Chapter 4: So… We’re Broke? (rewrited)

"So, we're going bankrupt?"

Barron Cavendish, the freshly minted Duke of Devonshire, leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he stared at the financial statements in front of him. Numbers had never looked this threatening before.

"Not… exactly," Julia Moore, the Cavendish family trust administrator, replied with the kind of forced optimism one uses when trying to convince a toddler that vegetables taste good. "But if we don't recover our investments in London Star, we may need to sell off most of our assets to repay the bank loans. And then…"

"And then what?" Barron raised an eyebrow.

"Well, let's just say your chances of keeping Chatsworth Manor are about the same as England winning the World Cup anytime soon."

The reality of his predicament hit him harder than a poorly aimed cricket bat. Not only had his father and brother left this world in an unfortunate car accident, but they'd also left behind a financial disaster so monumental that even the Titanic might look at it and say, "Wow, that's rough."

To truly appreciate the mess Barron was in, one had to understand how his grandmother—Deborah Cavendish, the 11th Duchess—had managed to keep the family afloat after World War II.

In those days, noble families were dropping like flies, unable to maintain their massive estates. The solution? Open the doors, charge people to gawk at their fancy houses, and pretend this was always the plan.

Chatsworth House, the Cavendish family's crown jewel, was one such estate. It spanned 35,000 acres—seven times the size of Highclere Castle, the real-life inspiration for Downton Abbey. It had been a source of steady income, thanks to tourists, event rentals, and the occasional film crew looking for the perfect setting for a period drama.

Yet, despite all that effort, the family's financial situation remained about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane.

Barron sighed. "Let me guess—despite all the history, land, and titles, we're still bleeding money?"

Julia cleared her throat. "That's one way to put it, yes."

Barron could have handled a slow financial decline. He could have adjusted to tightening the budget. Maybe switched from fine wine to regular wine. But no, his late father had gone for the financial equivalent of setting his money on fire.

Enter London Star, an "investment opportunity" that promised astronomical returns—because apparently, no one had ever told the 12th Duke of Devonshire that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

At first, his father had been cautious, investing just a little. But Ponzi schemes are designed to reel you in, showing early investors huge returns funded by new suckers—uh, investors. Encouraged by those initial profits, his father had gone all in, even mortgaging family assets to invest even more.

And then, like a magic trick, the money vanished.

A month ago, London Star stopped paying out. Investors panicked, withdrawals were frozen, and—surprise!—it was all a scam. Just as his father was scrambling to fix things, the fatal car accident happened, leaving Barron with a financial time bomb set to explode any day now.

Barron exhaled slowly. "So, what you're telling me is… we might lose Chatsworth House, and I might be the first Duke of Devonshire in history to be evicted from his own ancestral home?"

Julia nodded. "More or less."

"Fantastic. I always wanted to be a part of history. Just didn't think it would be under most embarrassing noble disasters."

To make matters worse, most of the family's properties—Chatsworth included—had already been used as collateral. If the bank came knocking and Barron couldn't pay up, he'd be left with nothing but the title of "Duke" and an amusingly tragic Wikipedia page.

No way in hell was he going to let that happen.

"Ms. Moore," Barron said, sitting up straighter. "I need a full breakdown of our assets—everything mortgaged, everything still owned outright, and anything that can be sold without causing a scandal."

Julia nodded. "I'll have it ready for you."

He turned to the family's longtime butler, Sean, who looked like he was suppressing the urge to say something.

"Sean? You look like you have something on your mind. Spit it out."

The butler hesitated, then sighed. "Master Barron, I understand that selling off some properties is a last resort, but…"

"But what?"

Sean cleared his throat. "You do realize that some of the more… colorful members of the Cavendish family in the past have, uh, dealt with financial troubles in unconventional ways, yes?"

Barron frowned. "What are you implying?"

"Well, your great-great-uncle tried to solve his money problems by marrying a wealthy American heiress. Your great-grandfather attempted to invest in racehorses. And your grandfather once tried to… how do I put this delicately? Start a luxury potato farming business."

Barron blinked. "Luxury potato farming?"

Sean sighed. "It was exactly as ridiculous as it sounds."

Barron groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Right. So what you're saying is, I come from a long line of people who thought they were financial geniuses but were actually just… bad decision-makers with expensive hobbies?"

"That would be an accurate assessment, yes."

Barron sighed. "Well, that ends with me. No heiress-hunting, no racehorses, and definitely no designer potatoes."

Sean coughed. "If it helps, sir, at least you're aware of the issue. That's already better than most of your ancestors."

"Great," Barron muttered. "I'll put that on my tombstone—Barron Cavendish: Slightly Less Financially Incompetent Than His Ancestors."

But in all seriousness, he needed a plan. Selling off assets wasn't ideal, but if he played his cards right, he might be able to salvage enough to keep Chatsworth running.

The real question was—how the hell was he going to come up with 35 million pounds before the bank came knocking?

One thing was certain: if he was going to save the Cavendish family, he'd have to get creative. And for the first time in his life, not in a way that involved expensive champagne and a nightclub.