Page 2 of A Lady by Chance

The door knocker echoed through the house, heralding the arrival of Patrick’s solicitor, Mr. Thornhill and the two bankers. Cobbs humphed, then turned and disappeared from view.

Moments later, Cobbs returned alone, or so Patrick thought, until the single set of approaching footsteps halted at the room’s threshold.

“I told Cobbs I didn’t need an escort,” said the tall, well-dressed, rakish scoundrel whose coat, waistcoat and highly polished boots bore nary a speck of the muck that clogged the muddy road outside Baldain’s front entry. “He’s in a jolly mood this morning,” Sir Stirling James added, striding into the room. “You look equally soured,” he observed as he claimed one of the tufted leather chairs in front of Patrick’s desk. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen one another. Not expecting me, were you?”

“Nae, and this is no time for a social call.” Patrick remained standing. “I’m expecting my solicitor any moment.”

To his surprise, his friend grinned. “Aye, him and two noxious, well-fed bankers.” He settled back in the chair. “They will not be coming. It seems they had other plans this afternoon.”

Patrick scowled. “What would you know of their business? Or mine, while we’re at it.”

“Everything that matters.” Stirling’s gaze dropped to the thick folder on Patrick’s desk. “Those are your father’s bank draughts, are they not?”

“And if they are?” Patrick placed the flat of his hand on top of the folder. “What then?”

Before Stirling could answer, Cobbs entered the room carrying a linen-covered tray. Still stony-faced, he placed the tray on the desk beside the bulging folder. “A light repast, milords.” He swept up the linen covering to reveal a pot of tea, an assortment of scones, sandwiches, and thick slices of spiced cake.

When Cobbs made no move to retreat, Patrick gave him a long look. “That will do fine, Cobbs.”

Cobbs turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Patrick locked gazes with Stirling. “Why are you here in Thornhill’s stead?”

“Thornhill and your last two debtors.”

“My father’s debtors, no’ mine.”

Stirling poured two cups of tea, set a cup in front of Patrick, then leaned back in his chair. Patrick gave in and sat down, then took a sip of his tea.

“Leastways, they were until this morning,” Stirling said. “I repaid the loans.”

Patrick choked on his tea. He set his cup back on the saucer with a clatter. Stirling jumped to his feet, hurried around the desk and thwacked him on the back a few times.

When he could speak again, Patrick grabbed a napkin and wiped up the tea that had sloshed onto the desk. “Are you mad? The sum owed was staggering. How could you—”

“Would you no’ have done the same for me?” Stirling dropped back into his chair and reached for a sandwich. “Tell me you would, or I shall be forever injured.”

“Of course, I would.” If I had a coin to my name.

“So, all is well, then.” Stirling bit into his sandwich, his gaze going past Patrick to the rainy gardens. “You did not truly want to sell Baldain’s last parcel of land?”

“Nae.” It would have gutted me. “But I saw no other option.”

“Well, it is no longer a concern.” Stirling took another sandwich. “Did you know that one debtor, Lord Dicketts, aimed to build tenements on every inch back there.” He waved his sandwich at the windows. “You would have kept your house, but you’d have gone witless having a towering hive of humanity mere steps from your rear terrace, Baldain’s gardens nothing but a memory.”

That was true.

Patrick’s heart hammered so fiercely, his mouth so dry, that he could not speak for a long moment. Hoping his hands wouldn’t shake, he tossed back the remaining tea in his cup in one gulp. He looked across the desk at his long-time friend—a man he would never have dreamed of asking for help—and had no idea how to adequately thank him.

“I am at a loss for words. I also do not know how or when I will ever be able to repay you.” His gaze went to his great-grandfather’s sword that held pride of place above the morning room’s fireplace. The ancient hilt gleamed with a scattering of rubies and emeralds. “I have sold off nearly everything of value. I’d hoped to keep that family sword, but it could put a minor dent in what I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Stirling returned, now topping his tea cup. “I do no’ expect or desire repayment.”

Patrick shook his head. “If you will not accept reimbursement, I cannae allow you to do so much for me.”

“Ah, well…” Stirling glanced again at the windows. Mist rolled in, swirling threads of gray that floated across the weed-grown paths and impenetrable tangles of shrubbery. “I could ask a favor of you…”

“Anything.” Relief swept through Patrick. “Name what you’d have of me and it is done.”