Page 83 of My Highland Rogue
The man shook his head a few times, almost as if he were dislodging cobwebs.
“Of course, of course,” he said, standing again. The two of them shook hands before he gestured to a chair in front of his desk.
Gordon sat.
“I know Blackthorne well. A good man. I shall send him a letter thanking him for the referral.”
Was this Scottish advocate partial to drink? Had he imbibed his breakfast?
The outcome of this case wouldn’t rest on anything he did. Instead, it would be solely on his solicitor’s expertise as well as the letter of the law. Betty had taken his name and his parents. He was damned if Harrison was going to go the rest of his life wearing Gordon’s title. However, he wasn’t entirely certain that he entrusted his future to this man.
McNair was still staring at him.
“You say your name is McDonnell?”
“That’s part of my problem,” he said.
He had told the tale twice. Once to Jennifer and once to his English solicitor. Circumstances dictated that he tell it again, but it didn’t become easier with repetition.
“Until a few weeks ago, I thought my name was Gordon McDonnell. I believed that I had been born to the head gardener at the estate owned by the Earl and Countess of Burfield.”
McNair tilted his head slightly, his pen hovering over the page. “Are you referring to Adaire Hall?”
Gordon nodded. “I was raised at Adaire Hall. Because of the generosity of the Countess of Burfield, I was educated with her children.” He was not going to go into his relationship with Jennifer. It didn’t have any bearing on his claim. Nor was it anyone’s business.
“I left the estate five years ago and returned only recently when my father was dying.”
McNair still hadn’t written anything.
Gordon stared at the edge of McNair’s desk. It was as old-fashioned as the building and the office in which he found himself. He wondered if it was something deliberate, an aura achieved to give the client the impression that they were reserved, traditional, and dedicated not so much to change as to maintaining the status quo. No doubt that reassured a great many people.
That same attitude might prove to be deleterious to his claim. Or it might even prejudice McNair against taking his case.
“The night before he died, Sean confessed.” He corrected himself. “No, it wasn’t so much a confession as it was a revelation. Betty, his wife, was the one who confessed to him on her deathbed. However, I have my suspicions that Sean knew what she’d done all along.”
“And what was that, Mr. McDonnell?”
“There were two babies born that year, both within days of each other. One was the heir to the earldom. The other was born to the gardener and his wife.”
“That would be you.”
“So I thought,” Gordon said.
He told the solicitor about the fire, the countess’s heroic actions to save her child, and what it had cost her.
“The wet nurse died in the fire. Betty was asked to care for the countess’s child while she was so ill. The infants were both only days old. Betty decided to switch the babies. Her son’s future would probably be limited to following in his father’s footsteps, but she wanted more for her child.”
McNair put the pen down on his desk.
“No one was the wiser. No one would’ve known what she’d done had her conscience not bothered her shortly before she died.”
McNair sat back in his chair, his note-taking evidently forgotten.
“You’re telling me that you believe yourself to be the rightful heir to the earldom? That you’re the son of the Earl of Burfield?”
Gordon nodded again. “I am. I find it a fantastical story myself, Mr. McNair. I wouldn’t blame you if you doubted every word of it.”
“Do you have any proof?”
