I currently reside with a sister in London as I continue to seek another position. If you wish to speak in person, please call upon me . . .
“I dinnae ken what to make of this.” Alex dropped the letter onto the tabletop and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lottie released a slow breath.
“It could be nothing,” she murmured and then wondered if she said the words for Alex’s benefit or her own.
Would Frank do such a thing? Skim profits off the marquisate to line his own pocket? As much as Lottie would like to answerNo!, she could not say for certain. There was a certain doltish pig-headedness in Frank. So much so that she could imagine him stooping to such a scheme in panic.
“Even if it is something,” Alex replied, “it doesnae follow that I must assume the marquisate in order to repair the problem. I am sure the Committee on Privilege would not uphold such an egregious abuse of power on Lord Frank’s part. I can request that Mr. Argent and his staff are rehired. They will be able to repair the damage and set the marquisate to rights in no time.”
Lottie could practically hear the cogs in Alex’s brain sifting through all possible scenarios.
“We shall have to visit Mr. Bartlet,” she said, looking out at the pattering rain.
“Aye.” Alex agreed. “Until then, I am withholding judgment.”
It was twodays before the elements permitted a journey to Mr. Bartlet’s cottage, leaving Alex feeling antsy.
It didn’t help that he received a letter from McNeal detailing the health woes of their patients. Mrs. Hammond had taken a turn for the worse, and Mr. McKay’s cancer was rapidly progressing.
Alex wanted to be done with this whole mess, dammit. His patients needed him.
But the more Alex learned of the marquisate, the more uneasy he felt. He was still determined to not take on the title himself.
But if people were suffering . . .
At a certain point, Alex’s own wisheswouldbe sacrificed for a greater good. That had always been his way.
Right now, he only wanted to prove Mr. Argent’s words wrong, return to Edinburgh, and stop the endless vacillation of his emotions.
But first, he needed to speak with this Mr. Bartlet.
The weather remained dreich and dreary, the incessant rain turned land into rivers of mud. So even when the sun appeared again, they had to wait another day for the roads to dry enough to make them passable.
Mr. Bartlet’s cottage was in a corner of the estate that Alex had yet to visit. He had asked Mr. Warden about this cluster of houses on the map weeks before, and the steward had described them as ‘a neat row of cottages of weavers and other tradesmen.’
Lottie, of course, accompanied him on this visit. Theywerecousins, so publicly visiting tenants together was not deemed improper. Alex found this humorous, given his decidedlyun-cousin-like feelings toward her.
Case in point . . . the coach ride was torturous. They sat beside one another, tucked under the same carriage blanket for warmth. Each bump of the road caused another part of her to press into him—a hip, a shoulder, an arm, a thigh.
It drove Alex to the brink of madness.
Thankfully, he received an early reprieve, as the coach was forced to stop at the top of a long lane down to the houses, the carriage wheels unequal to the mud.
Alex all but scrambled out.
He and Lottie picked their way down the muddy lane. The going was treacherous, forcing Alex to focus on each step, further distracting him from his wayward thoughts.
For her part, Lottie carried a laden basket from the kitchen larders on her arm and a smile that would charm their way into any tenant household. How could anyone turn away a woman as radiant and genuine as Lady Charlotte Whitaker?
Alex stole a glance at her. The sun chose that moment to burst through the winter gray and turn her hair to glittering diamonds of light. She glowed, incandescent.
How could I not fall for such a lass?
The idea flitted in and out so quickly, Alex scarcely had the presence of mind to forcibly evict it.
The truth was stark.
