Page 5

Where in God’s name would he put six females and no doubt a lady’s maid for the countess, a nanny for the youngest girls, a governess for the older lasses, and a nurse for the infant?

“Shite,” Broden swore beneath his breath, furious and foul.

The care of the former earl’s wife and five daughters were now his responsibility. Hell and damnation. He’d never even met Standish, the fourth earl, and certainly never anticipated inheriting.

Inheriting?

Derision curled his lip.

He hadn’t even been aware of the title until Oswald, very much appearing like a drowning mongrel, had banged most insistently upon his door two hours ago.

Broden’s mother coughed delicately before entering with a laden tray. Her lace cap flapped upon her graying hair as she limped to the low table before a well-worn, sage green sofa.

Damp weather always made her joints stiffen and ache. Rather than waiting upon him and Oswald, she ought to be snuggled in her bed, sipping a hot willow bark and turmeric toddy, heated flannel encasing her legs, and a ripping good book between her work-worn hands.

“Mr. Oswald,” she said with a cheery smile, “I’m certain ye must be famished.”

Her simple plaid gown and white apron pinned to the front bespoke a woman of gentle, but humble, means. The McGregors weren’t impoverished by any stretch, but neither were they affluent.

Oswald perked up as the aromas of Scotch pies and warm bread wafted from the tray’s direction.

“Indeed, Mrs. McGregor. A most welcome respite.” Oswald stacked his papers into a neat pile, and once he’d closed the inkpot, he hurried to the sofa and availed himself of a Scotch pie.

Mother poured him a cup of coffee. “Broden, would ye care for coffee?”

“Nae.” He strode to his desk and pulled the bottom drawer open. Removing a glass and a whisky bottle, he poured three finger’s worth of the dark, amber liquid. Reluctantly, he angled the bottle toward Oswald. “Whisky, Oswald?”

The solicitor lifted his long nose, his nostrils flaring in distaste. “Thank you, no. I’ve found Scottish spirits are too strong for my palate.”

Och, the toff probably takes milk in his coffee, too.

Before Broden had finished the thought, Oswald said, “May I impose upon you to add milk to my coffee and three sugar lumps, Mrs. McGregor?”

“Aye.” His mother swiftly complied, her right eyebrow elevated. That always meant she had a great deal more to say but had elected to hold her sharp tongue, which could strip a heather bush bare when she was incensed.

Broden, on the other hand, had to bite his tongue to keep from telling the rickle-a-bones his mother wasn’t a servant.

A fine line pulling her eyebrows together, his mother peered at him with knowing, pale brown eyes. Eyes very much like his own. The hue not quite the shade of strong tea but more fawn colored. “Are ye no’ eatin’, son?”

“I shall later.” He dropped a kiss onto the crown of her head as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Why dinna ye rest now? I ken this damp weather wreaks havoc on yer joints.”

Her gaze avid with curiosity, she sent the solicitor a considering look.

A wry, mocking smile skewed Broden’s mouth at her not-so-subtle hint. “I’ll tell ye everythin’—”

“The earldom owns houses in Brighton and London, as well,” Oswald said between bites and uncouth, appreciative noises. “One of those climes might be beneficial to your health, Mrs. McGregor.”

In England?

Not bloody likely.

Broden lanced the man through with his gaze. Did he truly think to manipulate him by playing upon his sympathies?

“Earldom?” His mother’s attention swept between the men. “Have ye inherited Standish’s title, Broden?”

She knew about the title?