Page 17 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
He leveled a steady gaze at the man, shoving his ire aside. He’d dealt with Strachney’s sort of pompous fool before, and if he expected to be a success in London, he’d deal with this sort again.
And he’d do it without groveling. He was a physician, a man of education, his honorable father’s son. He was worthy of respect. “You won’t have what, Strachney?”
“My daughter will have a title. If you think to have her money—well, she’ll marry a man I approve of, or there’ll be none, and she can starve in a garret in some overcrowded rookery.”
An invisible hand gripped his heart. He’d visited flats like that, in Edinburgh’s old town, crowded with sick, starving wraiths.
“A title or death? That is the choice you’d force on your only child? What sort of honorable man would do that?”
“My influence runs far. If you think to defy me, I can—I will—ruin you.”
He hadn’t thought to defy the man. No matter how often his thoughts went to kissing Ann, he knew their friendship could never be a romance.
Had everyone thought that it was? Did Ann think that?
Would he mind if she did? Ann was lovely, and kind, and… living with this man, what had her life become? Gentle, sweet Ann, how had she tolerated him?
He had very little, but if they married…
He shook off the unexpected thought. He was losing his mind. “How far does your influence run, Strachney? India, perhaps, given that you lived there for so long. But the Americas? The Antipodes? Physicians are needed all over the world.”
Strachney’s face flamed, blood vessels popping. He looked very near to an apoplexy. Errol didn’t care. “Your daughter and I—”
“Lay a hand on her and I’ll—”
“I wouldneverhurt Ann.” His hands balled into fists. “And if I ever hear thatyouharm her inanyway, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”
“Why you…” Strachney spluttered and sank into a chair swiping a shaking hand through his thatch of white hair.
Shame crept over Errol. He was a doctor, for God’s sake, a healer. No longer the brawling son of a tavernkeeper. Not that he ever had done much more than tossing out the troublesome inn patrons, but those days were past. “Are you ill, Mr. Strachney?”
“Blast you, I’m angry.”
“Your color is high, your hands are trembling, and you’re swollen with fluid. Is your heart giving out? I can provide you the name of a good man in Edinburgh.”
“Get out.”
“Gladly.”
Closing the door behind him, Errol paused in the corridor and braced a hand on the wainscoting. For the old man to be so angry… Did Ann care for Errol in that way?
What a dunderhead he was not to realize it had been her father interfering with Ann’s correspondence.
His spirits lifted. He had a profession. He had a position in London. He’d only thrown out that bit about the Antipodes to rile her father. He’d be back in London soon. Once he’d established himself, he could return for her and…
But during that time, even if she stayed at Kinmarty, she’d be plagued by her bullying father. And he’d just behaved abominably toward the man.
“Ah, there you are, Doctor Robillard. Are you quite well?”
The duchess studied him, her arms folded over her expansive abdomen.
“Your grace.” He straightened. “Yes. I’m, er, well.”
Her gaze shifted to the closed door. “Is Strachney still within?”
“Yes.”
She took his arm and they headed down a corridor. “Poor Strachney. I would feel sorrier for him, if he wasn’t such a tyrant. He had a great disappointment last year, you know. He’d planned for Ann to marry the duke, whereupon his daughter would become a duchess and he would use his wealth to control Kinmarty and squeeze a few more farthings out of the land and the people here.”
