Page 52 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Squatters!” Lady Strathniven repeated. “Uncouth and unmannered.”
“I am sure the lawyers can straighten it out,” Ellison said. “Mr. Smithson is here in Edinburgh, and his partner Mr. Cameron is sometimes here and sometimes in Kinross. Perhaps you know them.”
“I have heard their names.” He was more than familiar with both.
“Do you know much about the law, Lord Darrach?” Lady Strathniven asked.
“Some, madam.” He noticed Ellison glance sharply at him. She was too alert to his truths and half-truths, he realized. He needed more caution—or more confession.
“Those involved in the whisky business should know the laws,” Ellison said.
“Exactly, Miss Graham,” he agreed.
“Crofters deserve to earn a livelihood from their barley and their whisky,” Lady Strathniven said. “A local distiller, Pitlinnie, brings us a regular supply for free.”
“It is a good whisky. I would be happy to supply Glenbrae’s brew to you also.”
“I would like that! I do enjoy a dram now and then. Do you think they will change the whisky laws, Darrach?”
“They say the laws may change substantially next year.”
“Best you are done with such nonsense, then, and distill it legally.”
He chuckled. The lady’s honesty could be brutal at times.
“Ellison,” the viscountess went on, “perhaps Darrach has some thoughts regarding your town house. What would you do, Darrach, if it was your house?”
He cleared his throat, seeing Ellison’s obvious discomfiture. Increasingly aware of her subtle responses that told her thoughts, he warned himself to be careful. But he was not sure he could remain neutral much longer.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“We should not bother Darrach with it. Here, let me serve the cake.” Ellison stood, her lovely butterfly hands flexing, folding, and went to the sideboard where Mrs. Barrow had left the larger dishes. She took up a knife and thrust it into the cake. Ronan sensed temper and frustration all through her.
“Darrach, if you know Smithson, perhaps you could visit him,” the lady said.
“If it would help. But Miss Graham may not want assistance.”
“She may not.” Ellison sliced cake, slid it to a plate, scooped up strawberries from a bowl and slapped them on top. “She might want to sort it out on her own.”
Lady Strathniven frowned. “I suppose it is your concern, my dear, but—”
“Cake, my lady?” Ellison thrust the plate toward her, cake and fruit sliding dangerously. Ronan quickly took it and handed it to the viscountess.
“Thank you, sir. What is your advice for Ellison?”
The girl slapped another helping of cake and strawberries onto a second plate and thrust it at Ronan. She also gave him a snapping glare. Taking the dessert, he smiled.
“The last version of the will would help decide. But the lawyers know that. I am not qualified to comment,” he added. Though he deuced was.
“You must have some sense. Men know these things.”
“Ladies may know these things too,” Ellison said, stabbing a strawberry.
He needed to extricate himself, but he wanted to make something clear. “If the will was signed and witnessed and is authentically by your husband’s hand, it is valid. If the wording is vague, it might be the solicitor’s fault, though they can interpret it to some extent. But if the intention cannot be agreed upon, a judge may need to decide it.”
“There, you see,” Lady Strathniven said. “He knows a good deal, does Darrach.”
Ellison speared another strawberry. “Perhaps.”
