Page 12 of Any Rogue Will Do
“Aye. You’re knackered, your lordship. Go on up tae bed.” Connor jerked his head toward the library door and the dim hallway beyond.
Ethan rubbed his neck. Of course it was Connor. After the accident, his stubborn clansman had refused to accept guilt money and a cozy place back in their village on the Solway Firth. Instead, he’d taken a job managing Woodrest. Providing a livelihood was the least Ethan could do, since his drunken recklessness had nearly killed the man. At the time, they’d figured that if Ethan could learn to be a lord instead of a common shepherd, then Connor could learn how to be…whatever his job title was. Butler, head footman, valet, and general pain in the arse most days. As luck would have it, Connor excelled at both running a home and reminding Ethan that despite a title, he was still just a shepherd. It was only by dumb luck that he had a nicer house these days and more sheep.
Clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder, Ethan grumbled a “good night,” then stumbled toward his chambers.
The next morning found Ethan holding his third cup of tea, staring out the window, waiting for the energy to face the day. The grounds of Woodrest were particularly beautiful as the trees put on their autumn dresses one by one. It would be a few weeks before all the leaves changed, but the first colors were appearing.
“Have ye gotten used tae it yet?” Connor’s voice interrupted a period of staring out the window for God only knew how long.
Shaking his head to clear the brain fog, Ethan turned around. “Used tae what? The view?”
“All of it, I suppose. ’Tis a far cry from our village, aye?” The thump of Connor’s gait was more uneven than usual as he swung a cylindrical bundle from beside his feet to the floor by the desk.
“Aye.” The view outside was as green as their village on the Solway Firth. The cottage in which he’d spent his youth had been made of stone, just like Woodrest. But that was where the similarities ended. Although he stood as lord and master of a mansion on a hill, there were days when he longed for that small cottage. Ethan couldn’t part with it. A family leased the property now, so he had the comfort of knowing someone else could grow up happy in that corner of Scotland.
“Yer mum and da would have been tickled tae see you runnin’ this place. Ever think of that?” Connor said.
Ethan rolled his shoulders under the sudden weight he felt. “If Da were here, he’d be the viscount, not me.” And Ethan would be grateful for it. If given the choice, he’d much rather be a viscount’s son than hold the title himself. “He’d have done a better job of it. One year in London and he’d have had them all eating out of his hand. Da was the charmer.” After eight years, Ethan remained an outsider. Perhaps his son or grandson would have the dubious distinction of finally finding acceptance in theton.
“Ach, don’ be so hard on yerself. Yer da was a sweet talker all right. But ye have skills of yer own. Yer makin’ good changes here.” Connor pulled a stack of letters from his pocket and set them on the desk. “These people are lucky three blokes died, so ye got the title. None of those Englishmen would be so hell-bent on building this brewery. They were busy spending more money than they had. Yer makin’ honest work of it.”
Ethan shot him a small smile while he sorted the mail. Maybe today would bring more scathing letters from peers damning him for sinking a noble title into trade. Investing in a venture he hoped to expand into a retail endeavor was raising eyebrows and ire.
He divided the correspondence into a stack regarding the estate, an invitation, and a lone personal envelope. A letter from Cal.
Part of Connor’s statement needed correction. “Four. Four men died. Two I’d never heard of—a father and son, second or third cousins I didn’t know existed—my gran’da, and my da.” His family tree was more of a spindly twig, with Ethan clinging to the end of it. No one underneath supporting him, and no one waiting to inherit should he die.
Changing the subject, Connor nudged the bundle he’d brought in with him. “What’s this, then?”
“That must be the rug I ordered. It will fit here along the desk and reach the door.”
There was a beat of silence while Connor stared at the rolled rug. “Which of the footmen told ye I fell while ye were gone?”
Shooting him a glance, Ethan said, “Doesn’ matter which one told. You should have said something. Your leg doesn’ like the hardwood floors.”
“My leg likes them fine. It’s my wood peg tha’ has an issue with things.” Connor smirked.
“I don’ understand why you won’ get fitted for a wooden leg, Connor. Why use a peg like some kind of bloody pirate?”
Connor’s short huff of breath clued Ethan in to the fact that this conversation wouldn’t go well. The earlier humor had disappeared at the mention of a prosthetic limb. Each time he’d brought up the subject in the past, Connor had shut him down, and Ethan didn’t understand why.
“Pretendin’ I have two legs doesn’ make it true. A peg is good enough. It’s better than the crutch, aye? Ye don’ have tae cover the house in carpets. I’m no’ an invalid, milord.” He threw the title with as much force as a weapon.
Ethan shook his head. “This is your home. I don’ want you falling.”
Connor left the room without further comment.
Somehow, he’d bungled that spectacularly. Sighing, Ethan opened the letter from Cal.
Mac,
Lady Bartlesby is hosting a dinner this week. She insisted I encourage you to attend. Odd, considering your history with her husband. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart? I promised I would send a note.
Behold! My note.
Come to London. Have dinner with that arse Lord Bartlesby. Meet my new neighbor.
Regards etc.,
