Page 25 of The Texan Duke
“You’re going to need to be a little more specific than that,” Connor said. “Since I don’t know where the guest wing is.”
The young man gave him directions. As Connor turned toward the stairs, the footman spoke again.
“But I saw Mr. Glassey go into the library a few minutes ago, Your Grace. It’s down the main hall, second door on your right.”
Connor thanked him and headed in that direction. As long as he stayed in Scotland, perhaps he could find something more important for the young man to be doing than to be guarding the door.
He found Glassey rightly enough. The solicitor was sitting at a large desk in front of what looked to be a wall of windows, the view nothing but white with a few touches of dark green to mark where trees were standing.
The room was unlike anything he’d ever seen or, for that matter, imagined in a private home. He could envision this library in a place like his alma mater, Rutgers, or even in the Austin capitol. Not in the Highlands of Scotland.
The ceiling looked to stretch to the top of Bealadair, the room nearly as wide as it was tall. Two spiral staircases, one leading to the first floor, the other to the second, sat on either side of the room. Ladders on rollers rested in front of twelve-foot-high mahogany bookcases.
Each bookshelf looked to be labeled in block lettering. Animal husbandry, adventure, art—he caught those titles before his attention was once more drawn to the ceiling. Here, magnificent mahogany arches framed a stained glass roof patterned in a mosaic of jewel-like colors.
The glare from the snow merged with the yellowish light from gas lamps burning throughout the room. Coupled with the oversized fireplace on the far wall, blazing merrily, the result was a room that was cheerful and bright, not to mention comfortably warm.
“It is amazing, isn’t it?” Glassey said. “It was your uncle’s favorite room. And mine, for that matter.”
When Connor still didn’t say anything, Glassey continued. “It’s due to the dedication of your various ancestors that the room is what it is.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this just a room,” Connor said, directing his attention to the solicitor. “How many books are here?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps your uncle did, but I haven’t found any records that indicate the number of volumes. I imagine it numbers in the thousands. Perhaps Miss Carew would know. She’s very conversant about Bealadair.”
“My uncle’s ward,” Connor said.
Glassey nodded, stacked his papers, and stood.
“What, exactly, is a ward?”
The solicitor smiled. “A dependent. In Miss Carew’s case, her father and His Grace were good friends. When he and his wife perished in a train accident, His Grace took in Miss Carew. She had barely escaped death herself.”
“So she’s not a relative of any sort.”
“No,” Mr. Glassey said, frowning at him as he moved from the desk. “However, she is to be accorded all the care and politeness you would show your cousins, Your Grace.”
The solicitor’s instant assumption that he was going to treat Elsbeth rudely irritated him.
“She isn’t drawing a salary.”
“No, I don’t believe she is.”
“That stops today. I want her paid. Figure out what would be a fair amount for a highly skilled housekeeper, Glassey, and pay her that.”
“I will, sir,” the solicitor said, although he looked surprised at the request.
“You don’t have to move,” Connor said when he realized that’s exactly what Glassey was doing.
“Of course I do, Your Grace. It’s your desk. Your room.”
He wasn’t going to call it his. Nothing about Bealadair was his. He hadn’t earned it. He hadn’t built it. But he knew, even without starting the conversation, that Glassey wouldn’t understand.
Instead of moving to the desk, he stood where he was.
“If you hadn’t found me, what would you have done?”
The solicitor looked confused. “I would have continued to look for you, Your Grace.”
