He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“Quite right.” With another deep breath, she reined in her temper once again. “Why don’t you explain what harebrained, foolhardy plan you have in mind, and then we might discuss it.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” He twitched a hand to the bedside table. “You are to take that letter to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and she will handle the rest.”
Christiana eyed the letter with suspicion. Her father’s arthritis had been bad enough over the past few years that she had written most of his letters while he’d dictated—and, taking advantage of what little power she had, she’d written several of her own in his name.
She could not recall writing this one. Which could only mean he had no intention of letting her see its contents.
Then her mind latched on to the other thing he had said.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” she demanded.
“Yes. The direction is on the letter, as you see.” He made another feeble gesture, but Christiana made no move to take the letter from him. She already knew the address, though it had been many years since she had last attended the exclusiveclub. When she and her friend Laura had been at school in London, they had sneaked out, making their way illicitly to the establishment, where Laura had flirted her way through the bachelors of London and Christiana had won herself small fortunes.
But for her father to have been there?
She knew firsthand what sort of riches were won and lost at the tables. And if he owed Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then she could only imagine in what form payment would take.
Consideringshewas delivering the letter, she had a sneaking suspicion: her.
“Father,” she tried. “Surely, you cannot expect to sell me off as part of your debts.”
His eyes glinted. “What use are you to me here, eh, girl? I don’t need some mopey daughter hanging off my coattails. No, the sooner you’re gone and dealt with, the better. Easiest way of getting you married I ever found.”
“And do you know,” she said, her voice icy, “to whom I am now betrothed?”
“Fancy it don’t matter, so long as you do it legal and by the book, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon wipes off everything I owe her. Saves me piecing off the land, saves me trying to convince some gentleman to take you off my hands, and everything is sorted all right and tight.” He nodded, evidently proud of himself for having engineered such an ingenious solution.
Christiana closed her eyes, gripping her skirts. Perhaps shecouldlose her temper, after all. “I am not chattel to be sold at will.”
“No, you’re my daughter, and you will marry.”
“I’m of an age to refuse.”
“What use is your majority when you don’t have a penny to live by? What did you think would happen to you, hm?” Hepointed one gnarled finger at her. “Did you think you would live off my generosity for the remainder of my days?”
No. Simply put, she had expected him to die from his excesses in the not-too-distant future, and to inherit what little he owned. For the past five years, she had taken the lead in managing the estate. Once she held the purse strings, she had several ideas that would improve matters, both for her tenants and herself. Vital repairs that must be made, changes to what they would do to the land. Before her father’s time, there had been a brewery; she had thoughts of restoring the buildings and investing in it once again.
Of course, for that, she would need money, but she had imitated her father often enough to investors that she suspected she could pull it off. All she needed was the freedom with which to enact her plans.
And now her father, the same father who’d had the audacity not to die despite the severity of the stroke that had paralyzed him, was attempting to turn her into some simpering wife?
She had seen the caliber of gentlemen who had visited the Lyon’s Den, both to win and lose fortunes and to strike deals with the shrewd, calculating Mrs. Dove-Lyon. If she were to be married to one of them, her life would be just as miserable as it had been here.
“No,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “Pardon me?”
“I saidno.”
“You are my daughter!” He slammed a hand down on the blankets. “You will do as I say, as is your daughterly duty.”
Anger squeezed her chest. “And what of your fatherly duty? When was the last time you provided for me?”
“I let you live here. I fill your plate with my food. But that ends here, my girl, mark my words.” His face reddened, eyes bulging as he glowered at her. “This is not a negotiation.”
She exhaled slowly. “No,” she repeated before leaving the room, ignoring the letter he waved at her.