Page 4 of Who’s That Earl

“And if I don’t?”

“Don’t...?” General Scott fixed him with a wary, questioning look, as if he felt certain he had misunderstood.

“Don’t claim the title. Don’t want anything to do with Dunnock Castle.” What did he know of being a landowner? “I’ll stick with what I ken.”

The mischievous twinkle, the self-deprecating laugh—all gone so suddenly Thomas almost believed they had been a figment of his imagination. Scott’s face was set in hard lines now, and he looked every inch a general. “I am well aware of the dangers our soldiers face, and the pressing need for information to keep them safe. The knowledge and experience possessed by the officers in my service is invaluable. But when one of my men is called to his domestic duty, I expect him to honor that call as swiftly as he would one of mine, Lieutenant.”

Thomas had no doubt that the omission of his new title was deliberate.

“A man without honor has no place here,” Scott continued. One hand waved across the surface of the desk, gesturing toward the maps and letters that documented the British Army’s unceasing efforts to vanquish an enemy bent on terrorizing an ever-growing share of the globe. The territory comprised by that single word—here—was vast indeed.

There had been no mention yet of Thomas being forced to resign his commission in favor of a near-worthless earldom, and for that, he was grateful. But the general was telling him, in not so many words, that if he hoped for any assignment of interest or value in future, he would have to see to matters in Scotland without delay.

Not trusting himself to speak, Thomas held his hand out for the report, which Scott surrendered with a look of triumph. A quick shuffle through its pages told him that the investigation had been thorough indeed. Dates, figures, a detailed family tree. Familiar names—names of people he’d once called friends. People who were now his tenants. His responsibility.

These were not the responsibilities he wanted.

“Ratliff cannot be a man of sense,” he said, blinking at the sum the writer paid for the privilege of shivering away at Dunnock.

Scott shrugged. “His books are full of stuff and nonsense, to be sure. But he’s rich as Croesus—and more famous. Think what Ratliff’s scrawl on that lease might fetch at auction,” Scott murmured absently, tapping his lips with one fingertip.

Thomas hardly heard him. The general could insist he see to matters in Scotland. But he couldn’t order him to stay. If the previous Lord Magnus had managed Dunnock from a distance, via solicitor, bailiff, and steward, then why couldn’t he?

Even a cursory glance through the papers suggested that the old earl had not always chosen his surrogates wisely, however. Thomas could have his work cut out for him, finding the right man to see to things in Balisaig.

Scott shook himself, returning his attention to the matter at hand. “In any case, I’d advise you to start with Higginbotham.”

“Higginbotham?”

“Ratliff’s secretary—his public face, so to speak. Ratliff himself is said to be a bit of a recluse. Leaves all the business matters to Higginbotham.”

All the business matters? Then Ratliff’s secretary must already be involved in some aspects of the running of Dunnock. Perhaps this Higginbotham chap could be persuaded to expand his role. To leave one employer in favor of another.

And Thomas could carry on with his life.

“Manages a tight ship, by all accounts,” continued General Scott.

A faint smile curved Thomas’s lips. He could picture the fellow, ink-stained fingers, nose in a ledger. Ordinarily, he despised the managing sort. But under the circumstances...

“I know that look,” Scott said warningly. “Promise me you won’t antagonize Higginbotham, Magnus. You might find yourself in need of assistance when you reach Dunnock.”

Thomas’s smile grew. “Antagonize Higginbotham? I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

Chapter 2

Absently, Jane fingered the pearl handle of her penknife. Then, with one firm, deliberate movement, she drove its sharp tip through the papers and into the scarred oak desktop. Ordinarily, she wasn’t the sort to be bothered by one troubling letter.

Today, however, the post had brought two.

They’d had the nerve to arrive together, in one packet, accompanied by a newsy note from Mr. Canfield, her London publisher, apologizing for the delay in sending them. He had been attending his elderly father in Bath, he’d explained, where that gentleman had been sent in hopes of improving his rheumatism.

With little in the way of expectation, she’d opened the first, a lengthy missive from a solicitor, announcing the demise of the Earl of Magnus, laird of Dunnock Castle. The heir had, at last, been located in some far-flung spot, remote enough that his immediate interference with matters at home was unlikely.

However, as Mr. Ratliff’s legal counsel, he’d concluded, I feel myself obliged to inform him that the renewal of the lease on Dunnock Castle cannot be unequivocally guaranteed.

For more than five years, Dunnock Castle had been her home. She’d almost begun to think of it as hers—certainly the late earl had shown no signs of possessiveness where the ancient castle, and its lands and people, were concerned. But the new earl, no matter how far removed, might see things differently. She might, once again, find herself homeless.

With a heavy sigh, she’d tossed that letter onto the desktop and turned to the second, hoping for better news, only to be confronted by a detailed reckoning of the particular circle of hell to which authors of books like The Necromancer’s Bride ought to be consigned.