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Chapter Five

Afortnight passed, and though it nearly drove him mad, Broden managed to obey the doctor’s dictates and his fretting mother’s regular pleas and stay abed. What no one knew was that after the fifth day, he began rising when everyone sought their mattresses each night.

Diligent to not open the healing wound, he stretched and conducted a series of calisthenics to keep his muscles strengthened and toned. He refused to become a feeble weakling by the time the doctor finally deemed him recovered enough to leave what was quickly becoming a most hated bed.

It was a wonder anyone ever recovered from ailments if their brains and muscles were always let go to mush.

If it hadn’t been for that small amount of exercise and Kendra’s company, he might truly have gone mad. Liam visited daily to impart any updates about the manhunt for his shooter, and the Dowager and Lady Penderhaven also put in an appearance each afternoon. But Kendra stayed for an hour or two after breakfast and did likewise in the evenings after dinner.

Her sacrifice rather astounded him, but she claimed other than his Mother, her schedule allowed the most freedom. Broden would’ve liked to have believed her attentiveness was because she cared at least a little.

Unused to idleness, even when recuperating from something as significant as a gunshot wound, as the fourteenth day dawned, he was dressed in the clothing his mother had thought to bring from home. Everything except for his coat, that was.

Unable to quite wrestle into the snug-fitting jacket by himself, and not wanting to chance tearing his wound open, he’d opted to forgo the garment. The ladies’ sensibilities would have to be offended, for he intended to eat breakfast wearing only his shirt, belt, and trews.

I bet that never happens in those fancy English houses.

His wound was healing splendidly—the doctor’s words, not his—and there were too many things demanding his attention that he couldn’t postpone.

Of the shooter, Liam had informed him, they’d found no trace except for horse hoofprints leading to the township. There, the trail went frustratingly cold, as any number of people had visited Eddleshaugh that fateful day. Most especially after the locals had been home-bound on account of the rains.

Liam had questioned Angus McCurdy and Tobias Moore, the two lodging house owners, and learned Mr. Philibius Oswald had departed the Toadstool Inn and Tavern for London early the morning the day the weather cleared.

He’d made his displeasure known far and wide that he’d been unwillingly detained by the Scottish Highland’s dismal and most uncooperative clime. He’d also adamantly proclaimed he hoped never to have to venture to the Highlands again.

As Broden had no intention of retaining the man as his attorney, he could think of no reason Oswald would need to.

The other lodgers—three at the Toadstool Inn and four at The Trumpeting Swan—had been unfortunate travelers caught in the storm. Not a soul raised any obvious suspicions amongst the lot.

Still, Broden wanted to speak to the innkeepers himself. He also must travel to his new estate—an ostentatious-sounding place called Sommerley Parke House—to make arrangements for the countess and her children, as well as follow up on his hunch and visit Oswald’s offices in London.

And then there was the envious cousin.

Edwin Archibald Windbag McGregor

World traveler, investor, and hobnobber with aristocrats. Oh, and until a short while ago, under the misapprehension, he would soon be the Fifth Earl of Montforth.

Precisely where had he been the day Broden had nearly been picked off?

He meant to find out.

Although he conceded, Edwin might be the sort who hired the job done, rather than commit the act himself. If that were the case, someone knew something, and a few shiny coins had a mysterious way of loosening tongues.

What to do with his mother in his absence was another matter. He was of two minds about her.

He’d be gone at least a fortnight, probably more, and he didn’t want her alone at their house until the fiend who shot him was in custody. Yet he was hesitant to impose upon Liam and ask that she be permitted to stay at Eytone Hall until he returned. She’d be safer here.

Independent and proud, she might refuse, in any event.

Perhaps it was best to have a candid discussion with Liam before he made that decision.

Taking one last, disinterested glance in the looking glass above the washstand, he scowled. He’d cut himself shaving. Twice. A scratch on his chin and another nick near his left ear. What was more, his hair hung loose, but clean, about his shoulders.

Not a ribbon or length of leather was amongst his possessions. His mother’s only oversight. Or, perhaps she’d deliberately forgotten to pack them. She’d prefer that he wore his hair shorn short.

His casual appearance would have to do.

No mincing fop here. Thank God. A grin split his face as he imagined the reaction to England’s perfectly proper and stuffy peers if he should arrive at a grand function appearing as he did at this moment. Nae, wearing a kilt, too.