Chapter 66: Meeting and Transaction

Chapter 66: Meeting and Transaction

The car drove for about ten minutes before arriving at the Barton Family's castle.

Grey stone walls stood heavy with time, ivy clinging to the battlements like old regrets. Rain-blackened gargoyles watched from above, unmoved by the arrival of the car.

Castles—both grand and modest—dot the Scottish countryside, vestiges of a feudal age now long faded. The Barton estate, before George, carried the austere dignity of old Scotland.

After World War I, Europe's aristocracy had already begun its decline. George had read Cannadine's account of their fall—how the old families bled themselves dry protecting a country that no longer needed them.

The Barton family, however—hereditary dukes with seats in the House of Lords—remained one of the rare exceptions. George understood that this meeting required his full attention.

He stepped out of the car at the castle gates, dressed in a tailored overcoat, gloves, and polished leather boots. The chill bit through his coat as the castle butler approached and led him inside.

In the reception room, George was introduced to the current Duke of Barton.

They exchanged pleasantries with polite precision. George then presented a gift.

"This was prepared by our family's butler, Fred. He insisted."

The Duke gave a short chuckle. "George—may I call you that? No need for formality. What happened with the previous generation is old history. I never blamed your mother. She and my sister were close growing up. I always saw her as family. I'm glad she found happiness—even if she did so in a… rather unorthodox manner."

George nodded slowly. "Of course. You can call me George."

So this was the man his mother had been arranged to marry—the very one she'd fled from. George felt a momentary flicker of discomfort but masked it behind a courteous smile.

The age gap made things more understandable. The Duke appeared at least ten years older than George's mother, which made her decision to elope more human and less rebellious.

"Come, let's not dwell on old stories," the Duke said, rising. "I'll give you a tour. It's not often we have fresh company."

The Duke led him through halls lined with portraits and crests. Tapestries and ancient weapons adorned the walls, lending the place the quiet pride of centuries.

Later, in the grand dining hall on the second floor, George sat with members of the Barton family. The mood was respectful, if curious. As the sole heir of the Swinton family suddenly reappearing, George was a point of quiet speculation—but no one was rude. He maneuvered the evening with precise etiquette. Even the positioning of forks and knives had its rhythm in such circles.

The silverware is too polished. The butler's gloves hid tremors of age. A quiet daughter, maybe ten or eleven, leaned in curiously: "Did you grow up in America? Do people ride horses in the streets?"

George smiled, shook his head. "Not unless you're in Texas."

After the Duke set down his wineglass, signaling the end of the meal, everyone followed suit.

Later that evening, the Duke invited George to his study. Wood-paneled and smelling of old books and pipe tobacco, the room was lined with leather-bound volumes. They sat with glasses of wine in hand.

The fire crackled in the hearth.

"George," the Duke said, "you must be wondering why I invited you."

George met his gaze. "Yes, Your Grace."

The Duke leaned forward slightly. "You've returned to inherit the title and the fiefdom, I presume. This matter has been discussed privately in the House of Lords. While the Swinton family holds only an Earl's title, it's one of the rare ones tied to actual land.

But you hold American citizenship. That complicates things. Your grandmother registered your name long ago—George Swinton. The council sent me to negotiate. Two options are on the table:

First, you renounce U.S. citizenship and fully inherit the title and the land.

Second, you retain dual nationality, but the land is reclaimed by the crown. You'd still keep the title. As long as you uphold British honor and don't step on noble interests, your dignity will remain untouched."

George was surprised by the Duke's directness. Most people, like him, veiled their words in ceremony. This man got straight to it.

George had expected some form of challenge regarding nationality. But giving up the estate so easily didn't sit well. Losing the fiefdom would weaken his political capital.

Seeing his pause, the Duke added, "Naturally, there could be certain compensations."

George swirled his glass. "Your Grace, the fiefdom is part of the family's legacy. Giving it up so readily doesn't align with tradition. Perhaps we could consider a swap—in the spirit of preserving legacy, not just land."

The Duke raised an eyebrow. "A swap?"

"Britain has many colonies. If the Swinton fiefdom were moved to an overseas territory, wouldn't that resolve the issue?"

The Duke studied him carefully. "And what territory did you have in mind?"

"The Arabian Peninsula," George said evenly.

The Duke gave a short laugh. "That desert? Let's not pretend. What are you after?"

George didn't flinch. "The Suez Canal. If I can control it, I'll make it the busiest commercial waterway in the world."

The Duke chuckled, impressed despite himself. "Well, it's an interesting proposition. I'll take you to the council to discuss it further. But the Arabian Peninsula? That's a bit too large and too volatile."

George nodded. He had expected pushback. But the idea was now planted, and the discussion had begun.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across the Duke's face. Neither man moved. They didn't need to—lines had been drawn, and paths were being paved, far from Edinburgh's stone halls.