Page 50 of Who’s That Earl

“He tried to choke the life out of Ja—Mrs. Higginbotham. He must be mad.”

Abernathy’s eyebrows shot above the rims of his spectacles. Shaking off his disbelief, he returned to the examination of Donaldson, who groaned as the apothecary examined both the injury near his belly and the lump rapidly forming on his skull. “He’ll feel that knock on his head for a good while. But so long as no infection sets in,” he concluded, “the stab wound is too shallow to do much real harm.”

Thomas’s fingers twitched as he contemplated reaching into his boot for a blade that would finish the job.

“Mrs. Higginbotham?” Another voice came from the doorway, this one belonging to Elspeth Shaw, who was backed by her slower-moving father. She took a step toward the desk and looked around in horror, taking in what no one else had yet had time to observe: the piles and stacks of books and papers, a mess at odds with anything one might have guessed about the clergyman.

“The letter you brought, Elspeth,” Jane began, over Mrs. Abernathy’s attempts to keep her quiet, her voice still hoarse from the press of Donaldson’s fingers on her throat

“The one for Mr. Ratliff?”

“It was a death threat.” Jane’s eyes were dull, as weary as her voice. “Mr. Donaldson wrote it.”

Hectic color flooded the young woman’s cheeks. “Oh, God. Mrs. MacIntosh swore when she gave it tae me that it had only been mixed up with his post. Said Mr. Donaldson had told her to give me half a crown to take it right tae Dunnock and explain as how it’d been mislaid. And we did so need—” Her father’s hand settled on her shoulder, silencing her.

Donaldson had preyed on the girl’s desperation, her honest desire to help her family. Despite the vitriol he had spewed from the pulpit, how could she, or anyone, have imagined him capable of this?

Still, Thomas could not shake the conviction that he, both laird of Dunnock and trained intelligence officer, should have known.

“Abernathy, tie his wrists behind his back before he wakes,” he said, drawing every eye to him. The apothecary nodded, patting his pockets with one hand. Wordlessly, his wife tugged loose one of her elegant silk ribbons and handed it to him. While that was being done, Thomas gave the next order: “Someone else fetch the constable.”

Blank eyes met that request. Mr. Shaw shook his head. It seemed Mr. Watson had not seen fit to charge a local man with such responsibility.

“Then I’ll take him before the magistrate myself.” The threat rumbled from Thomas’s chest like distant thunder. If Donaldson didn’t survive the journey, so much the better.

Jane, who had once more leaned her head against Mrs. Abernathy’s breast, turned to look at him. That’s you, she mouthed.

He would almost rather she had stabbed him with the bloody knife she still held. Of course, Lord Magnus, the gentleman of highest rank for miles around, would be the magistrate.

How, under the present circumstances, could Thomas continue to hide from his responsibilities?

Gruffly, he cleared his throat and addressed Mr. Shaw. “There’s something I must say. You know me of old, sir. I have the very great honor of being a son of Balisaig by virtue of my late mother, Anne Maguire. All who knew her thought themselves blessed by the acquaintance of a kind and generous lady—”

“Aye, lad,” Mr. Shaw interrupted, understandably a little baffled by the recital of genealogy at a time like this. “And the same goes for your gran, God rest ’er.”

Thomas acknowledged the kindness with a bow. “Unbeknownst to me, and I do heartily believe to my father, both those good women could trace their lineage to a noble clan, though their branch of it was quite far removed from the main trunk of the tree, as it were. Still, no matter how distant the relation, ‘tis a true one, and so it is that I come to be the last in a long line of Maguires.”

Mr. Shaw, who had been leaning against the doorjamb for support, straightened his posture, as if he suspected what was coming.

“Any one of you,” Thomas continued, letting his gaze take in the whole room, passing the lightest over Jane, “may recall that the late Lord Magnus also had Maguire blood.”

Mrs. Abernathy gasped. “Och, this is better than the theater. Are you going to tell us next that you’re the new earl?” The question held a teasing note, but a hint of wariness too, as if she could not make up her mind what to think.

Thomas drew a deep breath, but Jane spoke first.

“He is.”

After a beat of shock, Mrs. Abernathy fluttered into a deep curtsy, and her husband rose to his feet merely to bow. Elspeth seemed not to know what was expected of her and looked to her father for guidance. Mr. Shaw alone continued to regard him with a firm eye.

“That’s all well and good, lad. Now what do you mean to do about it?”

Thomas’s eyes darted from the Shaws, to the apothecary and his wife, even to the clergyman lying supine on the floor, though he still had not begun to stir. In his head he could hear General Scott’s voice, ticking off his responsibilities in Scotland. Conduct an assessment of the property and its tenants’ needs...Make your determinations about the estate’s management before the spring planting season...

He had sought and lived a life of adventure. Nevertheless, this duty had become his, just as Scott had said. Would he let the people of Balisaig go on murmuring about the earl’s failings?

Last of all, he settled on Jane, who looked as pale as he had ever seen her, her own gaze blank and distant. God, how he wanted to gather her into his arms again and assure her all would be well. To vow to heal not just this hurt, but all the others that had befallen her. To guard her from future harm.

Why, maybe you’ll even meet some likely lass and decide to settle down…