Page 19 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
“What news, Andrew?” the duchess asked.
The duke shrugged. “Look on the bright side, I always say. Forbes, show Dr. Robillard the way, will you?”
Someone had takengreat care with the duke’s study, a small room tucked away at the back of the house. The room smelled of lemon oil, tobacco, and wood smoke, and the aged desk and cabinets had been polished to a high shine. Deep green curtains framed the windows, and the same fabric covered the padded seats of the wooden armchairs and two wing chairs by the hearth. A few pieces of mail sat to one side of the dust-free desktop and in the middle was a stack of folders holding papers.
Henderson rose to greet him. A man of middling age, short of stature, and immaculately clad in sober dark coats and sparkling white neckcloth, he came around the desk and shook Errol’s hand, congratulating him on finishing his schooling.
“Glad I am that I found you,” Henderson said, “and lucky that the duke needed your services in Kinmarty at the same time I had business here.”
“I see,” Errol said. The duke had arranged all of this. That was telling. Surely the duke was his anonymous benefactor. “Well, get on with it then, if you would, please. Two matters of business, you said. I suppose one of them might have to do with my benefactor. I’ve sent over all the expense reports from my schooling. I trust all is to your satisfaction?”
Henderson returned to his seat behind the desk and placed a hand on the files. “Yes, you fulfilled your studies and the expense reporting requirements most admirably. We shall get to that matter anon. But first, I must tell you about your grandfather Barclay Callum’s legacy.”
His grandfather, Barclay Callum? His father’s father was long dead. This must be his mother’s father. “Legacy?”
“Yes. You didn’t know about it? I’m not surprised. We had a devil of a time chasing down who the heir was, but I’m happy to see the estate and title go to a man of principle and accomplishment.”
The estate? His legs and ankles tingled, and his hands grew clammy. His grandfather had held a title? Though he’d never learned so much as the man’s name, he knew he was a hot-tempered, foul-mouthed, stingy old man—or so he’d learned from his parents’ whispered conversations. Upon his daughter’s marriage to an Edinburgh innkeeper, the old man had raged at the world and cut her off. She’d somehow kept in touch with her poor long-suffering mother though, and when that lady’s death neared, his mother had gone home to tend her.
“Dr. Robillard, you are now Baron Darleton.”
The carved frieze on the desk front rippled, and his fingers curled around the chair arms. “Baron Darleton.”
“Yes. I’m told there was an estrangement between him and your mother. There was no entail, and this being a Scottish barony, he might have left all to someone else. But the old baron had a change of heart in his last years. Now,” Henderson slid papers out of the top folder,” I’ve gone over the books and inventories with your granddad’s factor, Mr. Busby.”
Errol strained to understand as the solicitor droned on about furnishings, livestock, servants, and tenants. The estate tax would be minimal; when his wife and daughter died, the old man had devoted himself to the bottle and, despite the factor’s efforts, there was very little money left.
“He let the property go to hell,” Errol said. “Was the factor stealing?”
“Not that I’ve been able to find. It appears he scraped along barely keeping up the crofts. There are a few longtime tenants left, though their cottages need repairs, as do the barns, stables, and other outbuildings. And of course, the castle, Mounth Tower.”
Mounth Tower. He’d never known the name of the place, but his mother was buried there, that much he knew.
“It’s no more than an hour’s ride from Kinmarty. I’ll escort you there and introduce you to Busby and the servants.”
Memories rushed him of the last time he saw his mother and of her tender farewell. His father had reluctantly allowed her to go—as if he thought he could restrain his high-spirited wife.
As it turned out, Da had been right. The visit had killed her.
He wanted to see her grave. As for the rest of it—he was abaron. Would that impress his new employers? Could the factor maintain the property while the new Baron Darleton took up his practice in London?
“Shall we visit there today?” The sooner the better.
“I fear I’m not free until the morrow. I have other business here at Kinmarty today.” Henderson extracted another folder from his stack. “Now, here are your copies of the estate documents and inventories. You may wish to review those today, and we’ll go over the ledgers with Busby tomorrow.”
Errol stood and reached for the documents, and then remembered the solicitor’s letter arranging this appointment. “What was the second matter of business, Mr. Henderson?”
“Ah yes.” He rose from his chair as well. “If you recall there was a stipulation made by your benefactor that you provide medical services for one year after completion of your studies.”
He’d had a handshake agreement with Beecham to serve the warehouse staff for a time. Had something more formal been included by his second benefactor? He’d been in such a desperate lather, he may have missed that stipulation.
Well, he’d easily find a way to hand off that task to another graduate, someone who didn’t want to take up the thankless job of ship’s doctor in the navy. “Go on.”
“A contractual agreement it was.”
“To serve Beecham’s employees and their families at the warehouse in Edinburgh?”
The solicitor blinked. “No. In point of fact, the requirement was for you to serve one year as directed by the benefactor upon completion of your studies. And the requirement is one year of service as physician in Kinmarty.”
