Alex looked at the clock above the mantel again.
“Clearly we must discuss this, Mr. Carter,” he said, “but as I explained earlier, ye have caught me in the middle of a busy day. I have appointments ‘til supper. Perhaps we could postpone until the week’s end—”
“This cannot wait. We are to return to London tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, well, my patients’ health cannae wait either.” Alex gritted his teeth and, this time, consulted the watch in his waistcoat pocket. It indeed matched the clock on the mantel. He needed to hurry. “I have an arm to set and house calls to make.”
Mr. Carter sighed. “I shall accompany you and speak between patients, then.”
The solicitor settled into a chair, holding his official-looking case on his lap. His expression was best described asresolute.
Alex nodded, grinding his teeth. He didn’t even have the time to argue.
Instead, he left to help set the poor lad’s arm, his thoughts a buzzing hive.
AnEnglishmarquess?Him?!
In McNeal’s examination room, Alex held the young man steady—offering calming words as McNeal pulled the lad’s arm straight—but his mind was miles away.
Was it too much to hope that the lacking straight-forwardness of the matter would provide a loophole? A way for Alex to prove this was merely a legal misunderstanding?
He had no desire to be the Marquess of Lockheade. Surely, the demands of a marquisate would require he quit his profession as a physician.
Alexlikedbeing a physician. He felt bone-deep satisfaction in helping others and had committed his life to doing so.
After setting the arm, Alex spoke with the young man’s employer, giving care instructions, before returning to the consultation room and Mr. Carter.
“Please. Help me understand this situation.” Alex washed his hands again and swapped his bloody apron for a tailcoat. “How is this matter of the marquisate not straight-forward?”
Alex consulted the clock over the mantel and then his watch, just to be sure. Damn. He was going to be late.
He hated being late.
Alex snatched up his hat, gloves, and doctor’s case before stepping out the front door of his surgery. Mr. Carter followed.
“Typically, situations like this are quite simple.” The solicitor paused as Alex hailed a hackney cab. “The heir presumptive presents his credentials and petitions the Committee on Privilege to issue a Writ of Summons which orders the new Peer to take up his seat in Parliament. English laws of primogeniture are inviolable. One cannot renounce a title nor choose where to bestow it. An heir may shirk the responsibilities of the title, but no true gentleman would do such a thing, as it would cause needless suffering to his dependents.”
Alex nearly stumbled as a hackney stopped at the kerb.
One cannot renounce a title.
Was that his answer, then?
He gave an address in Greenside to the driver and then ducked into the carriage, Mr. Carter following and sitting beside him.
Alex stared ahead, fingers drumming a militant tattoo on his knee.
Mr. Carter glanced at Alex’s nervous tapping. “I appreciate that this is a lot to take in.”
“That is a modest assessment of my current mental state, yes.” Alex instantly regretted the terseness of his tone.
Mr. Carter was simply the messenger.
Alex ordered his fingers to still, with only middling success.
Why was the hackney so small? Why did the pressure in his chest feel akin to the sensation of drowning?
He was panicking.
