Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,17

now, or I’ll have already lost the estate and town houses and what would be the point?”

Gordon surveyed the walls of the drawing room. “You could sell some of the art.”

“I’ve borrowed against most of the good pieces,” Robbie replied, “and if I were to try to sell all the rest, I might as well advertise in the Times that I’m bankrupt. I can just imagine what my creditors will do then.”

“Perhaps I could contact your creditors on your behalf—discreetly, of course—and try to negotiate different terms for repayment or an extension. In my experience, lenders are often willing to receive something rather than nothing.”

Robbie’s face brightened, and he looked better than he had since Gordon had arrived. “Do you really think they’d do that?”

“It’s certainly worth pursuing,” Gordon assured him.

“That would be a damn sight better than asking Horse-face to marry me,” Robbie said as he grinned and walked toward Gordon to shake his hand. “I swear, Gordo, inviting you here is one of the best ideas I’ve ever had in my life!”

Perhaps it was, but Gordon wished he’d never had it.

“Ouch!”

Sticking her index finger in her mouth before she bled on her embroidery, Moira pushed the frame away with her other hand. This was the third time she’d jabbed herself with the needle since she’d started.

She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece of the upstairs sitting room. The late-afternoon light was brighter in this part of the house if the day was sunny, so she kept all her needlework here. Today, however, had not been sunny, so there was another reason she’d chosen this relatively isolated room to spend her time.

She could see the whole long driveway from her vantage point by the window.

It was nearly time for tea, and her father still hadn’t returned from Glasgow, although he should have been back by noon.

Frowning, she wrapped her handkerchief around her finger and put the small scissors, pincushion and yarns in their box, then closed the lid. This delay could mean nothing; he might have had more business to do than she suspected.

Besides, she would have to tell him about Robbie’s lawsuit when he got home, and that was not something she was looking forward to. Still, the dread of telling him about that was less distressing than the dread of learning that her father had broken his vow not to imbibe to excess.

She hoped she wasn’t disappointed. Again.

Sighing, she looked out the window once more, to see her father’s carriage turn onto the long sweeping drive.

Chapter Five

Moira left the room at once and hurried to the top of the stairs, where she could see the foyer and watch her father enter the house.

His clothes were neat and tidy, and his gait straight and firm as he came into view.

With a relieved sigh, she rushed down the stairs and into her father’s open arms.

“Moira, my girl! How I missed you!” he cried as he hugged her.

“I missed you, too, Papa,” she said, holding him close, happy and relieved that he didn’t smell of wine, and his eyes were clear and shining. “Your journey was a success?”

“Aye, better than I expected,” he replied as he moved away to hand his coat and hat to Walters, who was waiting expectantly nearby. “I took some time to visit some of our friends, too. The Misses Jenkins all send their best, and Mrs. McGovern, and the Bruces.”

“I miss them all,” she said with heartfelt sincerity, taking his arm and leading him to the drawing room, where they would have their tea.

Despite her cares and duties as mistress of her father’s house in Glasgow, those days often seemed like a happy, carefree dream, until his drinking had become a worry. “Perhaps we could invite Sally and her sister for a visit soon.”

“Excellent idea,” her father replied as he sat down before the tea table.

In addition to the tea, milk and sugar, there were scones—her father’s favorite—and fresh butter and strawberry jam.

As they sat side by side on the damask-covered sofa and her father regaled her with tales of his dealings, it was almost like having tea back in their much-smaller home in Glasgow.

Almost.

“So I told the old skinflint that he should be delighted I was making such an offer,” her father said with a laugh. “Just because I’ve got a title, I haven’t lost my wits, I said. You should have seen his face, Moira!”

“Then everything went just as you’d hoped?”

“Better! That’s why I was a little late returning. But I