Page 38 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
Gillespie ought to be horse-whipped, but Strachney might have the man hanged on a whim. “I wouldn’t turn any man over to Strachney,” Errol said.
“I heard about the poor lad,” Henderson said. “He has a right to discipline his son, but he’ll likely claim the injury was an accident.”
“He’d just beat his wife the day before,” Errol said glumly. Husbands had a right to do that as well.
“Before you send the lad back, we’ll go together and search for Gillespie,” the duke said, “and put the fear of God into him.”
As concerned as he was for Maggie and Rolly—and he was, despite wanting to sell Darleton—he was even more concerned for Ann. She’d reached her majority, but who was to keep her father from beating her. Or, a husband from doing so, if the old man married her off to a fortune hunter for a title.
Henderson cleared his throat. “Dr. Robillard, I’ve just heard from a colleague and learned the name of the prospective buyer for Darleton. It’s Benedict Strachney.”
“Damnation,” he muttered. “Beg pardon, your grace, Mr. Henderson.”
“And may I add, given the chance to develop sport fishing commercially at Darleton, his offer is far below value.”
“You could make an outrageous counteroffer if you really don’t want to sell to him,” the duke said. “It’s a true fact Strachney would have no problem handling Gillespie. He’d pack him, his family, and all the neighbors off to the antipodes and give the land over to sheep farms. He would have done that at Glenthistle, but he only has a lease on the manor house.”
“Why a lease?” Errol asked. “Why didn’t he look elsewhere and buy… ah.”
A grimace crossed the duke’s face. “I imagine he decided proximity to an unmarried duke would give him a leg up on getting his daughter well-married. Odd that, since my brother was heir. Perhaps he was wagering that Evan wouldn’t survive India.” His fist came down on the chair arm. “Or maybe he’d learned Darleton was dying and had no heir. Man’s obsessed with titles. if you sell him Darleton, he’ll be a Scottish baron.”
“It’s not a peerage title,” Henderson said. “But I suppose if his daughter becomes a marchioness, it might give him more prestige than presenting himself as a mere mister.”
Errol’s heart sank. Everyone assumed Ann would marry this Hottentot fellow.
She didn’t want the marquess, but it would serve her right, the manipulative, conniving… No, that was unjust. She’d been deceptive because she’d had to be. Elsewise, he’d have never taken her money.
His hands fisted in his lap. Ann to be sold off for a title. His mother’s grave under the care of a bully—if he sold the estate.
He could ask Henderson to seek out other buyers. Or… he hadn’t fully looked at the possibility of trying to run Darleton from his new position in London. Perhaps the duke would allow Forbes to look in on Busby while Errol was away.
That, of course, would require Ann releasing him from the contract. But then she’d be left in the clutches of her father and the marquess.
He swiped a hand through his hair. He had a patient needing tending, and he needed to talk to Ann. “If you’ll excuse me, your grace, Mr. Henderson, I need to check on Rolly now, but Mr. Henderson, I’d like to have a few moments of your time later.”
The duke soughthim out again after his visit to Rolly.
“Henderson is ensconced with Penelope,” he said. “Fil has put Ann to work on a christening gown. Shall we go visit some of the tenants? We may just get lucky and encounter Gillespie. We’ve some cottages where sickness seems more prevalent. We’ve been working on improving the wells and making sure the families have enough food. I’d like to hear what other recommendations you might have.”
The duke was poking at an interest of his—contagious diseases caused by poor sanitation. If he stayed, he might be able to do some good.
His heart thudded. But how would he live? The duke had no obligation to pay him a salary. Unless he wanted to discuss the matter with his benefactor—and he didn’t and wouldn’t—he’d have to get his living from the pennies and groats the poor crofters could offer.
He went to get his medical bag, frustration eating at him.
The next day,Errol found himself back in the cottage that housed the new surgery. The drapers and painters had finished the upstairs, and every bedroom had a respectable bed and clothes press.
Respectable, but not new, except for the bed ropes and straw-filled mattresses. The antique furniture likely had come from Kinmarty Castle’s attics, but it had been cleaned of dust and cobwebs, and polished.
The quest for Gillespie had been unsuccessful. After dinner the night before, he’d had an unfruitful meeting with Henderson. In his role as executor of his grandfather’s estate, he’d offered guidance. But to represent Errol further in a sale of the property and conveyance of the title—well, there would be costs. Like any good doctor, a solicitor wouldn’t work for free.
He’d had no chance to speak with Ann. Seated next to Mr. Warton, she’d been subdued, allowing the rattlepate Warton to chatter away with the merry marquess across from them. When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Ann was nowhere to be found. The duchess had whisked her away.
Though he and the duke hadn’t found Gillespie, they’d encountered a whole host of medical complaints, so many that he’d promised to return. Soon enough, he was downstairs in the examining room treating small wounds, aching backs, and a plethora of chilblains.
He’d started his own fires, fetched his own water from the well, and his own back was aching by the time he’d cleared the room.
He was sorting his medical bag, preparing to visit the inn for the sake of his gnawing stomach when he heard the door open again.
