Page 101 of The Tartan Trap

He turned toward the door and Margaret wanted to say something to keep him from going, but she hardly knew what. She gripped Callum’s journal so hard that her fingers blanched.

Ellis paused in the doorway. “I’m doing my best to convince Callum that he should finish out the Season by going to the last ball at the end of this week. If there’s no purpose in that, please send me word. Those things bore me to tears.”

CHAPTER 36- CALLUM

“Your Grace, you have a visitor.” His butler gave a short bow in the doorway of Callum’s study.

Callum raised his weary eyes from his ledger. The butler hesitated for half a second, which was shocking. Callum had never seen him less than completely composed—no matter his cousin’s outlandish outbursts, or how many times Callum shucked his boots and left them under a table somewhere.

“It’s a young boy, Your Grace. A street urchin by the looks of him. He’s at the servants’ entrance. I would have sent him away already, but he has Your Grace’s card.”

Callum leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together over his stomach. “Let me guess…this boy has red hair?”

“A shocking quantity of it, Your Grace.”

“I believe his name is Stephen. You may escort him in.”

“Would you like me to send Blanchard as well, Your Grace?”

Blanchard was one of the footmen, the only one who might be able to give Callum a run for his money in fisticuffs. It was so rare for Callum to meet someone similar in size and stature, that he’d been tempted to invite the fellow to a sparring match.

Callum wouldn’t, of course. As one of his servants, the man would be obliged to say yes and then wouldn’t feel comfortable trying his hardest. He’d let Callum win. It was one of the most disappointing things about having a title: no one would take a proper swing at Callum anymore.

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you, I believe I can handle the boy just fine. Besides, I think I know why he’s come. Tell me, does it look like he’s combed his hair?”

“Indeed, sir, though there’s still a great too much of it for my liking.” He frowned as if for emphasis.

Callum nodded solemnly at the butler’s dour expression, only breaking into a smile after the man had shut the door behind him. He’d been curious whether Stephen—the young boy who took his sovereign all those weeks ago near St. Alban’s—would ever muster the courage to knock on his door.

The other three boys had. They were now quite happily employed in various pursuits. Two of them were apprenticed to stonemasons, and one of them had been handed over to the care of a carpenter. Part of the agreement Callum had made when hiring those tradesmen was that they would take the boys on as apprentices.

Callum thought that the arrangements would last longer than the building of the orphanage. But if not, he hoped that the four months of employment would put the boys in the habit of rising early, showing up on time, and working hard until supper.

Callum had lived his own early days under such a cadence. He believed it was that particular rhythm that helped instill in him an excellent work ethic. Even now, with his mind full of Miss Margaret Preston and their painful last meeting, Callum was dedicated to the success of his estate, to the ledgers, and he attended to every missive from his stewards the same day it was received.

Truthfully, Callum would have preferred to set off immediately for Scotland, but Ellis had caught a late taste for the amusements of town. The past few days, his cousin was always out at the museums or some function or another. Inexplicably, Ellis was even badgering Callum to attend the final ball of the Season with him that evening.

Callum didn’t see the point. His relationship with Margaret had come to its worst possible end, and there was no one he wished to see. He was determined to stay home and oversee packing for their departure for Scotland in the morning instead.

A knock sounded on the door. Callum bade them enter, and the butler deposited Stephen before the large desk. The boy looked much the same in appearance, save that his hands and face had been washed, and his great quantity of red hair had indeed been wrestled into some semblance of order.

But the largest change came from the expression the youth now wore. It was half apprehension, half guilt, and as Callum watched him impassively, Stephen glanced back toward the door with obvious longing.

“Well,” Callum said, arching an eyebrow, “you are here.”

Stephen jerked at his words. Then he bent at the waist in such a deep, drawn-out bow that it was all Callum could do to keep from laughing.

“You may rise,” he finally said, when it was clear that the boy intended upon staying in such a prostrate position until he was excused from it. Callum managed to wipe all amusement from his face before the boy was upright again.

The boy swallowed deeply. “Your Grace, I have come to apologize.”

“Is that so?”

The boy nodded. “I have wronged you and your household, and I am deeply sorry.”

“Very well, Stephen.” The boy’s eyes went wide that Callum had remembered his name. Callum said, “What precisely are you apologizing for?”

“For giving you false information about Miss Margaret, for taking your sovereign when I hadn’t earned it, and for not coming sooner to ask about a job.”