Yes, of course. Summer-something or other. That pile in Shropshire that his father spoke of a few times in tones alternately wistful and full of loathing.
“The fire took most of the structure. A great tragedy. Much of it was quite aged and of an old oak construction.”
“Fire?”
“Two years ago, my lord. Most of the valuables in the house were damaged or destroyed. All the paintings, tapestries, furnishings. Your uncle was already in significant debt at the time and never, according to the estate agent’s notes, saw to any repairs.”
The adrenaline in James’s veins chilled, and his brain grappled with the news that he had inherited a title but no real earldom.
“And the land?” One could build on land. Not that he had the funds to do so. Yet.
“The land itself remains in the inheritance, of course. You may rebuild as you see fit.” Cathcart adjusted his spectacles. “Apparently, some stones from the old Summervale estate remain and may prove useful if a new structure is ever rebuilt on the site.”
“Stones? You’re telling me I’ve inherited a title and a pile of rocks?”
Cathcart cast his wrinkled face toward James and exhibited the first evidence of emotion. “Tragically, your uncle was reduced to living in the gatehouse for the final years of his life.”
James tried to rally a similar sense of compassion for the man who’d refused to take him in as a freshly orphaned boy over two decades past. None came.
“So, there is no country estate, per se. No tenants?”
“None listed. The agent mentions that many left years earlier to seek work in the city.”
“Any valuables remaining at all?”
“Not as such, my lord. At least none that are listed.”
“Any accounts with monies remaining?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord. At least no funds that won’t be needed to cover the late earl’s debts.”
James scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a raspy breath. His chest had gone hollow, and that feeling, at least, was familiar. And yet a resilientlittle flicker of hope still burned there too. Tiny, barely a glow. But unvanquished.
“Any other property?” Had the man left him nothing but a worthless honorific?
“Ah, yes!” Cathcart rifled through documents and lifted a smaller rectangle of paper. “One unentailed property, though there has been no valuation entered into the estate’s records. In fact, the agent who kept all of this in order barely mentions the manor house in Scotland at all.”
“So it might be a shambles too.”Thatwas his usual brand of luck of late. The rotten sort.
“The deed describes a two-story manor house on sixteen acres of land north of Edinburgh and not a great deal else.” Cathcart raised a brow at him. “Invermere?” He asked as if the name might jog some memory for James.
“I know nothing of my uncle, his life, or his properties. And I’m only now learning that he was apparently as dreadful at handling money as I have been.”
The solicitor let out a harrumph under his breath.
“Any other good news, Cathcart? Any at all?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. You have inherited a peerage and the Scottish manor I mentioned.” He paused only a moment to offer James a look of forced sympathy. “I will require your signature on a few of these documents. Then I can give you a key for the manor house and a list of accounts to be addressed.”
“You mean outstanding debts.”
“I do.”
They will have to wait until I pay my own bloody debts.
James settled hard into the chair in front of Cathcart’s desk and signed the documents with a grim sort of resignation. As he scratched away, repeating his signature over and over, Cathcart continued his irritating shuffling of documents.
Almost to himself, he mumbled, “There is one other detail.”
