Chapter Three #3
His right boot had held a knife and pistol that she noticed were returned to their sheaths. She still wasn’t certain it was wise to give him back his weapons, but her instincts—and Parrot’s obvious affection for him—told her that he was no threat.
In truth, she sensed McTavish would be quite protective of her if ever there was a danger.
Was this not odd?
It took her a moment to dig out the oilcloth that was tightly folded to preserve the parchment inside.
Unfortunately, the letter was illegible in parts because water had seeped in and stained portions of the parchment, causing the ink to bleed. Nevertheless, she did her best to carefully read each sentence and fill in whatever words were garbled.
McTavish’s gaze remained on her the entire time, his expression so raw and steamy, she could hardly concentrate.
She read the letter several times before setting it aside.
“Well?” he asked, appearing eager for her opinion.
“The signature is clear. It appears Sir Edmund Crawley wrote you this letter.”
He nodded. “Do ye know him?”
“Yes, quite well. He happens to be my father’s solicitor.” However, she pursed her lips because the contents of this letter seemed absurd. “Captain McTavish, am I reading this correctly? Is he advising you that you are the new Duke of Dearborne? Is this a jest?”
He shrugged and then released a breath. “This is what I am trying to determine. Does it seem legitimate to ye?”
“Yes,” she said, perusing the signature again with its familiar swirls and strokes.
“As I mentioned, my father’s affairs have been handled by Sir Edmund for many years.
Of course, Draco is the one who mostly deals with the solicitor on behalf of my father now.
I used to do it, not that there was ever much to do at the time because my father was never good at handling his financial affairs, so there was almost nothing to manage.
He was quite terrible at holding on to his funds.
If it were up to him, he would spend every last coin on books. ”
“Ah, a true scholar.”
She nodded. “Unfortunately, one cannot eat books.”
He frowned upon hearing the mumbled remark she had meant only for herself. “Did ye go hungry, lass?”
“On rare occasions. Truly, rarely a skipped meal. Then Draco became earl and he has spoiled us shamelessly ever since. But we were speaking of this extraordinary letter of yours.”
“Aye, it seems ye know this solicitor fairly well then.”
“Yes, and I think quite highly of him. Draco thinks highly of him, too.”
“And yer father? What does he think of Crawley?”
“I am not certain he even remembers the man,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. “You may not get any useful opinions out of him now.”
He reached for her hand and held it with aching tenderness.
“Deandra, it’s all right. We needn’t disturb yer father.
Ye’ve given me exactly the valuable information I had hoped to learn from Draco.
That he still relies on Crawley for yer father’s affairs tells me all I need to know about the man’s honor. ”
“Draco keeps correspondence from Crawley & Sons in his study. Do you wish to compare the handwriting, just to be sure?”
“Aye, lass. That is an excellent idea.”
She nodded. “Give me a moment and I’ll see what I can find. Something written recently and something older to compare. But first, I would like to look in on my father. I’ve left him alone too long with his books. Do you mind?”
“I have a suggestion. How about ye have the housekeeper bring our tea into the library and we’ll have it with yer father? Do ye think he would like that?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, he would. But do you have the strength to walk downstairs?”
He glanced at Mildred, clearly recognizing that the sturdy maid could toss him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry him downstairs with little effort, if necessary. “I can manage on my own. But I cannot come down dressed as I am.”
“I’ll fetch a robe from Draco’s wardrobe, and slippers, too.
” Deandra was not certain why she felt so pleased with McTavish’s suggestion.
But she wanted him to meet her father. How else was she to determine whether this brash sea captain was capable of kindness and compassion toward another who was weak and ailing?
He leaned back against his pillows and laughed. “No, Deandra. I’ll not meet yer father in robe and slippers. I’ll need decent clothes. Shirt and trousers will do. No cravat or waistcoat necessary if it’s to be just us.”
She shook her head. “No company expected, just you, me, and my father.”
He cast her an appealing smile. “Well, how about that.”
She paused as she was about to leave his bedside. “How about what?”
“It could be I am a duke, Deandra. Do ye realize what that means?”
Dear heaven.
Yes, she knew. Although she still could not comprehend it.
And yet who could deny there was a certain brusque elegance and aura of quality about him?
A duke.
Was he going win his bet by offering to marry her? It seemed a long way to go for a kiss.
What would he do if she accepted his proposal?