Chapter 12: A Royal Invitation and a Financial Nightmare (rewrited)

Barron Cavendish had received an invitation—no, a royal summons—from Her Majesty the Queen. Now, normally, getting called to Buckingham Palace was either an incredible honor or a terrifying ordeal, depending on the circumstances. Given his current predicament as the soon-to-be Duke of Devonshire with a family estate that was more "historical ruin" than "noble dynasty," he had a feeling it was the latter.

This wasn't his first visit to the palace. As a child, he had accompanied his father to various royal events, though back then, his biggest concern had been whether the buffet had enough desserts. But today, there were no free scones to look forward to—just an audience with the Queen, which, in British aristocratic terms, was the equivalent of getting called to the principal's office.

Still, he had to give credit where it was due—Her Majesty knew how to keep things efficient. The meeting was brief. Cordial, but brief.

She expressed her condolences over the recent tragedies in his family and reassured him that had she not been busy, she might have attended the funeral in person. Instead, she had sent the Prince of Wales in her place.

Barron, being the polite nobleman that he was, nodded solemnly and refrained from saying, "I understand, Your Majesty. After all, a Golden Jubilee celebration and a funeral don't exactly go hand in hand."

The Queen then made a passing remark about his late grandmother, recalling meeting her at various gatherings over the years. This was, in royal terms, a nostalgic moment. In reality, it meant, "Your family was important once. Let's see if you can keep it that way."

She also confirmed that she would personally oversee his formal title ceremony. This was a big deal. It meant that at least for now, the Devonshire name still carried weight. However, the rest of the conversation subtly hinted at the reality of his situation—if he could salvage the family's finances, great. If not… well, Buckingham Palace wouldn't be sending rescue boats.

The unwritten rule was clear: The royal family did not step in to save struggling noble houses. If they bailed out one duke, what would stop every other financially challenged aristocrat from knocking on their door? Besides, in modern Britain, the nobility had become more of a ceremonial relic than a real power.

So, Barron left the palace with a reinforced sense of what he had already known—he was on his own.

Back at his apartment, Barron didn't waste time brooding over the royal non-intervention policy. Instead, he returned to something far more important—strategizing his next bet on the World Cup.

He had skipped the day's matches because even though he had knowledge of the future, betting on every game was a sure way to get himself investigated. And "arrested for suspiciously accurate sports betting" was not the way he wanted to make headlines.

But tomorrow's matches? Now those were worth a gamble.

Argentina vs. Nigeria and England vs. Sweden.

His memory of the 2002 World Cup wasn't perfect, but he clearly remembered Argentina's group-stage disaster. They were in the infamous "Group of Death," featuring Nigeria, Sweden, and England—three teams capable of knocking each other out.

He recalled that Argentina would beat Nigeria, but England would only manage a draw with Sweden. A perfect opportunity to place another well-calculated bet.

If things went as expected, his World Cup earnings would continue to grow, which was good news, because his financial problems were about to get a lot worse.

Just as he was finalizing his betting strategy, Julia, the family's trust fund manager, showed up. Barron could already tell from her expression that she wasn't there to deliver good news.

"How did the royal audience go?" she asked, sitting down across from him.

Barron gave a half-smile. "Lovely. The Queen was quite sympathetic. Also, she is not, in any way, bailing us out."

Julia sighed as if she had expected as much. "It would've been nice if they at least nudged the banks in our favor. But, well… here we are."

"Speaking of banks," Barron said, leaning back in his chair. "How bad is it?"

Julia crossed her arms. "Well, let's start with the fact that we have about two months before our first loan repayment is due. That's a £2 million loan from Barclays."

"Two million?" Barron repeated, feigning enthusiasm. "That's not too bad! I thought it would be worse."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "That's just the first one. We have a total of £15 million in loans maturing this year. If we don't sort out our financial situation soon, extending them won't be easy."

Barron winced. "Ah. There's the catch."

To make things worse, the timing couldn't have been worse for selling assets. The real estate market in London had taken a hit, partly because of the global financial downturn caused by last year's dot-com crash. That meant offloading properties wouldn't bring in nearly as much as it should.

"Of course," Julia added, "your first priority is paying the inheritance tax and finalizing your title and estate transfer."

Barron groaned. "And how much am I paying for the privilege of inheriting debt?"

"Less than £2 million," Julia replied. "Which is significantly lower than what your grandfather had to pay half a century ago."

Barron blinked. "Wait. Why so low?"

Julia smirked. "Because your family has been bleeding money for years. Less fortune, less tax."

For a brief moment, Barron considered throwing himself out of the nearest window. Unfortunately, they were on the ground floor, so it wouldn't be particularly effective.

He sighed instead. "So, what you're saying is that my ancestors were so good at losing money that they accidentally saved me on inheritance tax?"

"Essentially, yes," Julia said dryly. "Silver lining, right?"

Barron shook his head. "Fantastic. If only they had been a little worse at finances, maybe I'd be inheriting a parking lot instead of a crumbling estate and a stack of unpaid bills."

Julia stood up. "Oh, and one more thing—avoid any scandalous behavior for now. No nightclubs, no wild parties, no drunken escapades. If the tabloids catch you doing anything remotely irresponsible, it'll make our financial situation even worse."

Barron gasped theatrically. "Julia, please. I am the very definition of responsibility."

She gave him a long, skeptical look.

"Sure you are," she said, rolling her eyes as she left.

Alone again, Barron took a deep breath and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Step one: win big on the World Cup. Step two: avoid being publicly humiliated. Step three: find a way to convince the banks that I'm not completely doomed."

Simple enough.

Now, if only life would cooperate.