All the best,
Uncle Angus
Giff blinked back tears. “Do you know how he died?”
“He fell off his horse,” Throckmorton said. “I must admit, I was slightly shocked to have been told he was over ninety. I’m sorry to tell you that the funeral has already been held.”
Giff was sorry he’d missed the funeral but was glad his uncle had been doing something he loved. “He would have rather died riding then in his bed.”
The solicitor cleared his throat and handed him several sheets of paper. “He last will and testament.”
The first list was of bequests. He chuckled as he read the stipulation that every servant who wanted to retire had to replace themselves and train the replacement. “Have the servants been told of the requirement?”
“They have, my lord. According to the solicitor in Scotland, none of them were surprised.”
Giff nodded. His uncle had probably informed them all beforehand. The only part that was surprising was the amount Uncle Angus had in funds and in the bank. “I had no idea he was that warm.”
“According to the accounts I reviewed, he invested well. What will you do with the funds?”
“I’ll not change any of the investments. I would like the direction of his man of business. If you agree to represent me, I’d like you to open an account in my name at Campbell & Coutts. The principle will remain with the Bank of Scotland”—Uncle Angus would haunt Giff if he moved it all to England—“An amount of five hundred pounds will be transferred immediately to the new account.”
Throckmorton bowed. “I would be honored to represent you, my lord. Would you like me to write to the steward?”
“No, I’ll do it. It’s better he and the staff hear from me.” Giff rose and held out his hand. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
The solicitor looked surprised but took his hand and shook it. “The feeling is mutual. There will be documents to sign. Would you like me to bring them to you?”
Giff considered the question. His father would not be happy about Uncle Hector’s bequest. They had never got along. His mother, on the other hand, would be thrilled after she got over her uncle’s death. Giff decided to keep it to himself for the time being. “No. Send a messenger when the papers are ready.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
When he reached the street, he was torn between weeping for an uncle he loved dearly and smiling at his good fortune. It appeared weeping was going to win out. He waved to Fergus.
“Bad news, sir?”
“Just the opposite, but there was a letter in Uncle’s hand.” Giff couldn’t finish the sentence.
Lips pressed together his groom nodded. “Take yer time. That’s what my mam told me when Granny died.”
He climbed into the carriage and started the pair. Had anyone written to his mother?
When he arrived home, he was greeted with the news that his mother wanted to see him. Giff went directly to her parlor. One look at her and he knew she had been informed.
“Oh, Giff.” Her eyes filled with tears.
He went to her and kneeled next to her chair. Taking one cold hand, he rubbed it between his. “I know.”
“I suppose I thought he would live forever.” Her handkerchief was already wet, and he handed her his.
“I did as well.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “My father told me he left everything to you.”
“Yes. I’ve just come from the solicitor.”
“That is good.” Mamma removed her hand from his and blew her nose. “I do not think I am up for morning visits today.”
“Neither am I. There will be other days.” A thought occurred to him. “You don’t by chance have any whisky, do you?”
She gave him a watery smile. “How very good of you to remember. It’s in my dressing room on top of the first wardrobe.”
He brought it out and poured them each a glass. “To Uncle Angus. Long may he live in our hearts. Fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befalls, Then gently rise and softly call Goodnight and joy be to you all.”
Three toasts later, he went to his room. The last time he saw Uncle Hector, a man who’d never married, Uncle Hector had sat him down and told him it was time for him to find a wife. He shuffled through the cards, separating them out by event. Balls, Venetian Breakfasts, a musical evening, and a soiree. The first event, though, was Almack’s where he would ask one of the Lady Patronesses to recommend him for a waltz with Lady Alice.
* * *
Even though Alice had asked Georgie about Lord St. Albans, she still wanted Matt’s opinion as well, but she did not know how to bring up the subject. She met her sisters in the corridor before they went down to the breakfast room. “What is the best way to go about asking Matt whether Lord St. Albans is a rake?”
Madeline just stared at Alice for a moment. Then Eleanor said, “I will do it. We all need to know.”
They went down to breakfast and after the children had gone to their lessons, Eleanor glanced at Alice, then at Matt. “What do you know about Lord St. Albans?”
Madeline closed her eyes and huffed. “Is he a rake?”
His brows rose, and he frowned. “Not that I have heard, and I’ve made a point of discovering who should not be made known to you.” He took another a sip of tea. “How did you meet him?”
Eleanor glanced at Madeline and Alice nodded. “Lord Montagu saw us in the Park, and Lord St. Albans was with him. He seems to be rather worldly.”
“As he might.” Matt took a piece of toast. “He’s been on the Town for several years.”
