Page 56 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Nigel glanced at him, waited until he took his shot, then softly said, “But what if hedoesget better?” When, straightening, Nolan met his eyes, Nigel went on, “What if he actually recovers enough to see and learn, and understand what I’ve done? He won’t approve—not of any of it. And you know as well as I do that he’ll take back the reins, and then we’ll be back where we used to be—with no hope of living the sort of life we’ve only just started to enjoy.”
His eyes flaring, Nigel stepped closer to Nolan. “What if he doesn’t just overturn the changes, but does something to make sure we can’t change things even after he’s gone?” Panic had his tone rising. “What if he disinherits us and makes Thomas the laird instead?”
Nolan appeared to consider the prospect, then shook his head. “No—he won’t do that. Regardless of all else, he’ll never admit you’re anything other than the best candidate for the lairdship once he’s gone.” Nolan drew a slow breath. “And as for the rest, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Lucilla’s no miracle worker. Papa might improve, but only temporarily. She’ll leave, and in a day or two he’ll slide back again.” Nolan turned to the table and bent over it once more. “See if I’m not right.”
“But even temporarily might be long enough for him to get wind of what I’ve done.”
Nolan shook his head. “It’ll take more than a day or two of improvement before he’s back in the library and leafing through the ledgers. And even then, things won’t seem to be that different.”
Nigel brightened. “I forgot you keep two sets of accounts.”
Nolan dropped another ball and straightened. “I told you we might need them, and if we do, everything’s there, already in place. Papa can look to his heart’s content, and all he’ll see is that you running the estate is no great change at all—that all you’ve been doing is keeping things ticking over, much as he would have done.”
Nigel chuckled.
Nolan circled the table to line up the last ball. “But I doubt we’ll need our fake ledgers—he’s not going to get that far. Trust me—once Lucilla goes home, Papa will lapse again.”
Nigel watched the last ball roll into a corner pocket. “The way he’s been going, he can’t be all that much longer for this world.”
Nolan straightened and met Nigel’s gaze. “Very likely not.”
* * *
Thomas was waiting with Lucilla in the drawing room when Ferguson came to tell her that Manachan was ready to receive her.
Niniver had, again, excused herself and retired as soon as they had finished their tea. Once she had, Lucilla had asked for a more detailed account of what Thomas had discovered when he’d ridden out that afternoon; he’d obliged, and once again, her insightful questions had demonstrated her comprehension of how the local people thought. She understood what others from outside the area would not.
Carrying a lamp to light their way, he walked by her side up the stairs and around the gallery to the door to Manachan’s room. He paused and met her eyes. “Ready?”
She blinked. “Of course.” Before he could, she reached out and rapped on the panel.
Several seconds later, Edgar opened the door, then stepped back and held it wide. The normally dour man almost smiled. “Thank you for coming, miss.” The words were barely a whisper. Edgar waved her into the sitting room to one side. “The laird is waiting for you through there.”
“Thank you, Edgar.” Lucilla led the way into the room, but just over the threshold, she halted and looked back at Edgar. “I would appreciate it if you were present, too. Your past observations will be helpful.”
Edgar inclined his head.
Lucilla turned and swept into the room. She had no idea if Manachan was already regretting agreeing to let her treat him; he could turn crotchety and difficult, but she was determined to keep control of the examination and extract from him—and Edgar, too, if necessary—all she needed to know.
She was somewhat reassured to see that Manachan had changed into his nightshirt; swathed in a multihued velvet dressing robe, he sat waiting in a large, ornately carved straight-backed chair.
Fixing her most professionally reassuring smile on her lips, she inclined her head to him. “Excellent. This will do nicely.”
He glowered at her. “I warn you—I haven’t let a doctor near me for decades, so if you think to poke and prod me, you’ll have to wait until I’m a great deal iller.”
She managed not to smile too broadly. “I’ve no need to poke and prod. I just need to check your eyes, your hands and your feet, and then I’ll need you to answer my questions truthfully.”
He snorted, but he allowed her to examine his eyes. She noted the paleness of his skin, but it was simply pale, not sickly; the areas around his eyes looked as healthy as they should, with no bruising or indication of current illness. She had Edgar hold a lamp just over her shoulder and studied the faded blue of Manachan’s irises at some length.
“What can you see?” he mumbled.
“Your age, for one,” she tartly replied. After a moment, she admitted, “I can also see that you had some serious illness, something to do with your digestion and blood, some months ago.” The striations were quite clear and sharp; whatever it had been, the attack had been intense.
“Aye,” Edgar murmured. “That’d be right.”
“Hush, you.” Manachan directed a sharp glance at Edgar as Lucilla stepped back. “Let’s see what she comes up with on her own.”
She arched a brow at him, but after checking his pulse at both throat and wrist, she moved on to examining his hands and, lastly, his feet and ankles. There was no unnatural swelling, and the color of his nails and cuticles was, for a man of his age, quite good. But his pulse was weaker than she would have liked, and his skin tone, and the resilience of the flesh beneath, could definitely be improved.
