“Hush, Uncle.” Ethan glanced toward the closed door.
“Of all thebampot, eejitways tae disgrace our family name, ye had tae go and involve yourself in the scandal of a century with the twin sister of one of the most powerful men in Britain. Have ye not an ounce of common sense left in that poetry-addled head of yours?”
Ethan sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.
Och.His uncle had gone a bit too far.
“Were ye no’ listening tae me? I didnae ken it was her until last evening at Lord Aberdeen’s. She never gave me her name in Italy, and quite frankly, she seemed entirely Italian at the time. So ye cannae blame me for this turn of events.”
And yet, long experience told Ethan that his uncle would, indeed, blame him.
Uncle Leith tipped his forehead into his hands, head shaking back and forth.
“What will become of our hopes for a pact to ship the saltpeter now?” he nearly moaned. “I was counting on ye facilitating that for us. Europe faces political turmoil at the moment, and the potato blight in Ireland has now spread to Scotland. These are uncertain times, my boy. We require the extra financial security that such a shipping contract would bring.”
“I can and will speak with Kendall about it, Uncle. That avenue is not lost to us yet. I dinnae ken that Kendall knows of Lady Allegra’s exploits in Italy, nor my involvement.” Ethan may have crossed his fingers under the table.
“You must stay far, far away from Lady Allegra,” Uncle Leith said, wagging a finger at Ethan. “If the press catches a single word of this . . .”
Ethan readily understood the rest.
Kendall would be apoplectic if his sister’s identity leaked to the public. And knowing Kendall as Ethan did, the man would likely fault Ethan for the slip.
The question, of course, was who had already told the press about that afternoon in Italy? And would that person strike again?
“I will be careful, Uncle,” he promised.
“See that you are, lad.” Uncle Leith turned back to his breakfast and newspaper. “I would hate for there to be consequences from your indiscretion.”
Ethan managed a grimacing smile in reply before returning to his seat and his now cold eggs.
Consequences.That was always his uncle’s vague threat.
Those consequences, of course, being Ethan’s disinheritance.
Why didn’t his uncle simply trust Ethan’s loyalty? After all, the man had provided handsomely for Ethan’s education and upbringing, a gift that he valued and respected no matter how condescendingly it had been given. Threats were unnecessary and turned Uncle Leith’s patronage into a millstone around Ethan’s neck.
Poetry provided Ethan with a decent income. But it was a minuscule amount when placed beside Uncle Leith’s coffers. If Ethan wished to marry a lady of good family and upbringing—and he had hopes of doing so—he would need Uncle Leith’s largess.
It was as simple as that.
And so, Ethan and his uncle continued their odd dance. His uncle browbeating Ethan into compliance instead of merely asking in trust. And Ethan, diligently obeying but growing increasingly frustrated over being treated like a wayward child.
With a sigh, Ethan sipped his lukewarm coffee and stared sightlessly ahead at a painting of a hunting dog standing proudly beside a brace of pheasant.
How ironic he found his existence at times.
He was one of the most famous men in London. His face so readily recognized, he had to be wary of where he went and with whom. A mob could form at a moment’s notice, poetry enthusiasts eager to snatch any wee piece of Ethan Penn-Leith that they could.
Why just a month past, he had attempted to purchase a new watch fob from a shop on Regent Street and had made the monumental mistake of, firstly, wearing a kilt, and secondly, stepping out from the shadows of the Quadrant Colonnade. A group of young ladies had spied him and, shrieking along with their mammas, had immediately circled round, harassing him with requests for a poem and, quite frankly, their wandering hands.
He had barely escaped with his pocket watch and dignity intact.
The same could not be said for the outer layer of his kilt.
In all, he found it a decidedly lonely existence—recognized and sought by everyone, yet known by very few.
To the masses, he had become an object more than a person.
