Julian is really enjoying himself with this newspaper project,” he said. “It’s good for him to have an occupation.”
They sat at one end of the drawing room, watching the journalists work on their project at the other. Miss O’Flaherty sat at a desk brought into the drawing room for the purpose, applying herself diligently to her writing. Connaught sat opposite, reviewing what work had already been submitted. He made occasional grunts, though whether those were approval or merely the discovering of a spelling error was unclear. Julian sat on the terrace steps beyond, a sketchbook on his knees. He’d been set to work on a sketch of the surrounding countryside.
“Julian hardly needs an occupation,” Cross said. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders: he felt as lazily content as a house cat. “His inheritance has him set up for life—and then some.” It had been a shock to find out how much their adopted son was worth. Cross and Pip had spent many evenings wondering how best to prepare Julian for the responsibility of so massive a fortune.
“He’s not twenty-five yet,” Pip reminded him. “And even if he was of age, he’d still need something to do with himself. Money isn’t everything. He needs an interest—something to give his life a purpose. He could do a lot worse than journalist.”
Connaught, passing them to retrieve a new bottle of ink, caught Pip’s remark. “He could also do a lot better, if you’ll excuse the frank opinion. I don’t deny that he writes well, but he entirely lacks the verisimilitude necessary for journalism.”
“He elaborates on the facts?” Pip asked.
Connaught grimaced. “He doesn’t stray from the facts. But his interpretation… Let’s just say that he managed to make a no-holds barred fight in the local pub sound like a boxing match between gentlemen.”
Pip gave the terrace doors a startled glance. “When did Julian visit the local pub?”
Their host snorted. “I understand that he got a first-hand account of the fight from one of the participants. Mr Liam Malone does not take kindly to his great-grandmother’s memory being maligned.”
“Goodness,” Cross observed. “I take it he was the victor in the match?”
“Judging from Mr Westaway’s account, he handled himself quite heroically. I suggested he took to the other party involved to get the other side of the story, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It doesn’t do for a journalist to be so partial.”
Pip’s gaze rested on Julian. The sunlight fell on the terrace, catching on Julian’s hair, turning the fine, ash-coloured strands into a golden halo. “Just as well Una Malone is not likely to reappear.”
Connaught looked up sharply. “You mean that, Mr Leighton?”
Pip nodded. “Yes. As you know, I’ve been looking into your family records, and the sighting of the banshee definitely seems to be cyclical. I think her recent appearances are linked to the upheaval following the late O’Connaught’s death and she will settle down once the ownership of the castle is settled.”
Connaught’s frown increased. “Are you sure about that?”
“So sure that I propose to return to Foxwood Court.”
Connaught stroked his square jaw. The news did not appear to thrill him. “It will be a shame to lose Mr Westaway’s journalistic talents.”
Cross leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on his stomach. “Didn’t you just complain of his lack of an appropriate tone?”
He waved Cross’s comment aside. “It’s what journalists do. Mr Westaway has work to do in setting the scene and capturing the tone of those he describes, but as a society correspondent I do not think you could do better. Stella, on the other hand, well, her spelling and grammar are atrocious, but she’s got a knack for capturing local colour and the personality of people in a few choice phrases. She’s got a natural gift for evoking scene. With practice, she’d make a decent human interest reporter.”
“Well, you must keep us informed of the process of the Connaught Castle Standard,” Cross said. “We shall certainly subscribe.”
Julian surveyed their boxes being loaded onto the roof of their carriage with a satisfied nod. “At least this time, I’m travelling with my wardrobe.”
Cross snorted. They stood on the upper steps of the entrance to Connaught Castle, the carriage parked on the drive before them. As the groom held the reins of the waiting horses, the footmen made their luggage firm. “You never did tell me why it was necessary that you left Birmingham in such haste.”
Julian brushed his sleeves, inspecting them for dust. “I didn’t think you were interested. You