“Can she do this?” Alec asked.
The earl’s brows twitched again, indicating amusement, if Westlake was capable of such an emotion. “You appear very much alive to me, Glenlorne,” he replied, using Alec’s new title. “I expect you’ll want to go north and deal with this yourself, in person.”
Alec stared at him. “No.”
Westlake’s brows took wing for his hairline. “No?”
Alec got up and paced the length of the carpet. “I shall direct Waters to send her a letter.” Was that the correct thing to do? He might be an earl by inheritance, but he had no idea how to be an earl. What should he say to Devorguilla, what commands should he give, beyond confirming the fact that he was indeed still alive?
Westlake didn’t speak for a long moment. He seemed to be considering something. “In truth, Glenlorne—”
“MacNabb will do just fine, thank you,” Alec growled.
“I need you in Scotland—or at least out of London. The missing letter has turned up. Lord Bray has it, and I’ve been assured he knows the whole truth. He packed Countess Bray off to the country yesterday afternoon, and he refused an invitation to dine with the Prince Regent.”
“What does that mean?” Alec asked. He had no idea what the letters contained.
“It means that I can no longer use your services.”
Alec gripped the back of the chair until the leather squeaked. “Because of one mistake in seven years?”
Westlake remained calm—he was never anything but calm. “No, not entirely, though I do recall I warned you that mistakes could not be allowed to happen. No, you’ve got a title now. You’ve become visible, a gentleman. Someone might recognize you if you began to frequent the kind of society functions your new status allows.”
“Now why would I do that?” Alec demanded.
Westlake opened a drawer, took out a book, and held it up.
Alec read the title. “Waverley? Walter Scott’s novel?”
Westlake riffled the pages. “Yes. The wholetonis reading it, my wife included, and mainly because the Prince Regent is fascinated by it. He invited Scott to London, and his interest is now making all things Scottish quite fashionable. He has Scottish ancestry, of course, and he’ll be the King of Scotland eventually.”
Alec chuckled. “I doubt he’ll be inviting me to tea to chat about my homeland, my lord.”
“No, but as a Scottish earl, you’ll be in much demand by the rest of theton, the fashionable folk who wish to emulate His Highness’s interest. Why, my own wife has suggested we summer in Scotland, give a ball with a Scottish theme. I have put her off, of course, but you can see why you must go.”
Alec folded his arms over his chest. “And if I refuse?”
“I trust you remember an English earl still has precedence over a Scottish one?” Westlake asked calmly. “Did you know that Bray has offered a reward regarding the robbery of his home the other night? It seems a valuable necklace was stolen, his wife terrorized so badly she had to retire to the country. His footman saw a tall man with dark hair,” he mused.
“I didn’t take the necklace,” Alec said.
“Of course not, but it would be most inconvenient if you were identified—perhaps even hanged—for a crime you did not commit. Youdidterrorize Her Ladyship, if nothing else. She might be able to identify you.”
Alec’s lips twisted bitterly, and he cast a glance around the luxurious room. There was nothing at Glenlorne to compare with this. Not even the coffee that Northcott had silently delivered at some point during the conversation. Westlake crossed to the tray, and poured out. The rich fragrance reminded Alec that he wasn’t in Ceylon, living the life of a rich planter. He was a penniless thief, and his life, his secrets—they all belonged to Westlake. He left his coffee untouched and gave Westlake an exaggerated bow.
He grabbed Devorguilla’s letter off Westlake’s desk and shoved it into his coat for good measure. “If you don’t mind my lord earl, I’ll handle my own affairs from now on,” he said, and strode toward the door.
CHAPTERSIX
The heavy coach jolted and flew like a child’s toy over yet another deep rut in the road. Caroline winced and clutched the window ledge until the vehicle righted itself.
“That was a bad one!” The gentleman in the green hat, a certain Mr. Brill from Hampshire, chuckled. Caroline refrained from rolling her eyes. He’d made that same pronouncement about every single pothole between London and—well, wherever they were now.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Brill,” the woman in blue said, fanning her flushed face with her glove. “All this rain has made the roads a dreadful mess. I have no hope at all of reaching my destination with my bones intact!”
“And where is it you’re bound, Mrs. Hindon?” asked the second gentleman, a clergyman named Scroop. He had stuck his long nose into a book of Latin history as the coach set out from London, and left it there for most of the trip. After hours with nothing to do, Caroline envied him the prize of something, anything—even Latin history—to read. Mrs. Hindon preened under his attention.
“I’m going to Berwick, sir. My sister lives there, and she’s been poorly. Her husband died not a month past, and she’s in the family way. I hope to be a comfort to her however I can.”
