Linley’s father raked his hands through his white hair. “So you’ll take her? You will take my only child from me?”
“Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? I do not want to come between you. I merely want to come along.” Patrick pushed off from the cool wall, straightening himself for the importance of what he planned to propose. “What would it take? How much for me to come along?” He waited for an answer, but Bedford only stared. “I am willing to invest a considerable sum of money in your endeavors. All I ask in return is a chance to join your team once or twice per year, wherever you may be, with as little fuss as possible.” Though Bedford still said nothing, Patrick could see the old man’s resistance breaking down—Bedford loved his daughter, but money was an unfortunate necessity. And in these troubled times, such offers of funding were rather hard to come by. No one would blame him for considering such a proposition, and deep down they both knew Patrick wouldn’t be leaving Linley’s side no matter how much money changed hands.
Best to seal the deal now, so everyone could walk away a winner.
He looked Bedford square in the eye, took a deep breath, and said, “How does thirty thousand pounds sound?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Patrick hoped his plan did not come back to bite him. He had no doubt Linley would be thrilled at the possibility of spending more time with him, but did he really just toss away thirty thousand on the off chance she wouldn’t give him the chuck sooner or later? Christ, he sold his family’s house in Park Lane! It was worth a fortune even when he wasn’t in dire straights. He needed the money. He did not need to spend it on some silly expeditions. Patrick could think of a thousand better uses for that money, and none of them involved following Linley Talbot-Martin around the world.
There went his fallback plan for never getting married. Now he would have to, once this fling with Linley ran its course.
Patrick rubbed his eyes hard, pushing the idea of selling himself for a wife’s dowry out of his mind. But try as he might, Gaynor Robeson’s twenty-five thousand looked pretty good at that moment. Better than the workhouse, where he would end up if he wasn’t careful.
If he had to, he could strip Wolford Abbey of its valuable works of art, perhaps sell of some of the family’s jewels. The emeralds would fetch a nice price. He would save the diamonds until the very last.
How was he, the last living son of one of the most respected peers of England, reduced to selling off trinkets and prostituting himself in marriage? Everyone assumed he was broke, now this proved it.
Poverty was Patrick’s worst fear. That’s why he spent so much to improve the lives of his tenants in Kyre. That’s why he donated what he could to charities that actually mattered—the ones for the poor, the sick, and the orphaned. For the people who weren’t blessed with the things he’d been blessed with.
All in all, Patrick was fortunate. Although he had little ready money, the estate earned enough for him to live comfortably—a few hunts a year, new suits from his tailor every spring. He drove a Rolls-Royce, even though he sold off all his family’s old motorcars to get it. He did not know what it meant to go hungry.
Did Linley? From what Patrick saw, she survived off tinned sardines and hard bread. She wore cheap clothes from a cheap dressmaker, or even bought them ready-made. She would probably never own a motor in her entire life. And what would become of her when her precious father died?
She certainly couldn’t marry, thanks to him.
Maybe Archie, or Reginald, or if she was lucky, Schoville might take her. Whichever one of them could stomach used goods. And Linley would have to endure it all because Patrick couldn’t keep his trousers up.
She would benefit from his thirty thousand pounds more than he could.
If Patrick had to resign himself to marrying Gaynor Robeson, then so be it. There were worse sacrifices in life—especially those Linley would have to make to survive without an honorable man’s protection.
***
Days passed and Linley felt no better. In truth, she was getting worse. Everyone knew it, but no one had the heart to mention it. At least not to her face. The headache and fatigue she experienced for the past few weeks could no longer be blamed on the heat, or the dampness, or even the endless walking. The nausea and stomach pain weren’t due to her monthly, which came and went as usual.
To put it bluntly, Linley was sick. Very sick.
By the end of that week, her fever had not subsided. She was violently ill most of the time, and although she could not get out of bed to be certain, she felt like she’d lost a considerable amount of weight. Her rash spread down her torso. Sometimes her nose bled, and she didn’t know why.
What if there was something wrong with her brain? That would explain the bleeding and the headaches. Maybe even the fever, too.
Brain sickness.