Shortly after he’d dressed, Dunn brought a stack of cards. He placed them in two groups, one in front of Giff and one off to the side. “These”—he touched the first stack—“are invitations her grace has accepted. Those”—he pointed at the others—“are ones she’s nay seen. I’m to tell ye she expects ye to go with her on morning visits today.”
“Thank you. When am I to be ready?” He hoped it was after luncheon.
“One o’clock,” his valet answered.
Since neither of his parents partook of an early breakfast, luncheon was not served in the dining room. “I will eat at twelve.”
“I’ll tell Cook.” Dunn bowed and left the room.
Giff glanced at the cards and decided they could wait until later. He’d ordered a book on new farming practices in order to be ready to take over the Whippoorwill estate once he’d married. Donning his hat and gloves, he picked up his cane, and went to the front door.
“My lord.” His father’s butler was holding a note. “This just came for you.”
He placed the cane against a wall and opened the missive.
My dear Lord St. Albans,
I have been directed to inform you of the death of your great-uncle, the Honorable Angus Dewar.
No! How could that be? He’d just visited Uncle Angus two months ago. Granted he was old, but he seemed to be in good health.
You were mentioned in his last will and testament. Please inform me of a time I may call on you.
Yr. Servant,
Cecil Throckmorton
Solicitor
Throckmorton and Throckmorton
The address was near the Inns of Court. Giff could, and probably should, send a note back stating a time, but he’d rather not wait. “Call for my curricle. I’ll want Fergus to accompany me as well.”
“Straightaway, my lord.”
Giff resolved to wait patiently. It wouldn’t take that long, and the last time he’d ventured to go to the stables here, the stablemaster had told him to go wait in the house until he was informed that his carriage or horse, as the case may, be was ready. According to the stablemaster, it was unseemly for a future duke to go to the stables for either his horse or carriage while in Town. Although, it was perfectly respectable to do so in the country. He remembered his sisters complaining about rules. Apparently, he had to follow them as well. Albeit, probably not as many.
Ardley bowed and opened the door. “Your carriage awaits, my lord.”
“Thank you, Ardley.”
Fergus stood by the curricle. “Where we goin’, sir?”
“To the City. My great-uncle Angus died.” Giff climbed into the carriage.
“That’s a loss.” His groom climbed onto the back where a seat had been built. “He was a grand old man.”
“That he was.” Since he’d been a boy, Giff had visited his uncle every year. He’d hoped his children would know his uncle as well.
Thirty minutes later he jumped down from the curricle and his groom ran to the horses. “I’ll walk ’em.”
Giff nodded, looked at the names on the building and made his way to the first floor. The office was decorated in dark wood paneling, but long narrow windows lit the area.
“May I help you?” a clerk asked.
“I’m Lord Montagu.” Giff handed the man a card. “I received a letter from Mr. Cecil Throckmorton this morning. I’d like to meet with him.”
The clerk’s jaw dropped. “I’ll get him.” And he dashed off.
A short time later, a tall, lean man dressed in a black jacket, knee breeches, and a starched cravat, modestly tied, bowed and greeted him. “My lord. I am Cecil Throckmorton. I would have been happy to attend you.”
Giff inclined his head. “Thank you, but I have time this morning, and I’m busy the rest of the week.”
Throckmorton waved his arm toward an open door. “I have had the file put in here. Would you like some tea?”
“Please.” Giff wondered how long this would take. He took a seat at the head of a long table as another clerk set out the documents.
Throckmorton sat to his right. “There is a letter for you from Mr. Dewar. After you read it, I will explain your bequest.”
“Thank you.” Giff broke the seal and shook the paper open.
The hand that had written the letter seemed firm.
Giff, my boy,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’ve had a good life. That’s as much as a man can ask for. None of that useless English mourning. When you can find a good bottle of whisky, have a dram or two and remember me life. More than any other of my nephews, you were the son of my heart despite you being half Sassenach. I never understood why your mother couldn’t have found a good Scotsman to wed. But I’m taking too long to get to the point. Besides a few bequests, I’m leaving you everything. I trust you to take care of the house, land, and servants.
