Page 100 of Foes, Friends and Lovers
Frowning slightly, he continued, “Get those three to the drawing room as fast as you can. Caitlin’s gone down to the Osiery.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at the face, then tucked the timepiece back into his pocket. “I doubt she’ll be back for another hour, but when she returns, tell her her uncle’s arrived and direct her to wherever we are at that point.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregory stepped out of the corridor and into the front hall.
An older gentleman—in build, more like Daniel than Rory or Hamish—was standing with his hands fisted by his sides in the middle of the hall and glowering blackly from beneath beetling gray brows.
The gentleman’s color was high, and his spine was rigid. The impression Gregory received was of a furious bantam ready to fly into the attack at the slightest provocation.
Smiling charmingly, he strolled forward. “Mr. Fergusson, I presume?” He held out his hand. “I’m Gregory Cynster, and I own this pile. Welcome to Bellamy Hall, sir. We’re delighted to see you.”
Fergusson blinked and automatically grasped Gregory’s hand in a firm, no-nonsense grip. But as their hands parted, Fergusson Senior’s aggressive attitude returned. His eyes—a quite-startling blue—locked on Gregory’s face in high dudgeon and uncertain suspicion. “I’m here to see my sons, sir, and my ward, and I won’t be denied.”
“Naturally.” Calmly, Gregory waved to the drawing room. “I’ve sent for your sons—they should be along shortly. Miss Fergusson is presently visiting elsewhere on the estate, but she should be back within the hour.” He turned toward the drawing room. “Might I suggest we sit in comfort while we wait?”
As Gregory had hoped, Fergusson was knocked off his stride by the calm, unflustered welcome. Although plainly reluctant, he allowed Gregory to usher him into the drawing room and consented to sink into one of the armchairs before the fireplace, in which a neat fire merrily crackled, throwing out just enough heat to take the lingering chill from the air.
As Gregory claimed the armchair on the other side of the hearth, Fergusson threw him a suspicious look. “I warn you, sir, that I will not be staying.” He jutted his chin. “I fully intend to haul all four of my family back to Benbeoch Manor.”
Mildly, Gregory responded, “I see.” He seriously doubted Patrick Fergusson would find matters so simple. Not even with his younger son. And he certainly wouldn’t succeed in winkling Caitlin away from the Hall; it would not be just she and Gregory who would oppose him on that.
“How was your journey?” Gregory asked.
Fergusson, who was staring, beetle-browed, at the open doorway, slanted him a sidelong glance. “I came from north of the border.”
Gregory inclined his head. “I know of Dalmellington and the area around it.”
“You do?” Fergusson studied him in surprise.
“I have relatives who live near the village of Carsphairn.”
Fergusson’s brows lowered again, this time in furious thought. Then he had it. He looked at Gregory. “Cynster. You’re related to Marcus Cynster?”
“Marcus—and Lucilla, now Lady of the Vale—are cousins. Well, second cousins, to be precise, but we’re all quite close.” Gregory smiled. “I visit every now and then.”
“Do you? Well, in that case, you’ll know about our winter snow. It’s more or less thawed now, but it wasn’t a pleasant slog down to the border.”
Gregory sensed the older man relaxing a trifle. He might have induced him to mute his aggressive bullheadedness by a few more degrees—to improve the chances that he would listen properly to his sons—but heavy footsteps approaching across the hall put an end to any further advance on that front.
Rory led the way in, his face set like stone, his bushy hair drawn back in a queue that left the hewn planes of his face exposed. With his hamlike hands loosely fisted at his sides, he appeared the very epitome of a fierce highland warrior; all he lacked was the kilt and a weighted club.
Immediately behind him came Hamish, also grimly determined, followed by Daniel, who, despite his relative youth, likewise appeared ready to fight for his freedom.
Never having had to do that himself, Gregory could nevertheless empathize. From everything he’d gathered and now seen of Patrick Fergusson, he was a man who had grown unshakably accustomed to all members of his family running in his harness.
Rory halted several yards away and nodded at his sire. “Da.”
“I’m thoroughly disappointed in you, boy!” Fergusson gripped the arms of the chair as if restraining himself from leaping up and physically confronting his significantly larger son. “I entrusted you with the simple task of finding your cousin and bringing her back to Benbeoch where she belongs. Instead, I find you taking your ease here! Aye—and corrupting your brothers into doing the same. What do you have to say for yourself, heh?”
His gaze steady, Rory shrugged. “Does it matter? You won’t listen, anyway, and you’ll never understand. But you need to accept that I won’t be returning to Benbeoch.”
“Won’t you, now?” Patrick leaned forward, his eyes narrowing to shards. “If you don’t return with me”—he cast an almost-contemptuous glance at his younger sons—“and bring these two to heel as well, I’ll cut you off without a penny. How do you imagine you’ll manage then?”
Unperturbed, Rory shrugged again. “Exactly as I have been for the past month, or haven’t you noticed I haven’t been drawing from the estate account?”
Blinking, Patrick eased back; it was apparent to all that, indeed, he hadn’t noticed that.
Rory nodded. “Aye, old man. I’m no longer dependent on you or Benbeoch. I’ve found a place here, and I’ve started my own business, and it’s going well, too.”
