He blinked, then laughed a little. “After our brush with Cawdor, I couldn’t agree more.”
The elevator doors opened, and Nathaniel walked out first to make certain they weren’t going to be mowed down either by a gaggle of his grandfather’s lawyers, who would want to assault him, or any number of relatives, who might want to trample him to death before he could get to his own lawyer. To his relief, there was only Peter diSalvio there, slouching negligently against a wallpapered wall, yawning hugely.
Nathaniel sympathized. If he had to do too many more of these, he would simply lie down and die from boredom.
It was all a completely useless exercise, of course. His father, Archibald Poindexter MacLeod III, had come into his inheritance at thirty, then managed his money quite capably on his own for many years. When he had grown tired of it, Archie had looked over his own posterity, rightly judged his eldest, Gavin, to be a complete loss at maths, identified his youngest, Sorcha, as too distracted with other things to pay attention to anything that didn’t have to do with stickingarrows into targets from ridiculous distances, then turned his gentle eye on his middle child.
Nathaniel had accepted his fate, signed the damned papers at twenty-six, and taken over the trust.
He supposed the enormous amounts he’d added to the funds didn’t interest his grandfather. He had already pulled his personal share out, so what was left he simply managed for his siblings, which his grandfather damned well knew. If Dexter had had any sense, he would have walked away. If he himself had possessed any sense, he would have let his grandfather win.
But he kept at it for his own father’s memory, and for Gavin, who didn’t like numbers, and for Sorcha, who came to lunch with him in London on occasion when she wasn’t off training for this competition or that. He kept at it because his grandfather was bored, had too much money, and needed to be told no on occasion. It was expensive, but the alternative was worse.
He stopped in front of his attorney and smiled. “You rang?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Nice of you to make time for this.” He looked at Emma and straightened. “Hello, who do we have here?”
“My assistant—”
“Of course she isn’t. Why would she want to spend any time with a loser like you?”
Emma laughed a little. “I’m here as moral support.”
Peter blinked. “You’re American.”
“She is,” Nathaniel said with a warning look. “She’s also done the slog through law school, so I wouldn’t push her too far. She’ll sue.”
Peter smiled and shook Emma’s hand. “I annoy him because I can.” He turned to Nathaniel. “Lord P. is already in a temper. He had a meeting with some venture cap guy from Seattle who really rubbed him the wrong way.”
“Frank Baxter?”
Peter looked surprised, which Nathaniel supposed was a new sensation for him. “Actually, yes. Know him?”
“My father,” Emma said with a sigh. “We ran away from him downstairs.”
Peter studied them both. “This is a story I would like to hear, but maybe later. We might as well get in there and get this over with. Nat, just so you know, Gavin’s here.”
“Why the hell for?” Nathaniel asked, wondering if it just might be the day for surprises.
Peter shrugged. “He’s got on a suit, no doubt in deference to your grandfather, but he looks gloomy. He’s glaring at Gerald, if that makes you feel any better.”
What would make him feel better would be dropping his cousin off on a deserted island with a handful of other annoying cousins, but he didn’t suppose that was going to happen any time soon. He nodded, then followed Peter inside the boardroom.
All the players were already there, which he expected. Poindexter MacLeod liked to have the battlefield set before the enemy arrived. He realized he tended to prefer things that way himself, but decided that wasn’t a very useful realization to linger over at the moment.
“Who is that with you?” a posh, upper-crusty sort of voice asked.
Nathaniel looked at his grandfather mildly. “My new assistant.”
His grandfather frowned. “I don’t like employees at my negotiations who haven’t been vetted by my staff.”
“Given that she’s not your employee, Grandfather, I think we can proceed.”
He made sure Emma was seated, sat down himself, then let loose the Peter of War. His attorney, he had to admit, was the sort of paragon all good attorneys should wish to emulate. His ability to slip daggers between ribs whilst smiling pleasantly was something Nathaniel had never failed to admire. There was also Peter’s willingness to slap his hands on the table and shout furiously in a way that left everyone in the room shrinking back into their chairs. Heartwarming, truly, and money well spent.
He sat back and studied the playing field. His grandfather’s clutch of lawyers was large but not necessarily impressive given that it was headed up by his own cousin, Gerald. That Gerald happened to be his uncle John’s eldest son was something Nathaniel didn’t let himself think about very often.
After John’s disappearance and subsequent funeral—something Nathaniel had nudged along behind the scenes per his uncle’s request—Gerald had rolled over and let Lord Poindexter take over John’s trust because he had very stupidly believed that getting along was the way to go. Nathaniel supposed his cousin might never see all his money until Poindexter died.
