Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1) Page 8

  Kieran’s guilt over the youth’s death ran as deep as his sorrow, a vast, never-ending crevasse of regret. Andrew wondered if any balm could ever heal those depths.

  As if to prove Andrew’s point, Kieran’s eyes flashed. “Good. I hope yer Runner finds Madsen alive and well. Extracting ma pound of flesh will be much more satisfying that way.” He nodded toward the business inquiries. “Ye still refusing other investors?”

  “Aye,” Andrew bit out. “After Madsen, I have no taste for trusting others with my affairs.”

  “I would say yer a fool, but it’s turned out well for ye.”

  Andrew shrugged in reply.

  Madsen’s betrayal had cut deep. More importantly, Andrew had been helpless to control the circumstances surrounding it. If he hadn’t had a consortium of investors to appease, the situation in the South Pacific could have been resolved without bloodshed. People had died because Andrew had business partners and investors he had to answer to.

  Never again.

  He had returned home and bought out or sold out of every joint holding. His actions should have nearly bankrupted him, but luck had smiled on him instead. Moving everything into his exclusive control had resulted in enormous financial gains, earning him the title of the Scottish Vulcan. Naturally, Andrew received endless requests from other men to invest with him, as today’s post alone had proved. Most were from English noblemen, eager to profit (yet again) from Scottish industriousness.

  No matter the prospective investor’s nationality, Andrew’s answer would always be, No. He would never again find himself so helpless and beholden to others.

  Ironically, the only business partner Andrew still retained was Madsen himself. As the man hadn’t surfaced, Andrew couldn’t buy him out. He had to settle for freezing their joint assets.

  “We’ll find Madsen and finish this matter, once and for all.” Andrew straightened his sporran. “Now, let’s go horrify some English, shall we?”

  The men stepped out for dinner and were met by a footman who had been sent to show them to a different drawing room.

  They followed the footman down stairs and across the expansive, beamed Tudor entrance hall. The footman bowed and motioned for them to continue through an archway and up a grand staircase leading to another wing. Nodding to the footman, Andrew and Kieran started up the stairs. But they only made it halfway before voices rang down the stairwell.

  Lady Hadley and her children.

  Andrew put a hand on Kieran’s arm, stopping him.

  “. . . must admit it is a disaster beyond anything you could have imagined, Mother.” That voice had to be Peter. “His manners are revolting. It’s appalling that Scots have survived this long—”

  “There is naught we can do, Peter,” Lady Hadley replied. “That vulgar Scot is Lord Hadley now, and we must all suffer the consequences.”

  “He’s nothing short of ridiculous,” Peter grumbled. “My father must be rolling over in his grave.”

  “That is a certainty.”

  Frustration lashed at Andrew. These bloody conceited English.

  And Peter, no less.

  “What a useless get that lad is, aye?” Kieran muttered.

  Andrew huffed. The spoiled lad needed a solid dose of Scottish pragmatism to reacquaint him with reality—

  “Perhaps Lord Hadley would be open to some assistance in polishing his manners?” Lady Jane asked. “Given the certain poverty of his parents, he was not genteelly raised, and as a consequence does not understand how to behave—”

  Peter snorted. “A sow’s ear will never be a silk purse, sister.”

  Andrew growled.

  “Perhaps,” Jane said, “but Lord Hadley might be willing to try to soften his accent a little and learn a few rudimentary—”

  “Do not be a simpleton, Jane. No amount of tutelage would take the stench out of his upbringing.” Revulsion laced Lady Hadley’s voice. Andrew could practically see her shudder. “Given your own . . . struggles, you clearly do not comprehend the horror of this situation.”

  Andrew met Kieran’s gaze, seeing his own irritation reflected there.

  His friend was correct, of course. These English would never see him as an equal. His Scottish mother and grandfather would always be a stain on his character, regardless of how polished and perfect his manners.

  Kieran rolled his eyes.

  Lady Hadley wasn’t done, however. “I cannot imagine how repugnant his mother must be.”

  Andrew hissed, the barb shooting home.

  “Surely he will not inflict that woman upon us?” Peter said, voice alarmed.

  “I cannot see how we could refuse to greet her, if he did see fit to invite her to Hadley Park,” Lady Jane said. “The acquaintance cannot be avoided, I’m afraid.”

  Andrew’s mouth drew into a firm line.

  Enough!

  He was fine with these Sassenach haivering at him. But once they brought his saintly mother into it all—

  Their disparaging words caused a memory to surface—a rare trip to London as a child. He and his mother had gone shopping along Bond Street. He had been maybe nine at the time.

  Andrew stared at the bonnet trimmings on the counter.

  “What about this one, Ma?” He held out a pretty blue strip with a scalloped edge.

  “Oh, I like that one, Drew. But it isnae quite wide enough.” His mother smiled at him, running her fingers along the ribbon. “Do ye have one that is a wee bit wider, sir?” She asked the fussing haberdasher.

  As they turned to look through a box, words floated across the room.

  “Such ghastly accents,” a decidedly English voice said, speaking in a penetrating whisper. “Could they not have stayed in Scotland?”

  “Encroaching mushrooms,” snorted another. “As if a fine ribbon could ever perk up a sow’s ear.”

  An ugly flush washed Andrew’s cheeks. He darted a glance at the women standing before a cabinet, heads bobbing in their finery. He moved his eyes to his mother.

  She kept a polite expression firmly in place. Only the tightness around her mouth indicated that she had heard the women.

  “Pay them no mind, ye ken,” she murmured. “I have you and yer pa and yer dey. I dinnae want for anything else. That lot can keep their scorn. I dinnae want it.” She smiled. “I will no’ allow them power tae change me even a wee bit.”

  That had always been his mother’s motto: Never allow others to choose how you feel, particularly if someone wished you to feel ashamed.

  Dinnae give them the power, Drew. Dinnae do it, she would say.

  Andrew took in a deeply fortifying breath. Her advice was unerring.

  “Och,” Andrew muttered to Kieran. “How dare they bring my ma into this.”

  “She’s a fine, gracious lady, yer ma.”

  “Aye, that she is. And Scottish to her core.” Andrew gave a low growl. He would not bend to these English. He would continue to embrace his mother’s Scottish heritage. “I’ve heard enough of their pathetic whinging. I’ll no’ be summoning ma retinue tomorrow morning.”

  Kieran chuckled.

  “We’ll be right braw Scots.” Andrew tugged on his coat, adjusting his kilt. “No bleeding Sassenach will dare fash with us.”

  8

  This is what you expect of me?” Peter’s voice rose in outrage. “To manage your estate for you?”

  Andrew mentally sighed and sat back in his chair. This conversation was not going well. Not that he had anticipated it would.

  Peter folded his arms, expression a thundercloud.

  Lady Hadley sniffed.

  The three of them were seated in Andrew’s study—Andrew behind the large desk, Peter and Lady Hadley in chairs facing him.

  The window at Andrew’s back bathed Peter and his mother in dim, blue-tinted light, rain pattering against the panes.

  Andrew had spent his first morning at Hadley Park meeting with his steward and setting out a plan for assessing the estate over the next few weeks. This afternoon he had th
e task of settling affairs with his heir and Lady Hadley.

  “You cannot expect Peter to work.” Lady Hadley spat work as if it were any other four-lettered curse.

  “I most certainly do, milady,” Andrew replied. “I work, my friends work. I’m no’ asking Peter tae do anything I’m no’ willing tae do myself. Looking after the estate and helping my steward isnae to be frowned upon—”

  “Gentlemen do not work. They do not exchange their labors for a wage.” Lady Hadley huffed. “Even a man of your . . . breeding . . . must understand that much.”

  Lady Hadley primly adjusted the lace edging her long sleeves, blond curls bobbing, her face a mask of icy reserve.

  The woman was abominable.

  Andrew swallowed his angry retort. Despite her disparaging opinion about his breeding, he was brought up to never raise his voice, particularly not to a lady. No matter how provoking.

  He had solidified his decision regarding Peter the night before.

  Peter needed an occupation. Andrew certainly couldn’t be expected to simply sustain the lad for the rest of his life. A real man needed to earn his way.

  Earn his way . . . there he went showing his bourgeois roots.

  Andrew knew he wasn’t asking too much.

  Naturally, Peter had violently flinched and paled when Andrew had first approached him about the matter. That said, Peter’s surprise had quickly devolved into outrage, particularly once Lady Hadley joined the conversation.

  “I dinnae ken it unusual for an heir tae assist in the running of an estate,” he said. “It gives the heir experience and prepares him for the possibility of having tae assume the mantle of paterfamilias. And in this particular situation, when the current steward retires in a few years, Peter will be well-trained tae take over the management of Hadley Park. Which, in turn, will provide Peter with a long-term income.”

  And, most significantly, release Andrew from the duties of caring for the earldom from afar.

  It was a perfect solution.

  Lady Hadley and Peter were simply being recalcitrant, arguing with him because they felt superior.

  Andrew met their hostile gazes with one of his own, pressing his point. “The former earl made no provision for Peter in his will. I have no legal obligation tae provide for him. But I’m a fair man. I dinnae want Peter tae be penniless—”

  “That is precisely the point, Hadley!” Lady Hadley’s eyes flared. “As any other aristocratic gentleman, Peter should receive an allowance from the family coffers. Helping with the estate should not be forced upon him—”

  “Och, I dinnae see why I should pay Peter an allowance and get nothing in return.”

  Peter snorted.

  Andrew met the younger man’s gaze, giving Peter his steely eyes. The man squirmed in his seat before looking away.

  Andrew understood Peter’s mindset, even if he didn’t agree with it. At only twenty-one, his heir had never had expectations placed upon him, and so he had never tested his own competency. It was evident in this situation, as he allowed his mother to speak for him.

  Andrew thought of himself at that same age. He had already graduated with his degree from St. Andrews and had spent years managing his own businesses.

  Even Jamie, who had been years younger than Peter, had known the importance of taking pride in one’s work, of giving selflessly to others. It had been one of the youth’s many endearing qualities.

  Jamie turned to Andrew, smile stretching from ear-to-ear.

  “Do ye like it?” Jamie handed Andrew the dolphin carved from a piece of rosewood. Andrew knew the youth had spent weeks carefully shaving and sanding the figure until it shone like glass. He ran a hand over the curved, sinuous shape.

  “Aye, Jamie, it’s bonnie.” Andrew smiled in reply, moving to give the carving back.

  Jamie laughed, eyes dancing, pushing the dolphin firmly into Andrew’s hands. “Nae, I made it for ye.”

  “For me?”

  “Aye.”

  Andrew stared at the beautiful figurine. “I cannae accept it, Jamie. Ye worked so hard on it. Ye should sell it—”

  “Nae.” Jamie’s eyes turned serious. “I want ye to have it, ye ken? Ye’ve been a true friend to me. A person couldnae ask for more than that—”

  The soul-gutting guilt over Jamie’s death surged into his chest, shorting his breath.

  Enough. Not now.

  Andrew shook the memory off.

  Lady Hadley clenched her jaw. “It is painfully obvious you do not understand how affairs work within our class, Hadley. A gentleman is a gentleman because he does not have to work, not in spite of it. Peter, as a gentleman, will never have a profession.”

  “Hear, hear.” Peter sank further into his chair, staring in sullen silence.

  “Fine,” Andrew ground out. “Let’s no’ call it work, then. Would honorarium be preferable? Donation? Stipend?”

  “This is not a matter of vocabulary, Hadley. It is a question of honor—”

  “Honor?! What does honor have to do with Peter providing for hisself—”

  The door snicked open.

  All three of them turned toward the sound.

  Lady Jane entered the room, closing the door carefully behind her. Andrew and Peter scrambled to their feet. She curtsied politely, face expressionless, posture rigid.

  “Your raised voices were starting to upset the servants,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I thought I would investigate.”

  Andrew nearly rolled his eyes. By ‘upsetting the servants,’ she meant ‘feeding the local gossip mill.’ And by ‘investigate,’ she meant ‘I want in on the gossip.’

  He gestured for Lady Jane to be seated beside her mother before sitting himself.

  Lady Jane was as prim and contained today as she had been the evening before, her auburn curls meticulously styled, her fair skin gleaming against the soft green of her day gown. She sat stiffly, posture regal, her spine held rigidly away from the back of the chair.

  She was achingly lovely. But beautiful in the way of a marble statue—captivating to look at but likely chilled to the touch. In fact, if Andrew hadn’t seen her spitting angry and raging in that stream, he would think her cold through to her core.

  But her freckles outed her, those rebellious wee bits of spirit on her cheeks. His eyes traced them, lingering on her pert nose. He knew there was fire just underneath her surface, perhaps a secret version of Lady Jane she hid from others. Given her expansive vocabulary when upset, Lady Jane could not be the chilly lady she would like others to believe. Not entirely.

  And somehow, knowing that, nearly put a smile on his face.

  Andrew angled toward her. “We were merely discussing an employment opportunity for yer brother—”

  “Peter? Employment?” Lady Jane’s eyes widened with dismay, nostrils flaring.

  Her mother shot her a quelling look, obviously disliking the volume of Lady Jane’s outburst. Swallowing, Lady Jane pulled even that brief emotion back behind her mask and sat straighter in her chair, a feat Andrew would not have thought possible.

  “Peter most certainly will not engage in trade,” Lady Jane said, voice measured and calm.

  “Employment is hardly the same thing as trade, Lady Jane,” Andrew said.

  “Peter does not seek employment,” Lady Hadley snipped.

  “Precisely. He is the son of an earl, my lord.” The leashed outrage in Lady Jane’s voice was nearly comical.

  “Peter is a grown man who can make his own decisions.” Andrew flicked a look toward Peter who remained slumped in his chair.

  The lad jerked his gaze away from Andrew’s. But his angry, helpless expression said it all—the younger man had never been allowed to choose his own path.

  Unbidden, Andrew felt a flicker of sympathy. Peter had likely been smothered and pampered at every turn, never seeing or testing his own inner strength. By assigning Peter to assist his steward in managing the estate, Andrew was helping the younger man build his self-confidence, al
lowing Peter to eventually take on greater responsibilities and, essentially, grow up.

  Not that anyone in the room besides himself seemed to understand that.

  “Ye seem tae be unclear as tae what I’m asking Peter to do.” Andrew clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Allow me to explain it again.”

  Once more, he outlined his terms.

  Peter would assist the current steward with running the vast estate of Hadley Park. In return, Peter would receive a generous allowance.

  Lady Hadley and her two children glared at him in sullen silence throughout his speech.

  Andrew finished, saying, “I ken that yous dinnae like me much. I’m Scottish. I’m a rag-mannered idiot.” He flicked his eyes over Peter, who at least had the decency to flush. “I’m no’ like yerselves. But that doesnae mean we cannae rub along with one another. All yous are welcome tae live here at Hadley Park, as I have no intention of residing here on a permanent basis, though I will visit at least once a year.”

  “What about Jane?” Peter asked, darting a glance at his sister. Lady Jane shot him a grateful look in return.

  Andrew motioned toward her. “Lady Jane is welcome tae live here with ye, Peter, even though her financial care falls tae Montacute.”

  Lady Jane sagged slightly. Clearly, there had been some tension on that point. The thread of empathy in Andrew’s chest expanded a smidgen.

  “I willnae cast any of you adrift,” he continued. “You, Lady Hadley, are legally entitled to yer widow’s jointure from the estate, and I will ensure it is paid quarterly.” He nodded at Lady Hadley. “And, as I said, I’m happy tae further assist Peter by offering him a generous salary.”

  If Andrew thought his words would be soothing, he was sorely mistaken. Apparently, his largess was already a given, not a gift for him to bestow.

  At the word salary, Lady Hadley erupted again.

  “Work is not the answer here.” She practically hissed the words.

  “Again, we can call it a stipend—”

  “My son will not labor like a common farmhand—”

  “I’m no’ asking him to work in the fields.” Andrew felt his temper rising. “I’m offering him money tae make hisself useful, tae learn the craft of caring for an estate.”