CHAPTERSEVEN
Alec stared into the amber depths of his whisky, ignoring the denizens of the modest gentlemen’s club. Devorguilla’s letter sat in his pocket, and he’d read it a dozen times.
She needed money. The estate needed repairs, and all her meager funds were going to care for her young daughters. Her late husband, the seventh earl, had left numerous debts to be settled, she pleaded. If she could find a way to declare Alec dead and sell Glenlorne, she could make arrangements that would provide dowries for her girls. She wanted nothing for herself—or so she said. She said not one word of Glenlorne’s people, or the fact that the land beneath the crumbling castle represented four hundred years of MacNabb history—her daughters’ history, and his own.
“Good evening, Glenlorne,” a fellow patron greeted Alec by his new title as he passed, heading for the gaming rooms. Alec gritted his teeth, but didn’t acknowledge the man. Within hours of meeting with Westlake, a dozen men had greeted him as Glenlorne instead of plain MacNabb. He silently cursed Westlake, and Devorguilla too. How long would it take for news to spread that his earldom was penniless, and his family would prefer it if he were as dead as his father? There was no doubt that Devorguilla wanted to sell whatever there was left to sell. Alec wondered how much the castle and the land might be worth. He’d come to one conclusion in the hours since his meeting with Westlake—when he returned to Scotland, if he returned at all, he’d need money. It was now up to him to provide for his half sisters, at the very least. He’d probably be forced to do exactly what Devorguilla intended to do and sell Glenlorne. Or—he looked at the door to the gaming room—he could go home with at least a little brass in his pocket, perhaps, if he was luckier than he’d been recently. If he was far luckier than that, he might even win enough to fool them into thinking he really had been in Ceylon. He had to try at the very least. He swallowed the last of his whisky and rose from his seat.
An hour later, Alec stared down at the worthless cards in his hand.
“Well, my lord earl?” Jasper Kendrick asked.
Alec ignored the use of his title. The balance of his coin already lay before Jasper, and the man was about to win yet again. Alec felt a thin trickle of sweat crawl down his spine. He forced himself to grin, as if he’d inherited a rich dukedom instead of a penniless Scottish ruin, and laid down his cards, and tossed his remaining few guineas onto the table. “I’m leaving Town for a few weeks, so I’ll save you the trouble of carrying my vowel till I come back.”
“You’re leaving in the middle of the Season?” Jasper’s pale blue eyes bulged. “Now? You must know a title improves a man no end in the eyes of potential brides. You’re bound to be the talk of every hen party in London now you’ve inherited. The ladies won’t be happy to see a handsome, strapping, titled bachelor leave during husband-hunting season.” He picked up the money without bothering to count it.
Alec rose. “Flattering though the attention might be, I’m in not in the market for a wife.”
Jasper chuckled. “You say that now, but have you considered a lady like Miss Anne Devereaux? She has a thousand pounds a year, but she’s lonely for a title. Countess would suit her nicely.”
“Then I hope she finds a nice, willing earl to give her what she wants,” Alec said. “Good night, Kendrick. Enjoy my coin.” He eyed the pile of coin in front of his wealthy opponent regretfully and turned away, heading for the door.
A glided cane blocked his path. “Good evening, Glenlorne. I was hoping I might have a private word before you leave.” Alec looked at the cane, considered grabbing it and snapping it over his knee. The bearer hadn’t even bothered to stand up to stop him. He sat at a table near the door, half in shadow. Alec glared at him, an obscene rebuke on the tip of his tongue. His mouth dried as he looked into the dull face of the Earl of Bray. The earl held his eyes, his expression cold and unreadable.
He indicated a seat across from him. “Join me.”
What choice did he have? Alec wondered if the earl knew he’d broken into his home, terrorized his wife, stolen her private letters. He sat down slowly, wondering if he was about to feel the cold steel of a knife under the table as it thrust into his belly.
But Bray merely signaled for the waiter, a jeweled signet ring glinting in the spartan candlelight. “Whisky would be most appropriate, I assume?” he asked Alec. Alec nodded, his jaw too tight to speak. Bray smiled, and Alec recognized ruthlessness masquerading as camaraderie. His skin prickled as the earl’s gaze slid over him. Neither Westlake nor his own meager title would protect him if Bray knew. Alec searched Bray’s face, but there was no accusation there. Surely if Bray wished to ask about the break-in, he’d simply have waited outside, had a few burly footmen wrestle Alec into a dark coach, or an even darker alley. The man before him was a companion to the Prince Regent, one of the most powerful peers in the kingdom. But if he wasn’t here for that, then what in hell did he want?
Bray waited until the waiter had set the drinks before them and taken his leave. He raised his glass, his eyes hard as jet as he stared at Alec over the rim.
“Kendrick is quite right, you know. You’ll be very much in demand on the marriage mart now you have a title.”
It was on the tip of Alec’s tongue to insist the earl call him MacNabb, but he held his tongue, curious now, as well as wary. “You didn’t do very well at the tables tonight,” Bray stated.
“What’s this about, my lord?” Alec asked. Bray let his gaze fall to Alec’s untouched glass.
“Tell me, do you make whisky on your estates in Scotland?”
“No.” Alec replied shortly, though his father had drunk enough ale to fill the lake below the castle.
“Do you raise sheep, weave wool at Glenlorne?”
Alec was silent.
“Cattle? Oats?”
“Why do you ask?” Alec demanded again.
“Because I’m curious. I wondered what kind of income a Scottish earl might have, so I looked into it.”
It was clear enough by the smirk on Bray’s face that he knew Glenlorne was penniless. Alec had no intention of playing games with a bored English earl, or listening to another Englishman belittle Scotland—and him—for his own amusement.
He began to rise. “Good night, Lord Bray.”
Bray held up an imperious hand. “Do sit down. I have a proposition for you.”
“No—” Alec began.
