He glanced at the elegant townhouses lining Hanover Square. He had grown up without a doubt in his mind that he belonged in this world. He was rich, and he was titled, which meant that he was envied by most everyone he met. He had never once questioned his worth, until now. He had not realized that his familial wealth played such a significant role in his identity until it was gone.

But as soon as it became public knowledge that the Greville family didn’t have a farthing to their name, he wouldn’t be that envied young man any longer. In an instant he would become the man everyone laughed at behind his back, the one matchmaking mamas steered their daughters away from, the one whose company was no longer welcome. And as furious as he was with his father, Henry felt every bit as angry with himself. He should have taken more of an interest in the estate. If he had, not only would he have some idea how to fix their current problems, but he might have noticed them years ago, when there was still a chance to get things back on course.

Instead, he had been playing cards and racing horses. He was worse than useless.

If he wasn’t the young man he had thought he was, the rich future earl without a care in the world, then who was he?

Henry had no idea. But it appeared he had two weeks to figure it out.