Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “That seems… small.”
“That’s likely why she didn’t want to send the ledgers to those paper men of yours.”
With a nod, he sat one haunch on the deep windowsill. “What’s the second thing?”
“Well,” Kelgrove began, sitting back and tapping a pencil against his chin, “I’m no expert in aristocratic households, but until two days ago, and for twenty years previous to that, Lattimer has had no owner in residence. Despite that, your Miss Blackstock has been hiring servants like a madwoman. If you include the gardeners and stable boys, you have ninety staff at this house alone.”
“No wonder I haven’t been able to turn around without having fifty people trying to bring me tea or fluff my pillows.” Ninety servants. Ninety people to serve a house full of employers, family, and guests, plus the residence itself, seemed a little excessive but not unreasonable, at least to someone who had no experience with such things. Even to him, though, ninety staff to see to the maintenance of an empty house seemed extreme. Especially with two thirds of the rooms closed, their furniture sheeted, and the fireplaces cold and dark. “Is that where the profit is going? To pay the servants?”
“Some of it. The rest is beyond me. Some of the expenses don’t sound plausible, which leads me to the third thing. Three millstones over the past two years, a large amount of lumber, several repairs to the castle that I’m not convinced were actually made, the—”
“She isn’t stealing,” Gabriel cut in. He knew dishonesty, and while he believed Fiona Blackstock to be hiding a great many things from him, she wasn’t a thief.
“That isn’t for me to say, sir.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “And… while I know you ordered me to refer to you as my commanding officer rather than as the Duke of Lattimer, I’m beginning to worry that these Scots will firstly think me an idiot, and secondly imitate my apparent lack of respect for you.”
“So you want to call me ‘Your Grace’?” Gabriel said, sighing. The reasoning was sound, whether he liked it or not. “Fine. But for God’s sake don’t begin thinking I’m delicate.”
Kelgrove snorted. “I don’t believe that’ll be a problem, Your Grace. Miss Blackstock, however, already is a problem, and will continue to be one until you get rid of her.”
As Adam went about closing the rest of the ledgers and almanacs, Gabriel watched him. Almost from the moment he’d learned about Kieran Blackstock’s lack of cooperation, he’d decided that Kelgrove would be the ideal replacement. This would be the perfect moment to make that official, but even as he considered it, he knew he wasn’t about to say a word. Not yet.
And it wasn’t only because he wanted to see Fiona out of her gown and spread beneath him, though that would have been reason enough. It felt most comfortable to put it to his curiosity about the bits of conversation he’d overheard in the small sitting room, involving some thievery and a mysterious man he hadn’t been meant to see, but who had kissed her.
He clenched his jaw. Yes, the thievery bothered him—Lattimer and all its troubles were his responsibility, and someone either needed to tell him about it, or he would take steps to make certain he found out officially. The kiss, though, the idea that another man had put his hands on a woman he meant to claim for himself, made his blood boil. For two days he’d pretended he knew nothing about it, and for two days it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from finding the bastard and pounding him senseless, then kissing Fiona again and erasing whatever thoughts she had of this interloper.
And the only reason he’d bothered to restrain himself was because of the very,veryslight chance thathewas the interloper. Nothing he’d discovered since then answered that question one way or the other, damn it all. The marble female carved into one side of his ridiculous fireplace was beginning to look attractive, if he didn’t mind getting his cock burned off.
Kelgrove continued to look at him expectantly, and Gabriel shook himself. “We are in the middle of hostile territory, Sergeant. I agree that not everything is supposed to be a battle, but if I dismiss her too quickly we’ll have one on our hands. In addition, she has knowledge of these people and of Lattimer that I do not.” And working alongside her would hopefully reduce the time it would take the sergeant to find his footing. It added time to his own stay when he’d anticipated remaining no more than a week at most, but when he’d set that goal for himself he’d had no idea he’d be dealing with Fiona rather than her brother. If bedding her meant remaining in the Highlands a few more days than he’d planned, then so be it.
“I can’t argue with that,” the sergeant returned, obviously not reading Gabriel’s thoughts. “But it’s still my duty to tell you that in my opinion these Scots are trying to get rid of us. A footman and Mrs. Ritchie the cook spent nearly an hour this morning regaling each other with bloody tales of hauntings at Lattimer—those in the master bedchamber in particular. And they made damned certain I could overhear them.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that. I’ve been haunted for four nights, now.”
The sergeant didn’t seem to know what to make of that. “You have? You never said. I’d have been on my horse and riding south before I finished screaming.”
Gabriel shrugged. “It’s nothing I can shoot or that can shoot me, so I didn’t see the point.” And after the third night of nonsense he’d pulled the paintings off the wall, found the strings, and cut them. Last night had been much quieter, but he didn’t mean to bring up anything about the subterfuge. His so-called steward could do that, if she wished to know whether he’d begun to feel spooked or not.
“You’re a braver man than I am. But you do know if they can’t frighten us away, they’ll likely attempt something more forceful, next.”
Gabriel agreed. “It seems to be my luck that I’m pulled away from a war straight into a rebellion.”
The sergeant sent him a quizzical glance. “Do you think they’re Jacobites?”
“Probably.” Even as he sighed he couldn’t help but find that amusing; not only had he landed in the middle of a conflict, but it had to be one that had been settled decisively—and exceedingly brutally—sixty years ago.
“We could send for troops,” Adam suggested. “God knows most men would give an arm to serve under the Beast of Bussaco, even in Scotland, and even with a title added onto his rank.”
“I’m not sending for an army.” Just the idea of bringing redcoats into the middle of this powder keg made him shiver. And not because he could already imagine the “I knew it” look on Fiona’s face. When Ronald Leeds died, the battle of the Highlands had become Gabriel’s. Calling in reinforcements after less than a week would be admitting defeat before he’d barely begun.
“But—”
A knock sounded at the door. Before he had time to respond, the heavy oak swung open. Sir Hamish Paulk, Fiona’s uncle and, as he’d discovered, a clan Maxwell chieftain, strolled into the library. Not only was Paulk dressed for a grand ball, but he swung an ivory-tipped cane in one hand. Gabriel would have wagered a month’s pay that the thing sheathed a rapier.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Hamish said grandly, bowing.
“Come in,” Gabriel returned belatedly, and Kelgrove coughed.
“I… Oh. Aye,” Fiona’s uncle rejoined with a chuckle. “If I’ve interrupted ye, I do apologize.”
