“Indeed. And you’re right on time, Mr. Pembroke. I do admire punctuality.”
“Then we’re off to a good start.” James tried for that easy, jovial manner he’d used in the past whenmeeting new business prospects. Smiling generally encouraged others to do the same.
Not so with Mr. Mortimer Cathcart, Esquire.
The man dipped his nose, examined James above the frame of his spectacles, and then ducked back into his office like a mole retreating into his burrow.
“Do sit, sir. I deduce from your manner that what I have to tell you may come as a shock.”
Well damn. Apparently, it was to be bad news. James didn’t need intuition to interpret the grim set of the man’s mouth and the way his eyes darted to and fro.
Unbidden, a rusty chuckle bubbled up, a sound of exhaustion. So much for his string of bad luck taking a turn today. But he was prepared. He could take it. What could be worse than losing the shipping fleet you’d spent years assembling?
Cathcart gestured toward a spindly chair in front of his desk. A spark of rebellion flared up in James. He was tempted to insist on standing while the man delivered the blow. But it wasn’t the solicitor’s fault he’d been tasked with bearing ill news. Indeed, he looked rather morose about whatever he was about to impart.
“Don’t mind if I do,” James said congenially, trying to fold his tall, broad limbs into the too-small chair. “Thank you.”
Five minutes later, he was bloody glad he was seated on his arse, because nothing could haveprepared him for the words that had come out of the solicitor’s mouth.
“Repeat yourself, Cathcart,” he barked. “Slowly.”
The older man’s spectacles bounced along with his overgrown brows. He cleared his throat, glanced down at the documents on his desk, and then turned nervous eyes on James.
“You, sir, are Lord Rossbury’s heir. Your uncle sired no sons, and his brother, your father, died years ago. As, of course, you know.” The man cleared his throat.
Yes, thank you, Cathcart. He did know when his father died, and his mother, and he kept that day and those memories firmly shut away. But he’d never forget how his uncle had offered him no home, no aid, not even an ounce of consolation.
“My condolences are yours, as is the earldom of Rossbury, as of three days ago, when your uncle—”
James didn’t hear the rest of what the solicitor said—or rather, the sharply accented words faded as an emotion took hold of every atom of his being. A feeling almost as powerful as the throes of pleasurable release, warming like the first searing sip of good whiskey.
Relief. Pure, sweet solace. An elixir for all the worries he’d been wrestling for months. It flowed through his veins like summer wine, and he felt drunk with the thrill of it. He burst up from his chair, and Cathcart laid a hand over his own throat, as if James meant to accost him.
“I could kiss you, Cathcart.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t, Mr. Pembroke.”
“Then perhaps I’ll just dance a jig right here in your office.” James hadn’t danced in months, but he moved his feet in a pattern he recalled. Decidedly less enjoyable without music, but he had to do something with his exaltation.
“Sir. My lord. Please, may I ask you to resume your seat.” Cathcart gestured toward the dainty chair in front of his desk. “I have a great deal more to tell you, and I beg you to refrain from any... displays until I’ve fulfilled my duties as set out in your uncle’s will.”
But he couldn’t contain it. The energetic thrill of finally, once more, finding that luck had favored him. He’d been so close to despair. Holding on to hope got harder the more often doors were closed in your face, friends turned their backs on you, and you found that paying for mere necessities brought worry.
Yet he’d persevered. Reminded himself that the tragedy of his youth hadn’t been a curse but a lesson—fueling his ambition and success. One devastating failure in judgment couldn’t destroy him, only set him back awhile.
And it had all been leading to this. This fated moment. This strange man delivering relief in the one way James hadneverever imagined it might come.
“How much?” He turned to the aged solicitor, standing behind the chair because he couldn’t bear sitting and gripping the wooden frame until hisknuckles ached. “The earldom’s assets, man. Tell me their value.”
He expected Cathcart’s sneer of judgment in response to the blunt question. Even after years of success in the shipping industry, James knew that gentlemen who put on airs liked to behave as if speaking openly of money was a sin. Well, to hell with false propriety.
“That will take some explaining, my lord.”
My lord. That washistitle now. Bloody hell, what a turn of events for a Tuesday.
James rolled his hand in the air, urging the man to continue.
“There is an estate—”
