Page 4 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
He blinked and opened his mouth.
“Yes, Iwaseavesdropping outside,” she said.
“Ann, I—”
She put up her hand. “No false apologies please.”
His eyes narrowed on her and he finally sighed. “Well, I’ll go now and see Mrs. Beecham. I need to be off soon.”
Aunt would keep Errol talking for half an hour, giving her time to do what she must.
William came around his desk. “I’ll come too.”
“You both go ahead,” she said. “I have an errand. Errol, I look forward to your letters.”
William gave a startled laugh. Errol smiled, but his color rising told the true tale of his feelings, and likely his intention to forget she ever asked his help.
“You didn’t tell William, did you? Errol promised to share knowledge with me from his pharmacopeia lectures. You won’t mind, William, will you?”
She turned on her heel and left. Footsteps resounded behind her, both men following her.
“Ann,” William called. “Perhaps Errol will be too busy to—”
“To write to your mousey cousin?”
“Here now, Ann—”
“No, William,” Errol said. “We’ve been caught out. Ann, my sincere apologies. I meant you no harm.”
That apologydidsound sincere. “So, you will write?”
“You’ve shamed me into it.”
Well, that was lowering.
“I’ve just opened a letter from your father, Ann,” William said. “He’s returning soon and wants you to live with him. You won’t be here to receive letters from Errol.”
She stopped in the corridor, her heart pounding. Blasted William was trying to save his friend from the onerous task of writing letters.
And as for going to live with her father? Curiosity mixed with dread. What would he be like? She had only the vaguest memory of him. He’d deposited his wife and child with the Beechams and set off for India to make his fortune. Letters came once a year; short, stiff letters penned by a secretary, her mother said, because Father’s handwriting was atrocious. Still, her mother had missed him and longed for his return, and so had she.
“You may forward Errol’s letters until I can let him know my direction.”
“He may not think it proper.”
“Don’t be silly.” Surely her father wouldn’t mind her receiving letters about scientific matters. She shook off a spot of worry, fetched her bonnet and gloves and went out through the kitchens and down a side street where she couldn’t be viewed from the parlor window. She hoped Mr. Henderson had time to see her. One condition must be added to that contract.
Mousey indeed.
AT CASTLE KINMARTY
DECEMBER 1822
THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS
“Three single noblemen, and no other young ladies.” Benedict Strachney rubbed his plump, kid-leather encased palms together.
Respectably turned out by the valet he’d hired away from some English lord, his sober green frock coat, tailored for him in Edinburgh, topped a matching waist coat and buff breeches that did no honor to his form. Or rather his form spreading over the opposite bench did no honor to the fine craftsmanship of the garments.
