“You will also receive Miss Whitehall’s dowry, which is significant. As I’ve explained, repayment of the debt is not Mr. Whitehall’s true objective. The marriage contract is favorable to you, my lord. You could hardly do better.”
“Are there any stipulations placed on me after we are wed?” Jordan had no intention of residing with this Odessa Whitehall, let alone bedding her. “Children, for instance?” Whitehall would be sorely disappointed if he assumed the grandchildren of a sharker would inherit the title of earl.
“I don’t believe so, my lord. The marriage and having a title bestowed upon his daughter seem to be his main concerns.”
“Make sure of it, Patchahoo. Whitehall getsnothingelse. I want no restrictions placed on me once I’m wed. I can leave her anywhere in the world and it won’t make a whit of difference.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I hope it wasn’t quick, Patchahoo,” Jordan said after a few moments.
“What, my lord?” The solicitor’s brows drew together.
“Bentley’s death. I hope he lived long enough to feel the pain and know he was dying. I hope he knew that everything he’d done to me was for naught and that I would inherit.” The loathing for Bentley, for what he’d done, sparked along Jordan’s skin as if it were alive. “We’ll return to London, Patchahoo, but not in time to see him buried. Lady Longwood can mourn him.” It was petty. Cruel. The gossips in London would hum with the news. Jordan didn’t much care.
Patchahoo nodded. “Do you think that wise, my lord?”
Boots sounded on the chipped tile of the foyer moments before the double doors to the drawing room burst open. One of the doors hung onto its hinges for dear life.
Tamsin stomped into the room, dropping mud from her boots all over the threadbare rug. She paused to gaze at Patchahoo with interest before tossing her hat onto the nearest chair. A great mass of chestnut hair spilled over her shoulders. Tilting her chin, she raised a brow in question. “Who’s this?”
Patchahoo’s eyes widened, taking in Lady Tamsin Sinclair in riding breeches and marching about like a Valkyrie.
Jordan splashed another finger of whiskey into the solicitor’s glass. “Trust me,” he said under his breath. “You’ll need another swallow of whiskey.”
Tamsin was an acquired taste.
“Mr. Patchahoo,” he said as the solicitor came to his feet. “May I present my sister, Lady Tamsin. Tamsin, this is Mr. Patchahoo,” Jordan informed his sister. “My newly acquired solicitor. Bentley is dead.”
Tamsin’s mouth popped open. She fell back against the cushions of the ancient sofa, releasing a cloud of dust. “Bentley is dead?”
“He is.”
“Lady Tamsin. A pleasure.” The solicitor bowed politely, trying not to stare at her. There was intensity to Jordan’s sister, one that both attracted and terrified any male in her vicinity, akin to a hurricane which decimated everything in its path. The last man who had bowed to Tamsin had likely done so because her fist had made contact with his stomach.
“Mr. Patchahoo.” Tamsin greeted the solicitor politely, but did not offer her hand.
“I understand we have a guest.” Andrew appeared a moment behind Tamsin, strolling casually into the drawing room, the green of his eyes landing squarely on Patchahoo, then Jordan. Malcolm and Andrew were twins, though not identical, but both had inherited Mother’s eyes. An arresting green, which sometimes took on a grayish hue. Like moss fading on a rock.
Drew let out a low whistle as he took in Jordan’s swollen eye and bruised cheek. “Who got the best of you?” He glanced at Patchahoo. “Certainly not your new friend here.”
“No, this is Patchahoo. My solicitor.” Jordan tapped his cheek. “Captain Sisco.”
“I thought he was still out to sea.” His brother carelessly slumped into a chair. “Your lack of skill in fending off that brute is shocking. You’ve got a pea clinging to the back of your head, Jordan.” Drew peered at Patchahoo. “We have a solicitor?”
“Ido.” Jordan said. “He’s—
“I bring wonderful news,” Drew interrupted; a smug look fixed itself on his face. “I’ve the funds to fix the roof; no need to go to the Evil Earl and beg him.”
“It’s just as well.” Jordan held up a hand. “Bentley is dead, so begging him for anything would prove useless. Thus, the appearance of his former solicitor, now mine, Mr. Patchahoo. If you haven’t guessed, Patchahoo, this is one of my brothers, Andrew Sinclair.”
“Mr. Sinclair.” Patchahoo gave a small bow. The solicitor was eyeing Andrew’s shiny new boots and expensively-tailored coat, probably wondering, given the state of Dunnings, how his brother had managed to afford them. Gifts, no doubt, from Drew’s current lover, Mrs. Pryce.
“Forgive me, we don’t often entertain at Dunnings.” Andrew shook the solicitor’s hand. “My manners are lacking. Patchahoo? Scottish, isn’t it?”
“It is, Mr. Sinclair. A pleasure.” Patchahoo smiled in return, instantly charmed to his starched core by Drew.
There wasn’t a soul alive who didn’t enjoy making the acquaintance of Jordan’s younger brother. Charming, attractive, possessed of a quick wit, Drew was an expert at cards, often taking in enough from his wanderings to supplement the meager bit of coin Bentley had tossed in their direction. It was Drew who’d won Tamsin’s horse in a game of whist, which in turn allowed his unconventional sister to challenge well-heeled young lords to a race now and again.
