Nick cleared his throat and then rubbed a hand along the edge of his jaw. It was a tic Rhys had observed many times in the Den. The gesture was the same he used when he was loath to tell an inventor that none of them wished to invest in his or her device.
“Out with it,” Rhys barked, too exhausted for delicacy.
“Carthorpe did not receive our full investment,” Iverson told him in a firm voice. Then he paused and cleared his throat. Rhys could virtually see whatever else he wished to say lodged in the man’s throat.
Iverson dipped his head and flicked back his suit coat to place a hand on each hip. When he finally looked up, his eyes were filled with what Rhys thought looked a great deal like regret.
“Your bank reported that the amount you promised could not be fulfilled.”
“That’s not possible,” Rhys scoffed. The air rushed out of him in another bluster of denial.
The claim was absurd.
He wasn’t in daily contact with his banker and had no real notion of the balance in each of his accounts, but that was precisely the point. His funds on hand had always been so healthy that he’d never worried about paying an invoice or offering his money to an inventor in the hopes of getting a generous return.
“Your bank hasn’t contacted you about this matter?” Tremayne asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Rhys stared at Nick but in his mind’s eye he saw the stack of unopened letters he nudged aside every time he sat at the desk in his study. “The post has piled up in the last few weeks.” Letters, invitations, and notes of condolences had arrived in a flurry after his father’s death. He’d struggled through reading a couple before allowing them to accumulate.
“Avoiding your post? Forgetting the commencement of your sister’s studies. Unaware of your finances.” Iverson’s usually calm voice ebbed toward concern. “Is something amiss, Claremont?”
Every damned thing, apparently.
“How could it be?” Rhys forced a rusty chuckle and shrugged his shoulders, wishing he could dislodge the tightness that had taken root there. “I’ve inherited a dukedom.”
“And yet you remain here in London,” Iverson pointed out unhelpfully. “Have you returned to Essex at all since your father’s funeral?”
Mention of the funeral made Rhys long for another finger of whiskey, but Iverson stood like an enormous red-haired oak tree blocking his path to the cart.
The funeral had been as bleak as any event Rhys had ever attended. The duke had isolated himself in his later years and those who’d come to see him laid to rest had done so out of duty rather than affection. Guilt weighed heavy on Rhys. He too had been among the dutiful, rather than those who’d felt any warmth toward the old man. Only Meg had cried genuine tears for their father.
It hadn’t always been that way. Once upon a time, Rhys had looked up to Tarquin, Duke of Claremont. Idolized him. He recalled the duke’s visits to the nursery, the occasional encouraging pat on the head, and how his father often gifted books for Rhys to read.
That was where it had all gone wrong. As soon as his struggles with learning became evident, his father lost interest. A duke’s son who couldn’t read properly? Unthinkable.
“Enderley was a shambles when I inherited,” Nick admitted in a tone that was far more sympathetic than pitying. “What is the state of Edgecombe?”
Rhys hated admitting that he hardly knew. Without his mother and sister to brighten its halls, the old estate had all the charm of a mausoleum. He’d stayed in a guest room the single time he’d visited and departed as soon as he was able.
But thinking back to his conversation with the estate’s staff, Rhys was beginning to form a theory. “There were debts attached to the estate.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair before looking at each of his friends in turn. Fortunate, he may be, but he knew his faults. Even admitted them once in a while. To himself, if no one else. He had a tendency toward irresponsibility and a refusal to be anything but the feckless nobleman others expected him to be, which left very little room for anything he truly wished to be.
Disappointing the friends who’d stood by him when others in polite society called him a ne’er-do-well and a cad? That was a fresh low.
“I directed the steward to contact my bank and see to any financial obligations my father had yet to meet.”
Nick’s dark brows arced up. “How steep were the debts?”
Rhys turned to Nick, intending to offer one of his charming smiles. His typical devil-may-care reassurance that all was well in hand. But the muscles of his face rebelled.
Weariness washed over him and honesty was the only thing that took no effort. “Apparently mountainous.”
Nick let out a heavy sigh.
“Is there more?” Rhys had known the two men long enough to sense there was a great deal Tremayne and Iverson were leaving unspoken.
“You agreed to fund two other inventors after Carthorpe,” Nick said. “They’ve received nothing yet, but Iverson and I can see to your share between us.”
Rhys tried to concoct reasonable excuses, rationales for why his accounts had been drained and he’d somehow been too busy to notice. But they knew his reputation. His ducal town house was such a mess from the last party, he’d been forced to host this one at Lyon’s.
They deserved more than justifications.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. The words were unfamiliar and felt misshapen on his tongue.
He lifted his head. Both men deserved more than a simple apology. All of society knew he was a man who sought recreation rather than rectitude every day of his life, but perhaps it was time to stop playing a role and assume the responsibilities he’d become so good at outrunning.
Casting a glance at Tremayne, he caught his own reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes. His hair wasn’t its usual artful tumble. It was downright disheveled. And the snow-white collar of his shirt was dotted with blood.
Iverson took two steps closer and surprised Rhys by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever’s troubling you, we wish to help.”
It was tempting to confess the truth to both of them. But if his father had taught him anything, it was to never admit weakness.
Sensing his friends’ stares, Rhys wielded the familiar skill of scoffing at whatever challenge came his way.
“If you’re any example,” he told Tremayne, “a man can become a decent duke in a matter of weeks.”
The smile came slowly, inch by inch, but eventually softened Tremayne’s grim expression. “I became a duke as you did. Unexpectedly and long before I was prepared to assume any such responsibility. Embracing duty didn’t come easily. I credit my wife with whatever decency I’ve managed.”
“Having known you for years before you met her,” Iverson quipped, “I agree she deserves a great deal of credit.” He turned a sardonic look Rhys’s way. “I suppose you’ll be needing a wife soon yourself. Any likely prospects in the countryside?”
An image filled Rhys’s mind, a memory so sharp, he felt a stab of pain under his ribs.
Auburn curls, green-gold eyes, a contagious laugh, and a smile that came rarely with others but easily with him. She would be there when he returned to Essex, but Miss Arabella Prescott would have no smiles for him anymore.