“Whatever passed between them,” he said, “Mother is beyond gossip now. And Father. We must deal with what Glenmore does, not what he once wrote in a fit of youthful ardor.”
Isla nodded. Her fury re-ignited, this time tempered with a colder resolve.
“We will,” she said. “But first we must bring our people home.”
Chapter 27
Edward heard the horses long before he saw them. Heavy hooves on frost-stiffened ground. Too many for a unneighborly call. Too purposeful for a casual visit. The sound echoed strangely against the half-ruined walls of Strathmore, bouncing through the courtyard like a warning bell.
He stepped out from the north wing, coat half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up from hauling furniture just as the column of riders came into view over the rise. At their head rode Nigel Blackwood, Duke of Glenmore.
Behind him trailed four mounted bailiffs, cloaked against the wind, their faces set in that blank officious expression common to men who come to take what is not theirs. One led a mule burdened with what looked like cases of documents and ledgers. Edward’s stomach tightened.
Isla had only just finished settling the last of the returning staff in the guest suites, the house still smelled of smoke and stew. Mhairi was shouting at someone in the kitchen about the thickness of porridge. Everywhere people shifted shapes of furniture and blankets, trying to carve out a semblance of order from devastation. Now Glenmore arrived, bringing a new kind of fire.
He dismounted with a fluidity that suggested long practice in stepping onto other men’s land.
“Wexford,” he said, as if they had parted not hours ago at his own stables. “I trust the accommodations here are … improving?”
“Strathmore stands,” Edward said. “That is improvement enough.”
Glenmore’s smile was thin. “For now.”
Alistair appeared at Edward’s side, wiping soot from his hands. He carried the tight, wary look of a man who had been bracing for a blow he could not quite predict.
“Glenmore,” he said curtly. “You’re far from your own hearth.”
“And closer to yours,” Glenmore replied. He gestured to the mule, and one of the bailiffs stepped forward with a heavy leather satchel. “I come with business.”
“At this moment?” Alistair snapped. “We are recovering what we can from a fire.”
“Yes,” Glenmore said blandly. “A regrettable incident. Fortunate your people escaped with their lives. Though the property, I fear …” He let the unfinished sentence drift like smoke.
Edward watched Isla approach, skirts still dusted with ash from her earlier work. Isla’s face was carefully schooled, but Edward saw the tension in her jaw.
“What business?” Alistair demanded.
Glenmore nodded to his men. The bailiff opened the satchel and produced a sheaf of documents, sealed and tied.
“Your creditors,” Glenmore said, “have all agreed to allow me to negotiate on their behalf. Given your … straitened circumstances, they felt a unified approach would be wise.”
Alistair’s face drained of color. “Negotiate?”
“Yes,” Glenmore went on. “A consolidation of debts. A single payer, rather than a dozen hounds at your heel. I can settle all of them, every last pound and relieve you of the burden entirely.”
Alistair stared at him. “On what terms?”
Glenmore’s smile sharpened. “Strathmore Castle. The lands, the title attached to the seat, and all holdings that were not already mortgaged to the eyebrows.”
Isla gasped. “You cannot! Alistair would never sell Strathmore!”
Edward stepped closer to Isla instinctively, one hand hovering near hers though he did not touch her outright. Glenmore’s gaze flicked to the gesture, then away.
“Unfortunately,” Glenmore said, “your brother may disagree with you.”
He withdrew yet another folded document from the satchel and flicked it open with a practiced hand.
“I have here,” he said, “a letter signed by the Duke of Strathmore, expressing his willingness to enter discussions about the sale of the estate, for a significantly higher sum, I grant you, than the lowered post-fire value. But an offer all the same.”
