James was thirty, though the weight of his solitude made him feel far older. His brown curls were unkempt, falling into his gray-blue eyes, and his once-fine waistcoat hung loosely on his frame. The manor, a sprawling gothic relic on the outskirts of London, had been his inheritance-along with a mountain of debts he could barely comprehend. His father had been a gambler, his mother a recluse, and now James was left to pick up the pieces of a crumbling estate. The ledger before him told a grim story: creditors circling like vultures, the tenants' rents barely covering the interest, and the roof leaking in three places he couldn't afford to fix.
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