First Sinners by Kate Pearce Page B

and stared out of the grimy diamond-paned window at the street below. It was raining and most of the beaumonde had disappeared from the deluge, leaving only beggars, street vendors, and the occasional servant scurrying about his master’s business.
    He sighed, misting up the pockmarked glass, and turned to the man sitting in the cramped office behind him.
    “Do you think Mr. McEwan will be much longer?”
    The middle-aged clerk looked at Jack over the top of his spectacles. “As I said, Mr. Lennox, he will see you when he is ready.”
    “Is he with another client?”
    “That’s not for me to say, sir.”
    Jack got to his feet, dusting off his breeches. “Then perhaps I’ll take my leave and ask Mr. McEwan to visit me when he does have the time.”
    “Oh no, sir!” The clerk also rose. “That’s not necessary. I’ll go and see if Mr. McEwan is available.”
    “At last,” Jack muttered to himself as the hapless clerk scurried across the room and tapped on the closed door. A peremptory voice bade him enter, and he disappeared, shutting the door firmly behind him.
    He obviously wasn’t considered important enough to receive the full attention of the solicitor, but that might change. And he really was pressed for time. He had another appointment this morning, and was also expected by his newly married sister before she left on her honeymoon. She’d never forgive him if he didn’t turn up.
    The clerk reappeared and beckoned to Jack. “If you would be so kind, sir, Mr. McEwan will see you now.”
    “Thank you.”
    Jack entered the solicitor’s office and was immediately struck by the sheer volume of books and parchments stacked on every available surface. In the midst of the towering piles of books was a desk, and behind it sat a large, fleshy man in an old-fashioned white tie wig.
    “Mr. McEwan?” Jack bowed. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
    “Indeed, sir.” The solicitor didn’t rise and indicated the only uncluttered seat in the room. His accent held a hint of Scots. “Please sit down. I understand you believe you have a claim to the Lennox title and estates.”
    “I do.” Jack extracted the sheaf of documents from his coat pocket. “My father, John, was the youngest son of the fifth earl. He ran away from home at the age of twenty to marry my mother, who was considered an unsuitable match. I have a record of my father’s birth, his marriage lines, and details of my own birth.”
    “There was a successor to the title after your grandfather’s death.”
    “One of my uncles, I presume?”
    “The sixth earl was the third son of your grandfather. Two of the original heirs died during the war with France. At that point in time, there was no record of your birth, and he assumed the title without any issues.”
    “If he was my father’s older brother, he was the obvious heir. Is he still alive?”
    Mr. McEwan sighed. “We understand he recently died. It’s all a bit of a muddle.”
    “My father was the fourth and last son, which means that if he was living, he would inherit the title now, yes?”
    “If the sixth earl had no son.”
    “And did he?” Jack tried not to let his impatience show.
    “Not as far as we know.”
    “Then my father would be next in line, and as I said, I am his only heir.”
    Mr. McEwan sifted through the pile of documents, his eyebrows raised. “You also have very influential friends, Mr. Lennox. I understand these documents were procured for you by Lord Keyes, with the current government’s approval.”
    Jack modestly inclined his head. “I have performed some services for the monarchy in the past.”
    “So I’ve heard.” The solicitor sat back and viewed his potential new client. “When I was apprised of your claim, I took the liberty of instituting a search of the Lennox papers, which we hold as their family solicitors. If your documentation is authentic, you might well be the new Earl of Storr.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I will have to consider the