Julia London 4 Book Bundle (96 page)

Still … Arthur shook his head. A journey deep into Scotland was hardly the same thing as popping over to Paris. And it wasn’t as if he knew anyone there at all—he’d be virtually alone. Yet it wasn’t as if he was engaged in any meaningful activity here. His life consisted merely of another Season’s events, which included, he thought with a grimace, the constant parade of unmarried debutantes under his nose, the occasional
outing with Julian and Adrian when they weren’t engaged with their families, and the periodic call to Madame Farantino’s to tend to his physical needs. There was nothing: no purpose, no reason for him to be here. He did not really
belong
here.

A movement to his right caught Arthur’s eye and he glanced across the room, his gaze landing on Portia. She was smiling seductively at him while her husband chatted with another gentleman, fingering the pearl at her bosom again, openly stroking herself.

No, it wasn’t as if there was anything or anyone to hold him in London.

He owed this to Phillip, didn’t he? He had failed him miserably; the least he could do was try and clean up the mess he had left in Scotland and establish his good name again.

Arthur pondered it until the early morning hours when the ball finally began to draw to a close. Julian and Claudia were among the first to escape. As they stood beneath the great stone portico and waited for a runner to fetch their driver, Claudia slipped her hand into Arthur’s and smiled up at him, winking mischievously. “I’ve convinced my stubborn husband that we ought to have a supper party, Wednesday next. Wouldn’t you please come, Arthur? I’m rather keen to invite Miss Wilhelmina Bentson-Fitzmayor. She is a dear friend of mine and her father a rather generous benefactor to the Whitney-Dane School for Girls, but she hasn’t been introduced as of yet. You’d be doing me a great honor.”

Arthur returned Claudia’s bright smile and squeezed her hand affectionately. “I am terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I must decline,” he said smoothly.

Julian chuckled as their coach pulled to the curb. “I assure you, Miss Wilhelmina Bentson-Fitzmayor is a far sight lovelier than her name.”

Arthur bent to kiss Claudia’s cheek, then returned Julian’s smirk as he helped her into the coach. “I don’t
doubt for a moment that she is, but I shan’t be in London Wednesday next,” he said as Claudia settled herself on the squabs.

“Indeed?” Julian drawled as he stepped inside the cab. “And where exactly might you be, old chum?”

Arthur smiled. “Scotland.”

E
DINBURGH,
S
COTLAND

M
R.
J
AMIE
R
EGIS
, Esquire, stared at the man sitting across from him in the leather winged-back chair, quietly reading a letter. He didn’t like the looks of Lord Arthur Christian very much; he had that air of suffocating wealth about him. Not that Jamie Regis had anything against wealth … he just didn’t like being
summoned
by it.

And summoned was exactly what Christian had done, sending him a letter one month ago dictating exactly where and when he would be expected to show himself, without any thought as to how difficult it might be for Jamie to come all the way to Edinburgh. The English Ass had business in Edinburgh, and therefore expected the world to come to him, just like the rich sheep farmers Jamie often represented.

Look at him.
He was awfully pleased with himself, wasn’t he? Sitting there like the king himself, right in the middle of the drawing room of the fancy Kenilworth Hotel, one leg draped casually over the other as he read the bank’s letter. Jamie considered himself rather dapper in his grooming, but the Ass was wearing a dark brown coat made of a material so fine it had to have come all the way from Paris. And his waistcoat—Lord, the pale green waistcoat was silk, Jamie was quite certain of it,
and embroidered with rose and dark brown thread that exactly matched his coat. His pale green and brown neckcloth was impeccably tied, and the cut of his hair—a bit longer than the current style, Jamie thought smugly—was trimmed in such a way as to tame the waves in it. Even the man’s side whiskers were, impossibly, perfectly matched. It just wasn’t possible for a man to be that exacting on himself!

He shifted his gaze to Christian’s hands and smirked. They were big, large hands—perfectly manicured, a heavy gold seal of some sort on the left ring finger—hands that had never worked a day.

Jamie’s smirk faded as his gaze dropped to the man’s feet—and he quietly sucked in his breath. It was Christian’s boots that held him in awe. Rich, supple leather, tanned to shining perfection, rising up to a flawless fit just below his knee. Jamie Regis would have laid down his life for a pair of boots like that.

“Mr. Regis?”

Caught salivating over the man’s boots, Jamie colored. He looked up, felt instantly overpowered—the other thing the Ass possessed was a very sharp hazel gaze. “Aye?” he responded tightly.

“I’m still a bit unclear. You handled Lord Rothembow’s investment in property in … where was it again … ah yes, Glenbaden, in Perthshire, is that correct?”

Jamie nodded.

“I imagine it is rather picturesque there.”

When Jamie refused comment again, Christian smiled knowingly. “And you negotiated a settlement on the land and cattle with the Bank of Scotland for one-half the purchase price of eight thousand pounds to be paid at signing, and a loan against the other half for which the tenant had a responsibility to pay with proceeds from the sale of six beeves per annum over three subsequent years?”

He had to think hard about that succinct summary; slowly, he nodded.

Christian cocked his head to one side. “Please help me to understand, Mr. Regis. This letter from the bank clearly states that the debt owed on one-half the purchase price is in arrears and the taxes have not been paid since the loan was granted. I understood that a rather sizable herd of cattle was purchased with the land—was it not considered collateral against that loan?” he asked smoothly.

Lord, the man’s gaze did not waver at all; Jamie felt as if it was actually piercing him all the way through his skull and to the chair behind his head as he waited for an answer. Unnerved, he hastily dropped his gaze and fumbled through a stack of papers he held on his lap. “Milord, it appears that ah …”
Christ, what was the tenant’s name again?
He hadn’t been to that glen in three years now, but God Almighty, whoever would have thought his practice would explode as it had … “Ah, Fraser,” he quickly continued, latching onto the man’s Christian name from some dust-covered memory. “
Ahem.
Aye, milord, Fraser did not make the payments to the bank as was agreed. Now, in thirty-four, there was quite a drought, quite a drought indeed, and I rather imagine there was no grazing land to speak of. And then in thirty-five there was a great influx of sheep to the region. That would be—”

“Mr. Regis,” Christian smoothly interrupted in a way that made Jamie grit his teeth, “shouldn’t this … 
Fraser … 
have contacted you and asked for arrangements to be made with Lord Rothembow’s handlers in London when he missed the first payment? Or the second? Certainly the third?”

There was no arguing that point; Jamie stopped fumbling through his papers and met the man’s gaze head on. “Aye, milord, he certainly should have. But I
did
send a letter to Lord Rothembow at once upon receiving the correspondence from the bank.”

A slight frown crossed the Ass’s features and Jamie imagined that were
he
a solicitor here, he would personally call on his clients to see after things instead of relying on them to tell him when something was amiss. Well bloody hell, he could hardly be blamed for the fact that his practice had tripled in the last five years. Surely even the perfect Lord Arthur Christian wouldn’t have turned down the sheep herders that came to him, even if they were spread between Inverness and Fort William and Skye and—

“Please take note, Mr. Regis,” the insufferable man said, and templing his fingers, narrowed his eyes and stared into space for a moment before continuing. “You will call on Fraser directly and inform him that, due to the deplorable state of his covenant with Lord Rothembow, the covenant is hereby and immediately suspended.” He paused, sipped delicately at a whiskey, then glanced curiously at Jamie. “You are making note, I trust?”

Miraculously, Jamie refrained from saying what was on the tip of his tongue, bent his head, and gripping his pencil so tightly that his fingers hurt, scratched out the instruction he had just been given. “I am taking note, milord,” he said tightly.

“Furthermore, you may tell him that he is to be evicted forthwith from the property and the land and remaining cattle to be put to sale as soon as possible, the proceeds of which will go to retire the outstanding debt, the taxes owed, and the interest accumulated these four years.” He paused again, quietly waiting for Jamie to finish writing his exact instructions. When Jamie at last lifted his head again, Christian leaned forward, commanding Jamie’s undivided attention. “When you make this call, sir,” he said low, “you should be quite clear with Mr. Fraser that I fully intend to pursue all remedies afforded to me by Scottish law in an effort to recoup the losses he has caused the late Phillip Rothembow, and that I will do so as the lawful agent of the Rothembow
estate and with the full authority of the British Crown. Is that understood?”

He spoke like a mercenary, as if he handed down such cold edicts all the time. Jamie nodded dumbly.

Christian responded with a curt nod of his own. “Very good. In the meantime, I shall travel to Dundee upon concluding my business in Glasgow and pay the interest due as well as the taxes owed so that we may dispose of the property without hindrance.”

He paused again, caught the eye of the servant across the room and nodded faintly at the whiskey glass next to his elbow before turning to Jamie again. “I shall expect to hear from you as to a date we might meet again and conclude this ugly business. But please understand that I fully expect to be on a ship to London by the end of the month and will brook no delays. I believe that is all, sir. Thank you for coming.”

Jamie blinked. He couldn’t be entirely certain—the Ass spoke awfully fast in the clipped tone of the aristocracy—but he thought he had just been dismissed. His eyes narrowed slightly; he puffed his cheeks and loudly gathered his belongings, fuming over the notion that he had come all the way from Inverness like a dog at this man’s summons, only to be ordered about and dismissed like a servant. The thought so angered him that he stood abruptly and immediately dropped several of his papers.

The King leaned over the arm of his chair and retrieved them. “Your papers, sir.”

Jamie quickly snatched them from his hand. “Why,
thank
you, milord,” he snarled, and turned on his heel, fully intending to march away.

“Mr. Regis!”

Jamie stopped, debating whether or not to turn for fear that he might actually explode. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.

“You forgot to inquire as to where you may reach me. When you have completed your task, you may send
word to the Sherbrooke in Dundee to the attention of Lord Arthur Christian.”

“The Sherbrooke,” Jamie managed to echo, and turned sharply, marching quickly from the posh drawing room of the Kenilworth before he did something foolish, like snap the man’s neck. As he paused just outside the door to straighten his things and himself, he glanced back—Lord Arthur Christian was sipping a fresh whiskey that had materialized, casually reading a newspaper.

No, he did not like that haughty English Ass one bit.
Not one bit.

Later, at a tavern near the highway where Jamie waited to board an overnight coach to Stirling, he looked at the notes he had made while suffering through that interview. He knew that Christian fully expected him to call on … Fraser?
What in the devil was his name, anyway?
But a trip to the central Highlands really wasn’t practical just now. Jamie retrieved a leather-bound book from his satchel and opened it. There, in his neat script, was a list of appointments and legal matters he had pending. It was obvious from the extensive list that there was no time to go tramping about the Trossachs. Actually, he was desperately needed in Fort Williams where one of his clients was in a terribly heated dispute about a shipment of tobacco that sank off the French coast.

Lifting a tankard of ale to his lips, Jamie Regis pondered his dilemma.

In all honesty, a letter would have as much impact as his calling. He could simply write Fraser Whateverhisname, explain the details of the eviction, and fix a date for his final call. The arrogant Ass would never know the difference—he’d get what he wanted, which was the settlement of the estate. Aye, this course was justified—he had far too much real work to take the additional time. He would simply pen a letter, inform Fraser that he would call four weeks hence to “conclude this ugly
business,” as Christian put it, and tend to his business in Fort William.

Right.

A letter.

That’s what he’d do. Just as soon as he found the man’s blasted name.

G
LENBADEN,
C
ENTRAL
H
IGHLANDS,
S
COTLAND

W
HEN THE HAPLESS
young Willie Keith delivered the weekly post to the scattering of modest homes in Glenbaden each week, the residents—what few of them were left, anyway—gathered in their yards and waited. Not for Willie, of course, but the widow Kerry McKinnon. Mrs. McKinnon had the task of actually delivering the post because young Willie was so desperately in love with her, he couldn’t rightly read the names on the vellums, much less find his way down the rutted lane snaking through the glen.

So every Wednesday, Willie Keith rode through the barley field of their peaceful little glen on the back of his mule. He looked neither left nor right, but simply disappeared over the knoll that led to the big white house of the late Fraser McKinnon. And every Wednesday, shortly after Willie’s arrival, Mrs. McKinnon would appear on the knoll with a basket in her hand, leaving the poor young Willie to stare after her with such longing on his freckled face that the residents couldn’t help but worry that this would be the week he would actually expire with it.