He forced a smile but a chill swept through him. Foreclosing on the Watsons was likely to end any friendship between them. Everyone would blame him and sympathize with the Watsons. No matter what he did, alliances would shift in the next few days as the news of his actions came to light. Regardless of how badly he wanted to find a solution, the problem wasn’t his to solve.
David stepped around her to pick up his bag. “Good night, Miss Watson.”
“Until tomorrow, Mr. Hawke. Sleep well.” She brushed her fingertips against his sleeve in a fleeting caress.
David, foolishly, wished he didn’t have to leave her company.
CHAPTER THREE
The door closed with a hollow thud behind David Hawke. Abigail lifted her hand to stare at the sealed, thick letter she’d snatched from the top of his travel bag. Stealing was wrong but her conscience warred with her sense of self-preservation. She couldn’t blindly stumble forward, waiting for the axe to fall. She knew it was only a matter of time before Hawke and Knight Bank of London called in the outstanding debt.
Her brother’s name had been scrawled across the front of the letter in David’s strong penmanship and her pulse raced as she ran her fingers over it. The heavy papers had a disquieting air of finality about them.
Although she had tried to prepare herself as best she could these past months, she appreciated that David, and not his business partner Mr. Knight, had come to deliver the bad news. David, their nearest neighbor since she was a child, had seemed sad to be in Brighton again rather than pleased and that spoke well of his character in her mind.
Abigail closed the parlor doors to ensure her privacy. Although Peter would be involved with his friends for hours yet, she didn’t want him to accidentally discover her interference. He would be cross and likely embarrassed to learn she’d discovered the situation on her own, but she’d long ago learned Peter wouldn’t willingly volunteer information. She had to take matters into her own hands, no matter how unpleasant.
Her hands trembled as she moved toward the candelabra on the pianoforte. She had little time to familiarize herself with the terms of David’s letter or make plans for the future. Peter would never think to do so.
The seal was thick and she broke it after a struggle. David’s, not his business partner’s, cover note was tersely worded. Her brother had thirty days to provide the bank with three thousand pounds or the bank would seize the Watson’s assets and that meant the house she stood in. They’d be cast out onto the street, and worse, Peter may have to enter debtor’s prison. She glanced around and tears filled her eyes. Abigail loved her parents’ house. She loved living in Brighton near her friends.
Her legs wobbled and she sank onto the pianoforte stool, raising the letter to fan herself. How could she bear to leave Cavendish Place? How could Peter have let this happen to them?
Oh, she wasn’t so foolish to have no idea. It wasn’t in Peter’s nature to think too far beyond the next day. She loved him but his pigheaded obstinacy drove her to distraction more often than not, which was why, at her friend’s urging she had taken a more active role in the running of his home. If left to him, they would have nothing to eat each night, no coal to burn during the winter. She had developed a sneaky habit of reading his letters just to find out what the next catastrophe would likely be.
She folded the letter carefully.
Hopefully, David would think he had merely misplaced the missive and she could return it without him noticing. She felt very bad for deceiving him in this way. He had always been kind to her, even willing to speak to a girl much younger than him in past years. But she was older now and not prone to patience.
A fierce blush swept over her cheeks and she fanned herself again. She had been forward in her speech with David tonight. Much more so than usual, yet he hadn’t grown colder with her. He had seemed puzzled.
Puzzled could be good. Puzzled could distract him from meeting with her brother and discussing the lack of payments. Abigail pressed a hand to her hot cheek and giggled. Who was she kidding? She had only momentarily startled the man with her bold suggestion that he needed a wife to take better care of him. David had a single-mindedness about him that had intimidated many of the local girls to cancel their plans to bring him up to scratch. He wouldn’t forget about the debt, or be swept away by the mere idea of finding a bride. Abigail had to think of something else, something to change her fate and her brother’s quickly.
She nibbled on her fingertip. They had nothing valuable enough to sell that could cover a debt of this scale. Although she peeked inside David’s bag to obtain the letter, she hadn’t the cold-blooded ruthlessness for a life of thievery, which left her precisely where she was now—reliant on Peter’s skills with cards. Where might a needy person in Brighton acquire funds at short notice?
There must be something she’d overlooked. Maybe if she talked the matter over with Peter they could find a solution together.
Immediately, Abigail shied away from that notion. Peter did not discuss anything with her. If she was going to avoid eviction in thirty days she needed to talk to a friend with a healthy dose of good sense. Luckily, Abigail had such a woman was close at hand.
She stuffed the letter into her pocket and snatched up her shawl. She could sneak from the house to visit Imogen George tonight without Peter being any the wiser. Her best friend’s house was next door, one house closer to the water, and she wouldn’t object to a visit at this hour.
Getting out of the house undetected by way of the rear door proved easy enough given the noise Peter and his friends made. The servants had all gone off to bed, and the walled gardens were dark and silent. But, just in case anyone was as restless as she, Abigail clung to the shadows and moved silently through the wilting vegetable patch.
The summer had been harsh and the scant grass crunched under her slippers. She quietly unlatched the rear garden gate and peered into the lane. Her heart raced, hoping no one lurked in the deep shadows. She quickly shut it behind her and then ran for the safety of Imogen’s rear garden. When she shut Imogen’s gate behind her, she pressed her hand to her belly to steady herself.
Perhaps she was getting too old to be sneaking out of the house alone. Imogen did it all the time. Somehow Abigail never seemed to manage it without her nerves being overcome. But she was desperate tonight. She needed sensible advice.
Striving to calm herself, she hurried to the George’s rear door and knocked. The housekeeper smiled kindly when she recognized Abigail and let her in. “Miss Imogen is in the front parlor as usual,” the woman said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Perkins.”
Abigail stepped through the dark house and stopped at the open parlor door, peering into the moonlit room. “Imogen?”
“Abigail!” Imogen exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’ve come. I’ve been worried sick all evening.”
“Why? What have I done now?”
Imogen clucked her tongue. “Oh, you know exactly what the problem is. I saw Mr. Hawke arrive. He stopped at your house first. Was it terrible?”