“What in God’s name is that noise?” he demanded, plugging his fingers in his ears.
Duncan glanced over the violin tucked under his chin. “Music, St. James. A very gentlemanly pursuit.”
“Aye, for gentlemen who live alone in the middle of a moor.”
“I’m practicing, not performing.” Duncan scraped the bow across the strings again, producing a discordant whine that made Drew wince.
“No wonder you’re not performing. You’re an affront to that instrument.” Duncan ignored him, fiddling with the tuning pegs. “And you’re violently out of tune.”
“All art requires suffering.”
“By the artist,” he retorted. “Kindly spare the audience.”
Duncan put down the violin. “You’re the rudest guest I’ve ever had. You insult my fencing form, and now my musical talent.”
“If you had any talent, I would heartily insult it. Besides,” he added as he turned back toward his room, “I’m the only guest you’re likely ever to have, with the appalling noise you make.”
He closed the door of his room and lifted the ewer. Duncan’s manservant had filled it, although so long ago the water was stone-cold. In the army, one got used to that. He reminded himself that he was back in Scotland, mere Captain St. James once more, and he ought not to pine for the luxuries that Carlyle Castle had supplied, like warm washing water and a footman to shave him.
Duncan barged in while his face was still half-covered in shaving soap. “What ducal frolics shall you get up to today? I find myself agog to see how an English duke behaves, and if it’s any better than a lowly Scot.”
Drew flicked soap at him. “I must pay a call on the solicitor today.”
At once his friend—who practiced law himself when he wasn’t being a menace to music—struck a pose, his nose high in the air and his fist clapped arrogantly on his chest. “Bloody lawyers. Which one?”
“David MacGill, in St. Andrew’s Square.”
Duncan lifted his brows. “Only the most expensive for the Carlyles, I see.”
“Is that so?” He wiped the soapy remnants from his chin and unrolled his sleeves. “What do you know of him?”
His friend lifted one shoulder. “Wealthy—thanks to Carlyle, I presume. Thinks of himself as a modern man, less a Scot than a gentleman of Northern Britain. His offices are in the New Town, which tells you enough.”
Drew took out one of his new English suits. The duchess had raised her brows at his plain woolen breeches, and Mr. Edwards had sent him straight back upstairs to change the one time he dared wear a philibeg. The duchess, Edwards had warned him, did not approve of that. A tailor had been sent for posthaste, and Drew soon had a new wardrobe of very English breeches, waistcoats, and coats. Might as well keep to it while on Carlyle’s business.
“What business have you got with a solicitor?” Duncan apparently had nothing else to do with himself, although his questions were less irritating than his violin playing.
He buttoned up the waistcoat and tied his neckcloth. “Confidentially, aye? The duke’s not in good health, nor has he been for many years. I never even saw the fellow while I was there. But he owns a property here, which no one’s visited in twenty years or more. It’s all been left in the charge of this MacGill, with no one from Carlyle the wiser as to what he’s done with it. I’m to call upon him and find out.”
He had agreed to the errand readily, curious to see what the duke owned in Scotland. Mr. Edwards assured him that it was not much, only one estate, and could be concluded in a matter of days. All he wanted was a review of the records and instruction to Mr. MacGill to have the property put in order, against the likelihood of being offered for sale soon.
Drew wondered at that. He knew who would buy those Scottish lands: aristocrats intent on enclosing them and forcing the cottars and other tenants off them. While posted at Fort George, he had seen displaced families straggle into Inverness, reduced from independent farmers to subsistence crofters. He’d never thought to have a say about any of it, but now . . . He was deeply interested in seeing for himself.
After a quick bite at a nearby coffeehouse, for Duncan kept no food at all in his lodging, Drew walked up Bridge Street over the canal where he and Duncan had stripped down for a frigid swim last night. The New Town, as the rising development across the bridge was called, had grown considerably since he was last here. The streets were level, with proper sewers, and the buildings were of clean, uniform stone, unlike the cluttered hodgepodge of the Old Town.
As he walked, he mentally girded himself for conflict. He had dealt with solicitors before. When his father died, he’d had to step in and sort out his family’s affairs, untangling the mortgage and loans Father had taken against the mercer’s shop. Later, when he went into the army, he’d gone back and tried to make arrangements for his mother and sisters. He’d got a headache from the dry, stuffy air inside the pompous solicitor’s office, to say nothing of the sanctimonious lecture on how his father had mishandled everything. He had come away with no good opinion of the legal profession.
It was an entirely different experience as the Carlyle heir.
He arrived at David MacGill’s law offices in spacious, elegant St. Andrew’s Square and gave his name. He had made no appointment, not knowing precisely when he would arrive and not averse to catching the solicitor off guard anyway. With a sniff, the clerk took his letter from Mr. Edwards and vanished through a mahogany door. Resigned to waiting, Drew hung up his hat and took a seat, but within moments the clerk was back.
“Please, Captain, this way,” said the man breathlessly, now smiling and bowing.
Surprised but pleased, he got to his feet. As they approached the polished door, raised voices sounded angrily behind it, and then it burst open. Drew took a hasty step backward as a lady emerged, her mouth set in a furious line and her eyes flashing. Her skirts swung wide as she strode past him.
He stared, dumbstruck. It was the mystery woman from the oyster cellar, now attired in the finest manner with her hair pinned up in very fashionable curls. Her gaze touched him like a flash of lightning, scalding with contempt, and then she was gone, snatching her cloak and hat from another clerk who’d come running to sweep open the door in front of her.
For a moment he was stunned breathless. In daylight she was even more mesmerizing—and she hadn’t shown any sign whatsoever that she remembered him.
“Who was that?” he asked the clerk hovering at his side.
“Madam was on her way out,” the man assured him. “Mr. MacGill will attend you now, sir.”
His mind lingering on the woman, Drew went into the inner office. He didn’t have an appointment, but MacGill had practically thrown her out in order to see him.
“Come in, sir, come in!” MacGill was a sturdy fellow with a headful of fair curls. He bowed and scraped and offered three types of refreshment, all of which Drew declined.
“I hope I’ve not called at an inconvenient time,” he said.
“Not at all, Captain!”
“Yet there was someone in your office,” he replied. “She did not look pleased as she left.”
A frown flashed across MacGill’s face, but he gave a small laugh and waved one hand. “Mrs. Ramsay is the widow of a client of mine. I’ve served her family for years. She was quite content to make arrangements to discuss her business at a future time.”