Page 3 of Who’s That Earl

Once more, he eased a finger beneath his collar. “I’m afraid, sir, I still don’t understand…”

“How you came to inherit an earldom? Oh, in the usual way, as I understand it. The previous holder of the title died.”

“Aye, sir. But how came I to be next in line for it? Or even in the queue, come to that? So far as I ken, I’ve nary a drop of noble blood in my veins.”

That remark sent Scott rummaging through the stacks on his desk. From beneath a small avalanche of paper and even a book or two, he emerged with a letter bearing an official-looking seal. “But you do. Or, at least, your mother did. It seems Magnus is one of those peculiar Scottish titles that can pass through the female line.” He extended the parchment, but Thomas made no move to take it, and Scott let it flutter from his fingertips to rejoin the pile.

His mother, his kind, delicate, clever mother, a countess...if she’d lived. In some ways, that might be the least surprising revelation of all. She’d been the source of all gentleness—and, evidently, gentility—in his childhood home.

Her death of some unnamed malady when he’d been fifteen had changed everything. Devastated, his father had packed up their belongings and dragged his son south, to England, where the older man had died just three years later.

Intending, in any event, to take the king’s shilling, Thomas had used his small inheritance to purchase an officer’s commission. How he had happened to catch the notice of then-Colonel Scott, he had never learned. No man ever knew quite how or why he’d been chosen for Scott’s service, but the result was always the same: intensive training in the art of intelligence gathering, followed by a new life entirely, a life disconnected from whatever had gone before. Following a brief sojourn on the southern coast of England, briefer by far than a man might’ve wished, he had shipped out to the West Indies, where the French had been stirring up trouble. The Highlands might as well have been at the other end of the earth.

General Scott’s voice broke into his reverie. “I daresay you remember Dunnock Castle?”

Thomas had spent summers in the shadow of its crumbling walls, on visits to his grandmother. Mama had insisted that the crowded streets of Glasgow were no place for a growing boy. Digging through those memories now yielded something akin to what one might find at the bottom of a long-locked trunk: the occasional treasure, but far more that was musty and ill-fitting.

Now, however, through a stroke of—no, he couldn’t call it luck—it was his. “Dunnock Castle,” he repeated in an absent murmur. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Scott concurred. “Although…” Once more the general began shuffling through papers. “There is the small matter of the lease.”

“Lease?”

“As you know, the previous Earl of Magnus was rarely resident at Dunnock.”

Thomas recalled his grandmother complaining that the laird was little more to the people of Balisaig than a name. Magnus was some gouty old man who spent his days in a warmer, drier clime. Thomas doubted that even his mother had suspected any connection between their families.

“So, in order to prevent the estate from falling into ruin—”

Further into ruin, Thomas was tempted to interject.

“—he leased it out. I had one of my aides gather the details for you. Ah, ha!” Having at long last laid hands on the papers he sought, he then began a quest for his spectacles, which he found resting on his forehead, where they had been perched since Thomas had entered the room. With a self-deprecating laugh, he knocked them into their proper place with the tap of one finger. “Let’s see…” He scanned the first part of the lengthy document, then nodded. “Fetches a tidy sum in rents, I’ll say that much for it.”

Thomas’s suspicions rose. “Who would pay a tidy sum to live in a ramshackle pile on the edge of nowhere?”

“Ah.” Something that wasn’t only amusement twitched at the corners of Scott’s mouth. “That would be Robin Ratliff. The writer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You must be the only one who hasn’t, Sutherl—er, Magnus.” The general laughed. “He pens gothic novels, of the sort that are popular in watering places and circulating libraries. Horrid stuff, my wife tells me. And she should know, based on the bills I’ve had from the bookshop.”

Thomas mustered an answering smile. “About the lease…”

“Yes, right. The lease.” He turned again to study the papers in his hands, flipping forward and back. “By and large, its terms are unsurprising. Of course, you may decide whether to renew it on the next quarter day, which should give you plenty of time to—oh.” He paused, scanning the next line twice.

Thomas could not decide how to read the general’s hesitation. “Time to what?”

“Well, I suppose it’s only natural.” His embarrassment was acute. “I’ve been assuming you had until Lady Day in March, you see. But the next Scottish quarter day is—”

“Candlemas,” Thomas reluctantly supplied.

February second. Less than a month to get from London to Edinburgh, successfully claim the title at the Lyon Court, and then travel another hundred and fifty miles into the Highlands, to Balisaig. In the dead of winter.

Thomas’s skepticism must have shown on his face, for Scott was quick to offer reassurance. “Not a pleasant journey, I know, but it can be done. And afterward, you’ll be at your leisure to conduct an assessment of the property and its tenants’ needs, make your determinations about the estate’s management...before the, er, spring planting season,” he added hopefully. Thomas rather suspected the man knew even less about farming than he did. “Why, maybe you’ll even meet some likely lass and decide to settle down.”

Settle down? Thomas nearly laughed aloud. General Scott commanded men of action, officers wedded only to their duties. Who would have pegged him for a matchmaker?

Not that Thomas had anything against marriage. He’d once come close—dangerously close, some might say—to making an offer he felt sure would have been accepted. The seven years since had been filled with reminders of the girl he’d left behind, but many more reminders of why a man in his position, a soldier and a spy, had no business thinking of settling down.