A False Proposal by Pam Mingle

would.”
    “Didn’t you receive my message?”
    “Yes, but I still doubted.”
    Adam’s eyes were gradually growing accustomed to the dark, and what he saw before him shocked him even more than the condition of the grounds and house. His father looked haggard, and far older than his sixty-two years. Greasy hair hung in limp clumps, framing a face lined with the effects of debauchery and drink. Was he ill? Gout? Liver disease, to which heavy drinkers so often succumbed? Even worse, he might have the French pox.
    “Don’t just stand there, boy. Be seated.” He waved at a chair, and Adam gratefully sank onto it.
    “A brandy?”
    Sighing with relief, Adam nodded. Brandy was the only thing that might get him through this. “Please.”
    His father rose, allowing his son to study him further. Slightly stooped, he moved slowly toward a table laid with all manner of decanters, bottles, and glasses and poured them both a drink. After handing Adam his glass, he remained standing and raised his own drink. “To your return,” he said, reaching out to clink his glass with Adam’s.
    Adam rose for the toast, but made no response.
    “Sit, sit,” the old man growled. You must be wondering why I asked for this visit. How many years has it been?”
    Adam slowly reclaimed his chair. “I don’t know. Between the war and my European tour, at least four or five, maybe more.”
    “Since it will serve neither of us well to waste time, I’ll get right to the point. It seems, due to some of my more egregious habits, I’m on the verge of ruin. Much as it galls me to ask you, I need your help.”
    “What’s brought you to this pass, Father?”
    A staccato laugh burst out. “Gambling debts. What else?”
    Jesus. Hugh had been right . “How bad is it?”
    The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I was facing ruin! Are you blind? Haven’t you taken it all in? There’s no money left. I’ve let most of the servants go, except Wesley, Albert, and Mrs. Godwin. A man has to eat.”
    Mrs. Godwin, the cook, must be in dire straits if she’d stayed on after the other female servants had departed. And Albert, his father’s valet, was doubling as a groom and God knew what else.
    “What about Hugh?”
    “Hugh does what he can, but he’s as penniless as I.”
    “Yet you sent him to London for the season. To find a woman of means, I take it?”
    “Precisely.”
    With a scowl, Adam said, “What are the chances of that? With your—and his—reputation, who would accept him, especially once word gets out about the state of your finances?”
    “Chances are slim, but we had to try. There are desperate women out there. Desperate women with fortunes.”
    Adam shuddered. The idea of his brother preying on innocent young girls whose fathers simply wished to be rid of them sickened him. “I don’t know how I can be of help, Father. I’ve little incentive to pay your debts.”
    The elder Grey tossed back the rest of his brandy and leaned forward, his piercing eyes pinning Adam to his chair. “I have a proposition for you.”
    Adam stared back at him for a long moment. “Let’s hear it, then,” he said, reasonably certain he would come to regret those words.
    “The man who holds my vowels and mortgages, Sir William Broxton, has a daughter he wants to marry off. You’re his choice. He’ll forgive my debt if you marry the chit.”
    With a sinking feeling, Adam realized his father was speaking of the very man crucial to his chances of becoming an MP. But he wasn’t about to agree to a marriage for a seat in Parliament. “Impossible.” Adam considered a moment. “You want Hugh to marry. Let him have her.”
    “Sir William wants you, the military hero.”
    “I’m no hero, sir.” Adam detested the label. “And I can’t imagine why he would want his daughter to marry into this family.”
    “Her name’s Eleanor. A pretty little piece.”
    A memory came rushing in. A yellow-haired little girl who had sometimes accompanied her