Page 5 of Ghost of the Ton

Fucking Sassenachs.

The solicitor’s clear gray eyes glittered with disapproval, almost as if he’d heard the insult.

“Lord MacLennan, if you’re about to accuse Mr. Hart of harboring prejudice based on nationality, I’d counsel you to first consider the prejudice you harbor against the English. Such outmoded attitudes hamper a man’s ability to flourish in business.”

Pompous arse!

“I’m sure I can find another solicitor more easily than a creditor, Mr. Stockton,” Hamish said.

“You’re at liberty to try, Lord MacLennan. But you must settle your account with us before attempting to engage the services of another. Until you do, I cannot in all conscience recommend another firm to you—nor vice versa. I only agreed to take you on as a client because your solicitor in Edinburgh, Mr. McSwain, confirmed that you had settled all your accounts to date. You’ll find that lawyers are less inclined to take risks with their finances than bankers.”

Hamish sighed. “But I cannae…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. This venture was proving to be an utter disaster. The funds expended in coming to London were only a worthwhile investment if he could, among the London bankers, secure credit that those situated in Edinburgh no longer extended. But bankers had an annoying habit of talking to each other, even across the border between Scotland and England. The MacLennan name, rather than serving as a key to unlock Society’s doors, instead served as a warning to creditors not wishing to take on an unacceptable degree of risk, and fathers not wishing to hand their daughters’ dowries over to a wastrel.

Unacceptable degree of risk. That was the phrase that almost every London banker had tossed at him.

He slumped back in his chair and sighed, letting the mask slip for a heartbeat. Then he gritted his teeth, sat up, bringing his big body to its full height as much as he could, and leaned toward the older man. Any other man, when faced with a sight such as he—a wild beast of a Highlander, built for savagery, his eyes flashing with determination and teeth ready to tear into the neck of his prey—would have crumpled. But the little solicitor, with his quiet self-assurance and calm dignity, did more to break Hamish’s resolve than the most hardened clansman, bloody and mud spattered, readying himself for battle.

Clearly, battles were fought differently in the drawing rooms of London. Funds couldn’t be gained by standing half a head taller than a prospective creditor, and wives couldn’t be procured by tossing a woman over his shoulder and carrying her back to his lair.

What he wouldn’t give to return to the days of Medieval savagery, when life was simpler and a man could simply take what he wanted!

The solicitor regarded Hamish with an intelligence he couldn’t hope to match, able to see the desperate man beneath Hamish’s Highland brawn.

“Is there nothing I can do, Mr. Stockton?” Hamish said. “I’ve no wish to lose my home. Many souls depend on the survival of Glenblath. I cannae see them suffer as a result of my inability to remain solvent.”

Or rather, his forebears’ inability. But there was little point in wasting time blaming others. Like it or not, the burden of rectification lay upon him.

As if in acknowledgment of Hamish, at last, revealing his desperation, the solicitor smiled. He reached for the decanter on his desk, shook a measure into a beveled glass, and pushed it toward Hamish before pouring a second glass for himself. Hamish lifted his glass and took a sip.

“I applaud your honesty,” the solicitor said. “Most of my clients never reveal their true wishes. Instead, they ask for that which they believe will help to accomplish what they desire.”

Now he was talking in riddles—like all lawyers who issued salvo after salvo of incomprehensible phrases, often in Latin, which only their fellow lawyers could hope to understand. A ploy to perpetuate their businesses, given that their unsuspecting clients had no hope of understanding them.

Still, at least he kept a decent brandy.

“I think,” the solicitor said, setting his glass aside, “I might have a solution to your problem. Well, not a solution, but a respite.”

“Respite?”

The solicitor nodded. “It’s a little unconventional. You’d have to act quickly, but out of all my clients, I consider you the most worthy.”

Worthy? What the devil did he mean?

“Though Mr. McSwain gave me this list of your creditors,” the solicitor continued as he held up a piece of paper, a very long piece of paper, “he said that you’re an honest man whose financial situation is not of your doing.”

“Worthy of what, Mr. Stockton?” Hamish said.

“A little good fortune.”

“Are ye about to present me with a fortune?”

“Only a small fortune, to be acquired in a most unusual fashion.”

“Ye mean it comes with a condition attached,” Hamish said.

“Yes, but sadly that condition will be short-lived.”

For a moment, the solicitor’s expression slipped, revealing a flicker of sorrow.