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She nodded. “Thank you, Gillian. That would be splendid of you and the duke.”
“Huzzah!” Jeannie jumped out of her chair and began dancing around the room.
Kathleen pointed at her sister. “But you mustpromiseto listen to me. No more running off or doing silly things.”
Jeannie twirled to a halt and clasped her hands in a prayerful attitude. “I will be a perfect angel, Kath. I promise. Now that we’re together, what could go wrong?”
Chapter Four
Glasgow
September 1823
Bored.
Grant Kendrick knew the feeling would pass. He was too busy to indulge in foolish bouts of dissatisfaction.
And yet ...
He leaned back in his desk chair and cast a jaundiced eye at the ledger before him, where the figures marched across the page like soldiers in battlefield formation. Business was its own sort of battle, fought with brains, instinct, and numbers.
Always numbers, unrelenting and precise.
Grant was certainly precise, from the neatly arranged bookshelves in his office, to his daily attire of plain tailcoat in dark blue or green, with gray vest, pale breeches, and top boots. Why wear anything different? He spent most of each day in the warehouse or down at the port when a ship was off-loading, so there was no point in dressing flash.
He closed the ledger and stood, stretching his arms to work out the kinks, almost touching the massive beams overhead. Then he picked up the rest of the leather-bound volumes stacked on his desk and carried them to the oak bookcases that lined the opposite wall. He barely had to look to put them back, since every ledger, every file, and every scrap of paper was perfectly organized, so that the right information would be at his fingertips whenever he needed it.
He was good at organizing and, since coming to work for his older brothers three years ago, Grant had discovered that he was good at making money. Everyone in the family had a talent, and raking in the blunt had turned out to be his. Helping to grow Kendrick Shipping and Trade for his family—for the future of his nieces and nephews—was a grand thing. Grant had built a useful and worthy life, and there wasn’t a damn thing worth complaining about.
Except you’re bored out your damn skull.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered as he shoved the ledgers back into place.
It hadn’t always been this way. He and his twin, Graeme, had spent years raising hell. But Graeme was married now. He’d moved on from his freewheeling days, and was now settled into an eminently respectable life on a small Highland estate. In Graeme’s case the respectability was rather hilarious, since he’d always been the truly wild one in the family, practically immune to any correction.
Grant, though? For him, the wildness had never come naturally, and the life he now led suited him as nothing else ever had. Everything was exactly as it should be. After years of heartache and trial, the Kendricks were finally at peace.
Except for how you actually feel.
He scowled to himself as he pointlessly rearranged a few ledgers.
“What’s amiss, laddie?” barked a voice from the doorway. “Numbers not adding up?”
Grant turned to see his grandfather leaning against the doorframe. Angus looked particularly disreputable today in an ancient kilt, scuffed boots, and the tatty Highland bonnet he’d worn ever since King George had admired it on his visit to Scotland last year. The attire, along with his bushy white eyebrows and correspondingly wild hair, made Angus look like a Highland ancient run amuck from the glens.
Yet, his grandfather was an extraordinarily canny man. Though not bookish, no one pulled anything over on Angus. Every Kendrick brother had tried at various times over the years but all had failed.
“Mayhap ye should let me look at yon ledgers,” the old fellow added in a hopeful voice.
Grant swallowed a sigh. Angus was a marvel, except when it came to numbers. When he’d served as estate steward at Castle Kinglas, the seat of Clan Kendrick, Grandda had made a massive financial mess of things. Nick, Grant’s oldest brother and head of the clan, had finally been forced to banish their grandfather from the estate office unless he was there with him.
Still, even that drastic measure had failed to convince Angus that he was anything less than a financial genius.
“The ledgers are fine, Grandda.” Grant crossed back to his desk to snuff out the lamp. “I’m just packing up for the day.”
His grandfather sidled in and reached for one of the leather-bound volumes. “Remember ye got yer head for numbers from me, lad.”
Grant plucked the ledger from his hand. “Perhaps another time.”
