Callum lifted his gaze from signing yet another batch of papers. “And for the Duke of Dunncraigh, aye?”
“Of course. And for Mr. Sanderson. The fleet, the docks, it’s all very complicated.” The solicitor flicked his fingers toward Mr. Crosby. “Too much so to risk handing it all over to a glorified clerk, in my opinion.”
“I have the same letters after my name as ye do, Mr. Harvey,” the rotund accountant stated. “I simply choose nae to brag about them.”
“Well, I’m pleased then, Mr. Harvey,” Callum took up, “that ye managed to send off a letter in my direction, given how busy ye must have been with dividing up all those profits.”
“I sent youfourletters, my lord. The last two over the objections of Lady Geiry, I might add.”
Every time one of the men here mentioned poor Lady Geiry the dear, unfortunate countess, Callum’s jaw clenched. He’d been there, that night. And he remembered every damned word they’d exchanged. Rebecca Sanderson had married for an empire, and now with the death of her husband and her father most of it had landed right in her lap. For the moment, anyway.
Of course she wouldn’t want him found. All the MacCreath properties, the MacCreath investments and money, and everything that her father had owned, were at this moment in her custody and care. The second Callum appeared, though, everything—all but her father’s share of the business—went straight to him.
“Why wouldn’t the lass want his lordship found?”Kimes piped up, his arms full of contracts and papers. “Someone would take the title, even if it didn’t happen to be Callum MacCreath. Ye’ve a handful of cousins, do ye nae, m’laird?”
“Three male cousins,” Callum supplied. If they all still lived. Odds were that at least one of them survived. The Sassenach solicitor had mentioned James Sturgeon in his last letter, anyway. “I’m curious to know her objections to me being found, Mr. Harvey. Indulge me, if ye would.”
The solicitor opened his mouth, arrogance and affront practically dripping from him, only to snap it shut again as Callum set aside the pen and straightened to send him a level-eyed gaze. Men did as he asked these days. Men who lived a much rougher life than did the solicitor.
“Lady Geiry said her late husband had written you several times over the years,” he offered stiffly, “and that you’d never responded. She considered you either uninterested, or more likely, dead. And in all honesty I would have acquiesced to her wishes, except I did not want to risk my reputation should my findings be challenged later in court.”
“Then I applaud yer diligence, Harvey. How fares the widow, these days?” He had every reason to ask, Callum reminded himself. The head of the family had the right—the obligation—to know the situation of those under his protection. Even if he suspected one of them might have aided another’s demise. Especially then.
“The past fourteen months have been quite trying for her, of course,” Bartholomew Harvey returned after a slight hesitation. Evidently he realized he had no claim of confidentiality when faced with the new earl. “First her husband, then her father passing on, the uncertainty of her own future, all that in addition to being anEnglish lady surrounded by Scotsmen—and far away from the land of her birth… She’s quite admirable, really.”
“Dunnae be dramatic, Harvey,” Crosby took up. “The land of her birth is but three days to the south.Ireckon she’s stayed on here because she’s a yen to be the future Duchess of Dunncraigh.”
And there it was. Callum used every ounce of his considerable self-control to remain seated, though he couldn’t have hidden his flinch even if he’d known the words were coming. Only a handful of questions remained, then. “Dunncraigh has a wife. Or he did, a decade ago. Mousy little thing, with a cunning gleam in her eyes.”
“He still does have a wife. I was referring to the present Marquis of Stapp. Dunncraigh’s oldest son.”
Callum swallowed back a curse, shoving it down into his chest. Donnach Maxwell. Of course. The self-centered pig had been drooling over Rebecca ten years ago. Evidently she’d given in to his charms—or more likely his wealth and title. He stood, pulling on his heavy buckskin gloves. Now he had but two questions. Had she helped murder Ian for money? Or to gain herself the loftiest title in the Highlands?
“Gentlemen,” he said evenly, “ye’ll find me at MacCreath House. Kimes, call on me tomorrow at ten o’clock. I reckon I’ll have some instructions for ye.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
Now he meant to claim what belonged to him—and to end anyone and everyone who’d had anything to do with gaining him this inheritance. Even if Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath happened to be one of those anyones. Especially then.
Chapter Three
“M’lady,” Pogue the butler said, “ye’ve another bouquet of posies. I took the liberty of having ’em put in water.” He indicated the tall vase on the foyer table. The sprays of roses and long-stemmed lilies in yellows and reds looked like Hogmanay fireworks.
Rebecca MacCreath, Countess Geiry, paused at the bottom of the main staircase to smell the sweet spice of the flowers. A card accompanied them, of course, but she already knew who’d sent them. Donnach Maxwell had been sending flowers at least twice a week for the past two months.
She unfolded the card anyway. “May the pain of your grief be eased by the salve of my kind regards. Donnach.”
It wasn’t the most poetical thing she’d ever read, but then after nearly twenty notes in the same vein the Marquis of Stapp must have been running low on platitudes. “Put it in the morning room please, Pogue,” she said, and preceded him into the east-facing room at the front of the house as her Skye terrier, Reginald, sped down the straight staircase to join her. With his longwhite hair reaching to the floor, the snowy silk broken only by his dark ears, nose, and beard, he looked rather like a mobile footrest—not that she would ever tell him such a thing. “And let Agnes know I’ll be taking Maggie with me to the milliner’s in half an hour.”
The silver-haired Scot nodded. “I’ll see to it at once, m’lady.” Dipping his head again, he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Rebecca picked up her calendar from the desk and walked to the window to read through it as Reginald sniffed at her, then jumped onto the nearest sunlit chair and curled up to begin snoring. Today remained hers except for finding a new chapeau. Tomorrow, though, she had Lady Polk’s luncheon, and then both an afternoon recital and an evening at the theater as Donnach’s guest.
She wrinkled her nose. That seemed too much; she’d been out of mourning for Ian for three months, and her father for two, and her life had never been a whirlwind of social engagements, anyway. Three events in one day might be unseemly. What, though, to cancel? Certainly the recital would be more trying, with a dozen mamas hovering about, anxious to see that their marriageable daughters showed well, and the rest of the guests being dissected for any telling yawn or muscle twitch. That sort of scrutiny would be nothing new, but over the past year her composure had developed more than a few cracks that hadn’t entirely healed.
With a sigh she sat at the small desk to write out her regrets to Mrs. Adair—Latharna was more likely to understand her absence than Donnach would be, anyway. At least the theatrical performance wasA Midsummer Night’s Dreamthis time. Last month when the Marquis of Stapp had invited her to share his privatebox at the theater, it had been to seeEveryman. At least he’d apologized afterward, though he’d lost a handkerchief to her weeping.
Everyone had been deferential to her, in fact. She knew why, of course; widowed and orphaned within a fortnight, she’d been the favorite tragedy of Inverness’s noble circle for the past year. Completely aside from her present position as the Countess Geiry she was worth well over twenty thousand a year thanks to her father’s estate, which made her the wealthiest widow in Scotland. Perhaps in all of Britain.
