He folded the statement carefully, slid it into his inner pocket, and left the club before other members could corner him with meaningless conversation. London’s air bit at his face as he emerged. He hailed a hackney and climbed in.
“Portman Square,” he told the driver.
The horse lurched forward. Edward clenched his fist over the papers, over the names, over the fear that he was about to shatter what little had begun to grow between himself and Isla. He would confront her. He would demand answers.
And if the answers damned her, then … He shut the thought down. stared hard out the carriage window, jaw tight. The city blurred past, but he saw only one thing clearly. Isla’s face when she woke in a barren room and found him watching.
He prayed, silently and fiercely that what waited in Portman Square would match the woman he had tasted in moonlight. Because if it did not he was not at all certain what would become of him next.
Chapter 17
Morning arrived without kindness. The light that filtered through the thin curtains fell in wan stripes across Alistair’s sitting room. Alistair himself looked much the same, wan. He had slept with his boots on and his coat half-open, slumped sideways in the armchair as though dropped there by an impatient giant. His hair had rebelled spectacularly. When Isla entered, he blinked, then winced, as though her presence were made of bells.
“I suppose,” she said, “you feel as though your skull were two sizes too small.”
“Three,” he groaned, hand to temple. “Och, light. Why must morning insist upon being bright?”
She ignored the complaint. “You strewed these like leaves in a gale. Edward and I spent hours sorting them.”
Alistair’s eyes cracked open at that. “Edward?”
“Yes,” Isla said, pulse tightening. “Edward.”
She did not addhe left without waking me,though the thought had sat like a thorn in her chest since dawn. She had awakened alone on the chaise in her gown, chilled, stiff, and wishing that he had spoken to her. Even a brusque goodbye would have beenbetter than silence. Alistair rubbed his face with both hands and sat forward, elbows on knees. “I scarcely remember returning to the house.”
“That’s plain,” she said dryly, depositing a stack of letters on the table. “Tell me, have these creditors always been this aggressive? They all seem in a pure rage with us.”
He made a sound that was half scoff, half sigh. “No. Well. Not for months. I settled matters with every one of them. They agreed to leniency, indulgence, even on the understanding that I meant to repay. They trusted to my honor.”
“And now?” Isla asked,
“The rents would have covered the interest once the spring leases were signed. But suddenly these vultures circle again, each with a more venomous threat than the last.”
Isla frowned, scanning the letters. “The ink is fresh. Some arrived only yesterday.”
“Aye.” Alistair’s jaw tightened. “Because someone has turned them. And I know who.”
She looked up. “Turned?”
“Persuaded them that Strathmore is no longer worth patience.” He exhaled heavily and reached across the table for a particular letter, one written in the thin, precise hand of his man of accounts. “My steward discovered that several of the men who once offered lenience now claim … pressure. From above.”
“Above?” Isla echoed. “Meaning wealthier clients?”
He shook his head, eyes sharpening. “Meaning Glenmore.”
The name struck the air like a whip crack.
Isla sat down. “Glenmore? What reason would he have to involve himself in our affairs?”
“The same reason his family always has,” Alistair said bitterly, “which is to cause Strathmore harm whenever opportunity presents. It was so since I was a bairn, since before you were ever born.”
“But this, turning creditors?” Isla shook her head. “That is not enmity. That is … vindictiveness of another order. We’re all Jock Tamson’s weans after all.”
Alistair’s mouth twisted. “Glenmore does not see it so. To him Strathmores are less than he. And he can afford to be vindictive.His pockets are deep and his pride deeper still. If he senses advantage in our suffering, he will take it.”
Isla sifted through the remaining papers. Bills overdue. Threats wrapped in politeness. Reminders written like knives.
Isla watched him carefully. The brother she loved, the same boy who had taught her to throw stones across the burn, who had stood between her and their father’s rare rages, who carried the weight of Strathmore on shoulders not built for such burdens. That brother now looked every inch the hunted man.
