Basically, dipping his toe into the business of being Lord Lockheade.
From there, Alex would journey to London, present himself before the Committee on Privilege, and inform them of his decision.
It was all a pointless exercise.
Alex had already made his decision.
He would renounce the title.
The wordsEnglishandmarquisateandDr. Alexander Whitakersimply did not belong together.
He had asked Mr. Carter if he could reject the title immediately and be done—no trip to Frome Abbey and London needed.
But Mr. Carter made it clear that if Alex declinedto follow the outlined plan, the Committee on Privilege would not consider his disavowal to be binding. In short, Alex would likely be awarded the title and lands.
If that happened, Alex could choose to neglect the title and continue on with his life as a physician, but doing so would cause endless suffering for the thousands of tenants who lived on marquisate lands. Alex was too much a gentleman—too much a healer—to deliberately cause such harm.
He had to go through with this whole charade and then sign the declaration, agreeing to the writ of attainder on Lord Colin Whitaker.
Part of him grimaced at the thought of permitting his ancestor to be attainted, but, in all truth, a traitor in England was often a hero in Scotland. Besides, his sister, Catriona, would understand and support him, if and when he told her. Both their father and older brother, Ian, were dead. There was no other living member of his family to object.
And much as it pained him, he wouldnottell his closest friends—members of the Brotherhood of the Black Tartan—Andrew, Rafe, Ewan, and Kieran. They would try to talk him into accepting the marquisate, to become a member of Lords with Andrew, to rub elbows with Rafe and Ewan attonevents in London. But Alex would refuse, no matter how convincing their arguments. Telling them would only serve to drive a wedge between himself and his friends.
And Alex could not bear to do that.
Three days afterMr. Carter’s visit, Alex was applying a poultice to an ugly burn on a blacksmith’s arm when voices sounded in the hallway.
Alex instantly recognized them both.
One belonged to the housemaid.
The other—
“Alex!” Master Kieran MacTavish burst into Alex’s consultation room in a billow of sea air and deck tar.
“Kieran!” Alex looked up, smiling despite the interruption. “Your carcass is a sight for sore eyes. Where have ye been?”
Hallelujah! After disappearing without a word over three months ago, Kieran had returned.
His timing, however, left something to be desired.
“Wait. Dinnae tell me quite yet. Let me finish with this gentleman.” Alex nodded toward the blacksmith, shooting the man an apologetic smile, as he continued to wrap the inflamed arm.
“I’m staying right here.” Kieran took a seat opposite, doffing his top hat and holding the brim with one hand atop his bouncing leg. About Alex’s own height and build, his friend exuded an endless, exuberant energy. “If I wait until ye aren’t with a patient, I’d never speak with ye.”
The blacksmith snorted and then winced as Alex continued to bind the poultice.
Alex sneaked a glance at his friend.
Despite his energetic greeting, Kieran looked . . . tired. His pale blue eyes were bloodshot, and his skin held a sallow pallor. But the acrid smell of stale whisky no longer clung to him.
Kieran was, thankfully, sober.
“Keep it dry,” Alex instructed the blacksmith once he had finished binding the wound, “and have your wife change the bandage every evening. Cleanliness is the most important thing at this point.”
“Thank ye.” The blacksmith stood to leave, testing his newly bandaged arm. “The lads at thehowffwerenae lying when they said ye were the best doctor in the city.”
The man tipped his hat and slid past McNeal who appeared at the door.
