by Eliza Knight
His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second before he was through the door. MacInnes, like all butlers, seemed to have a sixth sense to those within residence and was by the door with Lorne’s hat and greatcoat.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Lorne nodded curtly before walking out into the crisp Edinburgh air.
His coachman waited beside the carriage, rushing to open the door for Lorne. “Where to, Your Grace?”
“St. Andrew’s Square.” Perhaps at the New Club, he’d find comfort in a glass of whisky.
The sensation of dozens of eyes on him left him feeling out of sorts as he climbed into his carriage. No doubt everyone in Scotland would know he’d visited Jaime upon his return from the dead.
And they would all be drawing the wrong conclusions.
His coachman meandered around the Charlotte’s Square circle until he was back on George’s Street. The road was filled with other carriages, people walking and merchants touting their wares. What should have been a short preamble down the road turned into nearly half an hour. At last, they rounded onto St. David’s Street at St. Andrew’s Square and pulled up in front of New Club.
The building looked as inconspicuous as the others. People wandered the square, casting him glances, eyes riveted to the crest on his carriage. The buzz of their hurried whispers increased with each of his steps toward the front of the club.
Ignoring them all, he entered the establishment. The dimly lit building smelled of cigar smoke and men’s aftershave, a little overwhelming after coming from the outside. Lorne had never had much interest in cigars, and if he was going to smell a man’s aftershave, it was going to be his own.
“Your Grace.” The footman kept his gaze level, not blinking at the fact that Lorne had not been there in nearly ten years and had also been pronounced dead.
Lorne handed the footman his hat and coat and then sauntered toward the rear of the room where his old friends used to take up residence. There were many new faces and several not-so-new. A few clad in casual buckskin breeches, others in more fancy wear he’d seen the dandies of London sporting. Only a few of the gentleman wore kilts, which made him the odd man out. Much had changed since he’d been there last.
Some of those who recognized him stopped speaking to their companions right away to stare, mouths agape. Those with a connection to the War Office gave him respectful nods.
Lorne wasn’t in the mood to chat. He simply nodded and passed by everyone to seek out a quiet corner in which to think, plan and imbibe a drink.
“Sutherland?”
Lorne halted, surprised to hear a very familiar voice. Lord Alec Hay, the Earl of Errol, who also happened to serve with him overseas, emerged from the shadows where it looked as though he’d been sitting alone—in Lorne’s favorite spot.
“Errol.” Lorne drew in a deep breath through his nose. He wanted to grasp the man up in his arms, glad to see that he was alive, after thinking that he’d died on Lorne’s watch. The man had a scar slicing from his temple down over his cheek and toward his chin. Not long after he’d sustained the injury, Lorne had been…taken. “God, ’tis good to see ye’re alive.”
Alec clapped him on the shoulder. “Likewise. Where the hell have ye been?”
“Purgatory, and I’m no’ going back.”
Alec seemed to understand that he had no wish to speak on the topic. And as he’d suffered in the war alongside him, perhaps he was the closest thing Lorne could find to a person who could recognize the desire to leave the past where it lay.
“Sit with me.” Alec didn’t wait for Lorne’s answer but headed toward the corner he’d staked out, snapping his fingers at a passing footman. “Bring me the bottle.” Slumping into his chair, Alec shook his head in disbelief. “I heard ye escaped, and I could no’ believe it. What are ye doing in Edinburgh?”
Lorne groaned at the question, flashes of a hellion running rampant. He was relieved when the footman returned with a fresh bottle of whisky and an extra glass for him, allowing him a moment to think before answering.
“Can I interest ye in anything to eat, Your Grace?”
“Aye, the house special.” He prayed the food was as good as it had been the last time he’d been there. The last decent meal he had before he’d left for the nearly five-day ride to Edinburgh was in the Highlands.
“Aye, Your Grace. And for ye, my lord?” The footman turned to Alec.
“I’ll have the same.” Alec uncorked the whisky and poured two healthy portions, sliding one of the glasses toward Lorne. “To your return.”
Lorne lifted his glass and consumed the whisky in one burning swallow.
Alec seemed on edge, setting down his glass and continuously darting his gaze about the room.
“Are ye all right?” The way the man was acting had Lorne wanting to leap out of his skin.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat, laughed off his awkwardness and poured a second helping of whisky. “Have ye got a place to stay in town?”
Lorne had not thought about that before. Aye, he’d had a house in town—one in London, too—but Gille could have sold off those properties as well.
“I’ve got a meeting with my solicitor in an hour.” He scanned the dim room, frowning at the surreptitious glances he was getting from men playing cards or at the bar having a drink.
“Is this about Gille?”
Lorne let out his breath. “So ye heard?”
“Most of Scotland heard…” Alec sat forward, his fingers steepled. “Perhaps your solicitor will be able to make the sale contract null and void. After all, there are clauses for if a man is presumed dead and his property is sold.”
“That is my hope.”
Alec shrugged and sat back again. “Then again, ye could always marry the lass and take what is yours.”
Lorne’s frown deepened. Marry her? Not on his life. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. If the only option left was to marry the lass, then he might consider it. But before he chose to toss himself into the dark depths of hell once more, he’d see what his solicitor could do for him.
“I’d rather no’.”
Alec drummed his fingers on the glass, his heel tapping on the floor. The man was more anxious than Lorne, which seemed impossible given Lorne had been the one imprisoned.
“Are ye certain all is well with ye?” Lorne asked. “Ye seem…out of sorts.”
Alec grunted. “My mother. She wants me to marry. I’ve been dodging blushing bonnets and their mothers for weeks. Last week, however, a persistent papa sought me out here. I’m trying to lay low.”
“And ye’d see me wed first?” Lorne chuckled. “Hypocrite.”
Alec grinned. “’Tis a bit hypocritical of me, aye. Miss Andrewson is a beauty, though, and turned down every man in Edinburgh and even some from abroad. Rich as Croesus, too.”
“Even if she were a legendary Greek royal, I’m no’ interested in marrying the chit.” There was an edge of bitterness to his tone.
Alec chuckled. “Got under your skin, eh?”
“A little.” He hated to admit that.
“She has that effect on most people. Bristly like a thistle.”
That was one way to describe her.
Though perhaps there was some merit to what Alec was saying. A little flirtation could go a long way in disarming a person. Just look at how he’d trusted his ex-fiancé. While he was out of practice with the arts of flirtation, there was one thing Lorne did not lack—determination.
All he had to do was win her trust, and if she fell in love with him along the way, what difference did it make? As soon as he had the deed to his castle back in his hands, he’d say goodbye to the vindictive wee wench, rich and beautiful or nay.
Wooing Jaime was likely going to be a bigger challenge than any of the other battles he’d ever fought—but one in which he refused to lose.
Jaime stood there so long glaring lemons that the wallpaper could have begun to peel. Her—a fool? How naïve did that pompous duke think she was? Did
he honestly believe that she wouldn’t have noticed her sister had born a bastard? That the man Shanna was supposed to marry abandoned her to such a fate?
Perhaps the lying rogue had presumed her sister would run away or that her family would accept what fate dealt her. Maybe he was even idiotic enough to believe that society wouldn’t shun Shanna for what he’d done. That some other man would come along and marry her, take care of her. Take care of the consequences of the duke’s indiscretion…
Fury rolled through her veins like molten lava. For years now, she’d had to protect her sister from the pain of that loss. The pain of what people said about her in public. The ridicule of those who thought themselves better. The disappointment of their parents.
All Jaime wanted was for her sister to be happy—and to make Lorne Gordon pay for what he’d done. Even when he’d been pronounced dead, she’d not given up that vendetta. Jaime had taken his legacy and given it to those who rightfully deserved it. Duke or nay, he couldn’t walk back into the world and demand that everything be righted to the way he’d left it.
Jaime wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow it.
Who in all of Christendom did that man think he was? Waltzing into her drawing room as though he owned the place, as though he could tell her what to do, and then to retreat with a threat so boldly and arrogantly on his tongue.
Not over, indeed.
Well, he was wrong. Dead wrong. Anything between them was most decidedly over.
And yet that incredulous, almost pitying expression he’d lobbed at her. Those words that burned inside her head—“Ye’re a fool.”
No, she wasn’t. She was anything but a fool. Didn’t the fact that she’d tripled the size of her father’s shipping company prove that?
Jaime left the drawing room and marched into her study, sifting through the papers on top of the desk in search of the bill of sale for Dunrobin Castle. The solicitor, Mr. Corbett, who had drawn up the papers for Gille Gordon, had made her skin crawl in the way only a charlatan could, and she hoped her intuition that he was a bad egg wasn’t right. Her lawyer had been in London, so she’d had to go with someone else she didn’t readily know.
There were laws to protect men at war from losing their property when they were gone. Laws to make certain if their property was sold that it was quickly returned to them.
If that were the case, Lorne could have his solicitor drawing up legal demands at this very moment. To take her to court and make certain she returned the castle. Then her sister would be tossed out. Poor Gordie without a home. Without his legacy.
She sifted through the language, not finding what she was looking for and praying it was because she had an unpracticed eye with real estate law.
If only she had a way to get into contact with Gille, but after he’d sold her the castle, she’d not asked him for a forwarding address. She supposed if she sent an investigator to look for him, he would be easy to locate, but better yet, she’d best have a visit with her own solicitor.
“MacInnes,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “Send word to Mr. MacDonald that I shall be arriving at his office directly and then have my carriage brought around.”
“Aye, miss.”
There was no way she was going to let her sister suffer more at the hands of Lorne Gordon.
4
The sun split through the blinds in Lorne’s bedchamber at Sutherland Gate, his Edinburgh townhouse, searing itself into his eyes like a blade.
He sat up in bed, rubbing his face, and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, laid out by the very same man who’d opened the blinds. Mungo stood there before the light, arms over his chest, assessing Lorne with what could only be described as impertinence. Blast the man for being his oldest friend, or he’d have ordered him out on his arse.
“Are ye trying to kill me?” Lorne asked, his voice thick from too much whisky the night before. He wasn’t used to drinking, and even the few cups he’d had felt as if he’d drowned himself in an entire distillery tub.
“Nay, Your Grace. But when ye stumbled in last night, ye did request I wake ye early for your appointment with your solicitor.” Mungo stood near the door, looking a wee bit too gleeful.
Lorne should have stopped after the second whisky with Alec, but alas, he’d missed his friend. They’d both been celebrating and commiserating at the same time. And the hoyden, J. Andrewson, was never far from his mind, nor the out-of-place vengeance she’d targeted him with.
The insane prospect his friend had presented came spiking back into his head, along with the vow not to drink so much again. If he couldn’t get Dunrobin back by legal means, then he ought to marry the hellion and take it. Absurd.
“Where is my valet?” Lorne slid his legs over the side of the bed, glad he’d recuperated briefly at Dunrobin before embarking on his journey to Edinburgh. The blisters on his feet had healed, as had all the aches and pains. Hearty and delicious meals made by his cook made him feel more like himself. Now that he wasn’t so weak, he was ready to start exercising again as well.
“I imagine Paul is sleeping as ye told him to take the day to himself, seeing as how he’d been serving your brother all these years, and ye wished him a day of rest.” Was there a hint of mocking in Mungo’s voice?
Lorne grunted. “And that’s why ye’re here?”
Mungo shrugged. “No’ exactly. Ye’re a grown man, and I figure ye can dress yourself.”
“I can.” Lorne stumbled toward his dressing room to splash water on his face.
“I’ll see that the dining room has breakfast placed out.”
“I do no’ need anything special.”
“I’ll be sure to tell your cook that.”
Lorne dressed quickly in breeches, shirt and coat, forgoing the kilt he wished he were wearing in favor of more businesslike attire for this morning’s task. He wolfed down eggs, toast and bacon, slugged back two cups of black coffee, and then called for his horse.
“No carriage?” Mungo asked.
“No.” Edinburgh hadn’t changed much; most things were still in the same place. And if he got lost, he’d toss a coin and be pointed in the right direction. At least he hoped so.
Besides, he didn’t want his new mount to think he’d abandoned him, especially when he’d yet to christen the steed with a name.
Lorne mounted the sleek black Friesian, rubbing a hand down his neck. “What shall I call ye? George?”
The horse snorted and shook his head.
“Ah, so ye understand me. What about Andrewson, then?”
The horse nodded and Lorne chuckled. Seemed only fitting that he should name the beast he rode after the family that had screwed him over six ways to Sunday.
“Well, Andrewson, my faithful mount, to my solicitor’s office, then. And I vow never to mistreat ye the way I wish to treat your namesake.”
They rode through the city already coming to life with merchants and the like, until they arrived at the low brick building that housed the best solicitors in Scotland, and likely England, too.
“Mr. Lindsey’s been expecting ye, Your Grace,” the solicitor’s clerk said, standing to bow. “Right this way.”
Lorne entered his longtime solicitor’s office, where papers lined Lindsey’s desk and books were floor to ceiling. The window had its curtains pulled back, the sun shining in to light the dust motes in the air.
Lindsey stood, coming around the desk to shake his hand. “My God, Your Grace, I did no’ believe the news when I heard, but here ye are in the flesh.”
“Aye, and without my castle.”
Lindsey frowned, nodding, and then pushing his spectacles up his nose from where they’d slid. “That was a sad business.”
“Can we undo it? And what other damage has my brother caused?”
“Well, the young lord did no’ use my services for the sale of Dunrobin. Had a rather unreputable man go about the paperwork, but it was a legal sale as far as such things go. With evidence of your body buried, they were able to pa
ss the probate quite quickly.” Lindsey moved around his desk, and the contents of Lorne’s stomach started to curdle as he took a seat.
“How bad?” Lorne plucked a peppermint from a bowl on his solicitor’s desk and popped it into his mouth, willing his sour belly to calm.
Lindsey tapped a pile of papers on his desk with one finger and opened a large volume sitting beside them with the other. “Ye’re in luck, Your Grace, because the law protects men at war. I just need to get the letters of administration of probate canceled, have Lord Gille return the bill of sale and funds, and all will be well.”
Lorne ground his teeth. “The lad has absconded with the funds and, from what I understand, a large part of my fortune.”
Lindsey’s brow furrowed. “I had hoped it was no’ true.”
“Me too.” Lorne crunched the peppermint into dust.
Lindsey sifted through some other papers and then pulled out another volume, opening it and sliding his finger about mid-way down a page. “All right, well, he’s no’ absconded with it all. Given the probate, Lord Gille was no’ able to garner control of the funds held in trust in the Bank of Scotland. Ye’re still a verra wealthy man, Your Grace, with several other properties still within the family name—your name. Ye could use your money to pay J. Andrewson back until ye locate Gille, but it will require ye to either sell several of your other properties or deplete half the trust.”
Half the trust… Ballocks. Though the trust was vast, the idea of parting with half his fortune for a property that should have already been his stung more than a little. “How the hell did she come up with the funds to purchase my castle, to begin with?”
Lindsey blew out a long breath, shaking his head. “I can no’ say, as I was no’ involved, but the Andrewson name has grown exponentially in Scotland since ye’ve been gone. They’ve got a hand in the imports and exports of nearly every good coming in and out.”
In other words, Jaime Andrewson was almost one of the most powerful people in the city—besides himself.
