“I took the liberty of showing her into the morning room.” “A person has called, my lord.” The butler fairly radiated distress. This pleasant train of thought was interrupted by the sound of an apologetic cough coming from the doorway. But now Alistair de Lacey, eighth Marquess of Pembroke, could add financial solvency to the list of qualities that made him the model of propriety. Not long ago this very library was besieged by a steady stream of his late father’s creditors and mistresses and assorted other disgraceful hangers-on, all demanding a piece of the badly picked-over pie. Here it was, plain numerical proof that the marquessate had-finally-more money coming in than it had going out. He would never tire of seeing the numbers do what he wanted them to do, what they ought to do out of sheer decency and moral fortitude. This was what respectability looked like: a ledger filled with black ink, maintained by a servant whose wages had been paid on time. Announcement to A Gentleman Never Keeps ScoreĪlistair ran his finger once more along the neatly penned column of sums his secretary had left on his desk.
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