The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (3 page)

Thomas barely noticed, his gaze riveted by the two men standing before the wide window of a gentleman’s outfitter; they were discussing the hats arrayed behind the glass.

Thomas blinked, then smiled. “Nigel. Nolan.”

The pair turned, surprise on their faces.

Thomas crossed the pavement and offered his hand. “Well met, both of you. What brings you to Glasgow?”

Not that he cared; whatever had brought them there, the pair were the answer to his not-quite-formulated prayer. Through them he could learn what was behind Bradshaw’s letter without journeying to Carrick Manor.

Nigel—the elder, fractionally taller than Nolan although several inches shorter than Thomas—looked blank for half a second, then he smiled. “Thomas!” He gripped Thomas’s proffered hand. “It’s good to see you!”

“Indeed.” Nolan—blond where Nigel was brown-haired, with blue eyes instead of Nigel’s brown—shook Thomas’s hand once Nigel released it. “We didn’t want to disturb you at work, and there’s so much to do here.” Nolan gestured about them. “Always something to fill the time.”

“How long have you been here?” Thomas asked.

“Just a day or so,” Nolan replied.

Thomas wanted to discuss Bradshaw’s letter, but the open street wasn’t the place. Sinking his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he asked, “Have you dined yet?”

Nigel shook his head. “We hadn’t got that far.”

Nolan pulled out a fob watch—a handsome piece Thomas hadn’t previously seen. Nolan glanced at the face. “Twelve already—I hadn’t realized.”

“If you haven’t any plans,” Thomas said, “let me take you to lunch at my club.” He tipped his head back the way he’d come. “The Prescott in Princes Street—it’s not far.”

The brothers exchanged a glance, then both turned similar smiles on Thomas. “Excellent notion,” Nigel said.

Nolan nodded. “It’ll give us a chance to catch up with how things are going with you—Papa always asks, and he’d love to know.”

* * *

It’ll give us a chance to catch up with how things are going with you.

The Prescott Club was the premier gentleman’s club in Glasgow, refined and restrainedly elegant. Over the following two hours spent within its hallowed precincts, in the grandly appointed dining room and later in a corner of the smoking room, Thomas discovered that Nolan’s words had been more polite response than actual intention.

When it came down to it, the pair were interested in little beyond themselves, and that little largely revolved about what entertainments were on offer that might appeal to their hedonistic souls.

Thomas had forgotten why it was that of Manachan’s four children, the company of these two—of his own sex and nearest to him in age—so grated on his nerves.

Nigel and Nolan were quick to remind him.

Although only thirteen months lay between Thomas and Nigel, with another thirteen months between Nigel and Nolan, the pair always made Thomas feel more like, if not their father, then at least an uncle. They always seemed a good decade his junior; their current focus on horses, all manner of horse racing, and lightskirts seemed more appropriate to young men of twenty or thereabouts rather than the pursuits of well-bred gentlemen in their late twenties.

The distinction, Thomas had to admit, was one of degree. Most of his friends appreciated fine horses, but the subject didn’t dominate their conversation. Most gentlemen of their age had a social interest in the sport of kings, but few were devotees of the track, much less the more questionable dives catering to the industry with which Nigel and Nolan seemed to be well acquainted. As for women, the difference between Thomas’s socially acceptable encounters with society’s bored matrons and Nigel and Nolan’s exploits in the local brothels could not have been more marked.

Glad that, it being lunchtime on a weekday, the club was only thinly patronized, Thomas waited out his cousins’ rambling, rather boastful discourse, and finally found the right moment to say, “From your letters, I gathered that you”—Thomas looked at Nigel—“have taken up the reins of the estate to some extent.”

Nigel responded to the question in the words and nodded. “The old man’s grown weak—too weak to ride about.”

“No real illness,” Nolan put in. Popping another candied walnut into his mouth, he shrugged. “Just old age.”

“Exactly.” Nigel glanced down at the table between them. “It was getting too much for him, so he asked me to help out—to take over the organizational side of things. Seeing to the farmers, that sort of thing. So I have been.”

In between gadding about, it seemed. Thomas swallowed the words and mildly said, “I’d heard that there was some problem with the seed supply this year—that the planting’s not yet done.”

Nigel made a scoffing sound and waved the comment aside. “All in hand. Going with a different system. It’ll work out better in the end for the clan. They just don’t realize that yet.”

Thomas wondered how not getting seed into the ground could possibly result in a better crop.

Before he could pursue the point, Nolan stirred. “Why do you ask?” When Thomas met Nolan’s blue eyes, Nolan arched his pale brows. “I didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on the estate, cuz.”

Thomas swiftly weighed his options, but could see no reason to prevaricate, and perhaps it was best that Nigel learned there was unease among the estate’s farmers, all of whom were clan. Thomas dipped his head to Nolan, acknowledging the point. “I’m not.” He looked at Nigel. “One of the farmers wrote to me and mentioned the matter as a problem.” Thomas could see no reason to mention Bradshaw’s name nor that the man had requested that Thomas speak directly to Manachan.

Now that he’d learned of his cousins’ recent exploits and taken the measure of their current interest in the estate, Thomas had to wonder if Nigel really was performing as well as he would no doubt like to think. Manachan’s shoes were large—very large.

Nigel fell ruminatively silent at Thomas’s words, as if digesting unwelcome news, but, eventually, he slowly nodded. “I didn’t realize they were put out by it. You can leave the issue with me—I’ll deal with it.”

Thomas hesitated, then offered, “It might well be that all that’s required is an explanation of your new strategy.” Whatever that might be.

“Indeed.” Nigel nodded more definitely. “I’ll take care of it.”

“We’re going back tonight.” Nolan drained his glass, set it down, and eased forward in his chair. Across the low table, he caught Nigel’s gaze. “We’d better get on.” Nolan glanced at Thomas and smiled. “And leave you to get back to your desk, cuz.”

Nigel humphed and finished his drink. Thomas did the same and rose as his cousins got to their feet.

Together, the three made their way out of the club. They paused on the steps to shake hands and, with faintly awkward expressions of familial bonhomie, to bid each other adieu.

Then Nigel and Nolan strode off to the stable where they’d left their curricle, and Thomas headed back to the bustle of Trongate.

* * *

Thomas sank into the chair behind his desk. The two pages of Bradshaw’s letter still lay on his blotter. He regarded them for a moment, then picked up the sheets, folded them, and set them in the bottom drawer to the left, where he kept all correspondence relating to the estate.

As he pushed the drawer closed, the question of what his cousins had been doing in Glasgow resurfaced in his mind. He’d asked, but they hadn’t actually replied, not specifically. They’d told him at length of all their carousing, real and quite possibly imagined, but they hadn’t touched on what had brought them there. Thomas knew the clan coffers would never stretch to cover the profligate lifestyle his cousins had described; he’d taken their descriptions with a very large grain of salt. They’d either exaggerated or fabricated. Possibly both.

Yet something—some reason—must have brought them to Glasgow. Why else had they come?

After a moment, he shrugged. “Presumably they came on estate business.” And, in reality, the estate and its business were no business of his. “And, thank God, I am not their keepers.”

With that heartfelt statement, he lifted the top file from the pile on his desk; opening it, he settled to review the company’s dealings with Colliers, a shipping line operating out of Manchester who were looking to expand their business in Glasgow, and who were hoping that Carrick Enterprises, with whom they had several lucrative agreements, would help ease their way.

Twenty minutes later, a tap on the door heralded Quentin. His uncle stood in the doorway regarding Thomas, then with a smile, Quentin nodded at the file in Thomas’s hands. “The Colliers?”

Thomas laid the file down. “They’ll be here at four.”

“Well, when you’re finished with them, don’t forget you’re expected for dinner in Stirling Street tonight.” When Thomas wrinkled his nose, Quentin grinned. “Your aunt sent a message, just in case you were in any danger of forgetting.”

Thomas sighed and tipped his head back against the chair’s raised back. “More young ladies.”

“Undoubtedly.” Quentin’s expression was amused. “As neither she nor you are going to give up, you’ll just have to weather the course.”

If only Thomas could be sure there would be a prize worth winning at the end. He raised his head and nodded. “I’ll be there.”

His grim tone had Quentin chuckling as he retreated down the corridor.

The interruption had broken Thomas’s concentration; his thoughts, freed, tugged him back to the question of what had brought his cousins to Glasgow…

He shook aside the distraction and refocused on the Colliers file. “Regardless of what brought them here, because they were here, I don’t need to go down to the estate—and for that, I should give thanks.”

And because he didn’t need to journey to the lowlands, he could concentrate on taking the next vital step in forging the life he wanted.

All he needed to do was find some young lady strong enough, vital and vibrant and enthralling enough, to oust Lucilla Cynster from his mind.

* * *

Two mornings later, Thomas walked into the Carrick Enterprises office to find Dobson standing before Mrs. Manning’s desk. Mrs. Manning was seated behind the desk as usual. Both she and Dobson were staring at a letter set prominently across the top of the blotter. There was a certain expectant tension in the air.

Dobson and Mrs. Manning glanced at Thomas, then Dobson reached for the letter, but Mrs. Manning snatched it up and held it out. “Good morning, Mr. Carrick. This just arrived by courier.”

“I see.” Strolling forward, Thomas took the packet. “Thank you.”

Dobson snorted. “Surprised the boy didn’t bowl you over.”

Thomas had seen a courier dart out of the building just before he’d reached it, but couriers were commonplace in that part of the city. He was wondering why this particular delivery had excited such concern when Mrs. Manning obligingly added, “It’s from Carsphairn, sir.”

Shock lanced through Thomas. “Ah.” Manachan? Or something else? He studied the envelope, but it wasn’t franked by his uncle’s hand… Was that good news or bad? “I’ll be in my office.”

Without haste, without again looking at the packet, he made his way down the corridor, into his office, and to his desk. Standing before it, he picked up the letter knife, slit the packet, and withdrew a single sheet of paper, folded twice. His face like stone, his emotions under tight control, he unfolded the sheet and read…

That the Bradshaws, the entire family of seven—Mr., Mrs., two sons, and three daughters—had been taken violently ill the day before. The family of the same Bradshaw who had previously written to Thomas.

The letter he held had been penned by a neighbor, Forrester. Forrester confirmed that, as Bradshaw had told Thomas, the seed stock for the farmers had not been delivered, and as far as anyone knew had not even been ordered, and no one knew want to do. Forrester explained that he and his family had called on the Bradshaws, who were kin, and discovered the entire family gravely ill and wracked with pain. Forrester stated that they’d sent for the clan healer, who lived at the manor. And that Bradshaw had begged Forrester to write to Thomas and let him know immediately—because they believed that someone hadn’t liked Bradshaw informing Thomas about the problem with the seed supply.

Lowering the letter, Thomas stared unseeing at the view down Trongate. “Good God.” Logically, there was no reason to link the Bradshaws’ sudden illness with Bradshaw writing to him about the seed supply. However, in the circumstances, he couldn’t swear that there was no connection. He had told Nigel and Nolan, and while he couldn’t imagine his cousins doing anything so nefarious—something idiotic, perhaps, but cold-bloodedly poisoning an entire family was something else again—he had no way of knowing who else they had told.

No way of knowing what was going on on the Carrick estate.

No way of guessing if someone else might have an interest in their farmers not being supplied with seed.

Families fell ill for all sorts of reasons. The healer had been sent for, thank heaven, and if the family were still alive… “Pray God she can pull them through.”

Thomas knew the healer, one Joy Burns, a woman devoted to her calling. She would do her best; that wasn’t in question.

Despite the unstated insinuation contained in the letter, at first glance, there seemed no reason to assume cause and effect. However, although Thomas hadn’t mentioned Bradshaw’s name, for anyone familiar with the people on the estate, it wouldn’t have been all that hard to guess that the outspoken and frequently belligerent Bradshaw had been the source of the complaint. And then the Bradshaw family had fallen ill—on the day after Nigel and Nolan had returned to Carrick Manor.

It wasn’t, Thomas realized, simply a case of three potentially connected facts—Bradshaw writing to Thomas, Thomas mentioning the matter to his cousins, and the Bradshaws falling ill—but also the timing. More than all the rest, it was the timing that made his hackles rise.

He’d been making his way in the business world for nearly a decade. If he’d stumbled across a situation like this in a business context, he wouldn’t be even entertaining the notion of coincidence.