A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,12

money and buy a ship, she thought. I would like to see India or Spain or perhaps the South Seas. And wouldn’t that give Mr. MacGill the shock of his life.

She knew it would never actually happen, but it gave her great pleasure to imagine it happening.

After a long, refreshing ramble she and Robert returned home. He trotted right past her to his room at the back of the hall. It had been Malcolm’s private study when he was alive, but now it was Robert’s domain. He would settle in for a long snooze, snoring fit to rattle the windows. Ilsa went upstairs and girded herself to face the lawyer with a proper walking dress and coiffure of which even Jean would approve.

Despite arriving before the time of her appointment, she was still kept waiting. Idly annoyed, she entertained herself by counting the carriages that drove past. Mr. MacGill’s offices in St. Andrew’s Square were large, handsome, and ostentatious, with tall windows facing the square. She wondered why she paid him so much when he irritated her to no end.

She had counted twenty-eight carriages by the time the clerk showed her in. The solicitor came to take her hand and lead her to a chair. He always began with fawning smiles and pleasantries. If only he listened to her with as much solicitude.

“Now, Mrs. Ramsay, what can I do for you?” he asked at last, when she was settled in a chair and had declined his offer of tea.

“I would like to sell my shares in Mr. Cunninghame’s trading company.”

He was astonished. “Madam! What can you mean? I do not recommend that!”

“I understand,” she replied evenly. “But I would like to do it, and they are my shares. Will you see it done?”

“Are you in want of funds?” he said in reproach. “I should have anticipated as much. It is not unusual for a recently widowed female to be unaccustomed to the handling of money. If there are bills to be paid, you must send them to me—”

“Mr. MacGill, I know very well how to live within my means. I am not burning my money on new gowns or slippers.” She gave him a determined smile. “Sell the shares, please.”

She was slowly reading through the volume of information Malcolm had left behind. Now that he was dead, there was no one to stop her from examining everything in his desk. The Cunninghame trading company was very profitable, but its trade was appalling.

MacGill took a deep breath and seemed to change tack. Adopting an expression of paternal concern, he said, “It would be a very large sum. What would you do with all that money?”

She gazed out the window thoughtfully. The house across the street was under construction, and men were raising a heavy beam into position. “There are so many enterprises here in Scotland in want of investment. I like fabric. Perhaps I’ll invest in linen production.” She had also seen the reports of increasing trade with America. Scotland had enjoyed a brisk trade there before the war, and now that it was over, there seemed every opportunity for it to resume.

Mr. MacGill clicked his tongue. “I see. Of course a woman would take an interest in fabrics. But, my dear Mrs. Ramsay, investments are not made so impulsively. Let us wait a few months and see how you feel then, shall we? If in six months you still desire to sell, I shall speak to Mr. Fletcher about it.”

“It is not my father’s money. If my late husband were sitting here, would you say the same to him?” asked Ilsa, still watching out the window. If she looked directly at the solicitor, she would be tempted to throw something at him. “Would you scorn his wishes as idle fancy and impulse, not likely to endure?”

Malcolm had done many things on nothing more than idle fancy and impulse, and men like MacGill had only helped him, often when they should have stopped him. Not one of his friends or associates had tried to keep him from the duel that killed him.

Mr. MacGill went pink in the face. He was a pale man, and it was easy to make him flush. “Mrs. Ramsay. That is immaterial.”

Before Ilsa could reply, the clerk slipped in. Silently he brought a letter to Mr. MacGill, who gave the man a look that bordered on gratitude. As if he couldn’t wait to be free of her, even after making her wait half an hour for this