Gabriel nodded. “I don’t care what anyone calls me, as long as I’m permitted to do my duty.”
“Mm. Very humble of you. And now that I consider it, rather ironic.”
A frown pulled at Gabriel’s face. “Beg pardon? I know you ordered me to the command hill, General, but I have never sought personal glory from the blood of my men. That—”
“A great many officers serve under me, Major Forrester,” Wellington cut in. “Do you imagine that the loss of one from my side—even a competent, capable one—would cause me to surrender?”
“Of course not.” And there was the boot he’d been expecting.
“It irritated me when you galloped off. Not because I required your counsel, but because I know you ride pell-mell into battle, and I had reason to wish you kept from harm.” He reached into one of the pockets of his blue coat and produced a much folded letter, which he set down and slid across the table. “This arrived by special messenger before dawn. A second note is inside, addressed to you.”
Frowning, Gabriel leaned forward and picked up the thick note. “I don’t—”
Wellington took a breath. “I have written letters to lords, informing them that their precious thirdborn sons—not as precious as their firstborn sons, of course—have been killed in battle. This one”—and he gestured at the missive—“is out of even my experience. I invited you here tonight because it seems the sort of news one should hear from a sympathetic soul rather than read on one’s own in the middle of a foreign country and a damned war.”
“I… Are you certain this is meant for me? My parents are long dead, and I have but one sibling. A younger sister, living in London.” His heart thudded. “Has something happened to Marjorie?”
“No.” Wellington tilted his head. “You have no cousins, either, I presume.”
“No. What—”
“You do have an uncle. A second uncle, rather. Or is it third? I can never keep the distant ones numbered correctly.”
Gabriel opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I remember my mother talking about a great-uncle she detested, and I know there was bad blood in the family…” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t take up your time with my boyhood recollections, sir. This has something to do with the—my—second or third uncle, I presume? If he’s died and left me some debt, I would appreciate if you simply told me. Any creditors will find it difficult to squeeze blood from this turnip.”
“He has died, but he has not left you any debt. Rather, you have something of an inheritance coming to you.”
For a moment the look in Wellington’s steely blue eyes was almost sympathetic, and Gabriel’s gut tightened. Whatever could make a battle-hardened general feel pity couldn’t be good. He wanted to look at the missive, but Wellington had made it clear that he wanted to deliver the news, himself. Since he’d already disobeyed his general once today, doing so again seemed ill-advised. “My lord,” he finally said, when the earl seemed content to allow the moment to draw out to the horizon, “first the offer of dinner and now this… reluctance of yours to deliver me the information you possess is rather alarming.”
“Yes, I would imagine it is.” Wellington paused. “You’ve proven yourself a damned fine, ferocious officer, Gabriel Forrester, and not just by your actions today. I—and the British army—shall miss your service.” Finally he sat forward and tapped the paper Gabriel held clenched in one hand. “Your distant uncle was the Duke of Lattimer, owner of several small estates in England and one exceedingly large one in Scotland. They, and the title, are now yours, Your Grace.”
Chapter One
“For God’s sake!” Gabriel exploded, momentarily mollified at seeing the quartet of wig-wearing fellows seated across from him jump. “Stop talking!”
“But Your Grace, this is all necess—”
Jabbing a finger at the one still making sounds, Gabriel stood, sending the ornate chair behind him over backward. “Stop talking,” he repeated. Once the man subsided, Gabriel turned to his one ally, seated in the far corner of the room. “Kelgrove, what do you make of all this claptrap?”
The sergeant cleared his throat. “It’s like walking through briars, but I make out that you’ve three estates, Major. Your Grace. The one in Devon, Langley Park, is being overseen by a Mr. Martin Graves, who’s a fine and honest fellow. The one in Cornwall, Hawthorne, is just as well taken care of, by a Mr. George Pointer, who’s also a fine and honest fellow.”
“And the third one, Sergeant?” Gabriel urged, grateful all over again for his aide-de-camp, who after eight years in his company practically knew his thoughts before he had them and who also stood ready to assist with thrashing foes as necessary. Today, Kelgrove was very close to deciding that events definitely called for some thrashing.
“That would be Lattimer Castle, Your Grace. Your seat, I believe they call it, being that you’re the Duke of Lattimer.”
Gabriel pinned the lead solicitor with his gaze. “You were the one charged with keeping my uncle’s affairs in order during his illness.” Never mind that referring to the late duke as his uncle still felt odd on his tongue, much less in his mind. These were his circumstances, and he would deal with them as they stood—doing anything else would be pointless, no matter what he preferred.
“I… Yes, I was, Your Grace. Lattimer, though, is—well, it’s in Scotland. In the Highlands.”
Evidently that one word explained everything, though Gabriel couldn’t see what difference it made. He knew Scottish soldiers, and they were damned fine warriors. “Yes, I saw it on the map, Mr. Blething. With the other estates you’ve told me the annual income, expenses, number of servants and livestock. You’ve said nothing about Lattimer, and have altered the subject every time I asked you about it. That makes me suspicious, and no amount of your prattling will make me forget it. The problem can’t merely be that it’s in the Highlands.”
The paper man exchanged a look with his fellows, and Gabriel mentally leaned forward. For the devil’s sake, he’d practically made a profession out of hearing all the words that went unsaid. Those carefully not-uttered words frequently ended up saving both his life and the lives of his men.
“I’m waiting,” he prompted after another moment of silence.
“Well, some of it is pure nonsense, of course.” Blething cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a bird trying to swallow a worm. “The Lattimer estate used to be known as MacKittrick Castle, up until about a hundred years ago. That was when King George—the first one—tired of the Earl of MacKittrick and his family’s very vocal Jacobite leanings. He had the patriarch hanged and handed the castle and property over to an ally he wished to promote. The first Duke of Lattimer.”
Gabriel waited for more, but that seemed to be the end of the story. “That’s well and good, but what makes it nonsense?”
