James looked at the man and waited until the solicitor met his gaze. “Tell me.”
“There’s mention of a woman. A Lady Cassandra Munro, who is described asin residencetwo years ago at the address in Scotland, though with no record of rents paid by her to the earldom. She’s also mentioned in the late earl’s will as the recipient of a piece of jewelry.” Cathcart looked at James expectantly.
“A mistress?”
“I suspect as much, my lord.”
“Seems a long way to go to visit one’s lover.”
The old man’s face flushed pink under his whiskers, and James almost chuckled at his prudishness.
“No indication whether she is still in residence.”
“Well, if she is, I’m afraid it won’t be for long.” If that house was his single means of recouping some financial relief from this turn of events, the lady would need to find other accommodations. That’s all there was to it.
James capped the solicitor’s pen, laid it on theman’s desk, and stood again. “You’ll send everything?” He had no real desire for the pile of papers on the desk, but he understood the weight of responsibility. And now, this one was his.
“I shall send a letter to Lady Cassandra Munro informing her of the jewelry and that you intend to take possession of the manor. Is there anything you wish me to add about how you plan to settle Invermere?”
A flare of sympathy made him sigh. The poor lady probably believed his uncle would bequeath her the house if he gave her leave to reside there. James had been the recipient of so much bad news of late, he recoiled at the notion of visiting ill tidings on someone else. But he had no other choice, and he’d do it himself.
“I’ll go to Scotland. I need to see about selling as soon as possible.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The use of the honorific made him shiver now. His father had expected to inherit and eventually pass the title on to James. It was why, when the old earl, James’s grandfather, was ill, they’d all trundled off via train to Shropshire.
That thought brought his darkest memories. The ones that haunted him, reshaping themselves night after night in his dreams for years. Even now, the smell of smoke, the sound of twisting, grinding metal as the train derailed, and the screams of train passengers echoed in his mind. And then thevoice of his mother.Stay calm, love. It will be all right.
But it hadn’t been. And he’d lost them both.
All in pursuit of this worthless title.
Hearing himself referred to as Lord Rossbury would always feel like a curse.
“How dare you!”
James heard his housekeeper’s offended bellow from a block away. Mrs. Wilton’s Welsh lilt was unmistakable, and the outrage in her tone was underscored by fear. Once he’d made it past a nanny pushing a pram along the sidewalk of his semifashionable square, James broke into a run toward his town house.
The front door stood ajar, and two strangers faced down his housekeeper. His blood chilled when he spotted the men, and the simmering anger after the morning’s disappointment turned to rage.
Archibald Beck’s thugs? The man had always issued vague threats of “consequences” if James failed to repay his debt. There was no doubt Archie Beck was a man of violence—though he tended to dole it out through intermediaries like these men, never dirtying his own hands. It was true James had put off repaying the man for months, but this was too far. The folly had been his own. He wouldn’t see his staff endangered for it.
He assessed the intruders as he pushed the open door wider and stepped across the threshold. Two beefy men in gaudy suits nearly bursting at the seams to contain their brawn.
“Step away from her.” He stripped off his coat and tossed it on the hall table. As he worked the buttons at his cuffs free, he offered his housekeeper a questioning glance. “Are you unharmed?”
Her cheeks had taken on a flushed glow and her eyes still bulged in fear, but she offered him a curt nod. “I am, sir.”
“These men pushed their way in and demanded to speak to you, sir.” Jeffries, James’s aged butler whose rheumatic knees kept him belowstairs much of the time, approached whilst leaning heavily on a cane.
“What do you want?” James positioned himself in front of Mrs. Wilton and the housemaid and footman who stood behind her. Methodically rolling up his sleeves, he guessed which man was the leader among the two. He’d be the one to feel James’s fist first if things went pear-shaped.
Mrs. Wilton spoke before either of Beck’s men could utter a word in reply.
“They say they’ve cause to remove the paintings and demanded the silver. Asked me to go into your safe and bring them everything inside, they did.” She turned toward him and took a step closer, whispering, “They say there are debts, sir. Is it true?”
In truth, it was only one debt, and one grandly disastrous mistake of trusting Archibald Beck.
