Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “Can I help ye with your bag, miss?” A boy of about twelve, wearing a torn jacket and brown wool cap, pointed at the small valise at her feet.

  Roslyn blinked and quickly picked up the valise. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

  No doubt, he wanted to earn a coin or two, not knowing her pockets were as bare as his—if not more so. In any case, the bag was light, as she’d packed only a spare gown, stockings, undergarments, and a nightrail. The boy stared at her curiously and she realized she must appear a strange sight, standing immobile in the middle of an inn yard with a cold wind whirling about her.

  “I’d best go inside,” she said.

  “There’s a first-rate fire goin’ in the public room,” he offered. She hesitated and he added, “It’s all right, miss. I’m Fergus. I work here.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  The worst they could do was throw her out. She walked determinedly to the door and stepped inside. Two men sitting at the bar eyed her with interest, but she strode past them toward the fireplace, where she put down her bag and stretched her hands toward the warmth.

  “Can I get ye something, miss?” A weary-looking woman carrying a jug approached her.

  She yearned for a cup of tea but shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  The door opened again, letting in a gust of icy air and a handful of rough-looking men, cursing and laughing raucously. Roslyn ignored them and leaned closer to the fire.

  “Liz-zie!” a man called from a doorway behind the bar. “Get yourself over ‘n wait on the new folk. I ain’t payin’ ye to stand there ‘n flap your tongue.”

  The face of the serving woman beside Roslyn reddened. “Ye dinnae pay me to do the work o’ two.” Then added under her breath, “That Ellen McFee didn’t come in again today. When I see her next, she’ll get a piece ‘o my mind, ‘n that’s a fact.”

  Roslyn perked up. “Are you short of staff then? I-I might be able to help.”

  Lizzie looked her up and down. “Needin’ some o’ the ready, are ye?”

  Roslyn nodded. “I-I’m looking for a position, yes.”

  “Ye sure you can handle rough folk like these ‘uns?” She waved her hand toward the newcomers.

  Roslyn set her shoulders back, untied her cloak, and draped it across a chair before taking long, confident steps toward the table of hooligans.

  “Can I get ye some ale, gentlemen? Or is it food ye are wantin’? We’ve some fine stew this evenin’,” she said with a look at Lizzie, who watched open-mouthed.

  “That so?” said one man, taller and bigger than the rest. “Ole Jack’s stew’s never been called ‘fine’ afore. Jack got a new cook?”

  “He did,” she fibbed. “Me. I cooked the stew tonight.”

  Jack stared at her incredulously from the kitchen door.

  “In that case,” said the big, red-headed fellow, “we’ll each have a bowl o’ the pretty lassie’s stew. Won’t we, mates?”

  They all roared agreement, and Roslyn hustled toward the kitchen, shrugging sheepishly at the innkeeper.

  “Ye are hired,” he said when she reached him. “For tonight. What’s your name?”

  “Rachel,” she lied, using the alias she’d invented.

  “Rachel,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Git in the kitchen ‘n serve up the stew. Mebbe fancy it up a little first. Lizzie!” he shouted. “Get ‘em some ale.”

  The innkeeper handed Roslyn an apron, which she tied around her waist before entering the kitchen. First, she chopped two onions and a handful of garlic cloves she found in the pantry, which she added to the pot with a little flour for thickening. She dipped in a spoon and tasted it. Still bland. Casting her eyes around the room, she spotted a shelf with a jumble of small jars and bins. White pepper, yes, that would help. And bay leaves. A shame there wasn’t any walnut or mushroom catsup, but it appeared that Jack or whoever was in charge of the kitchen hadn’t put up a supply for the winter. The Forfar Inn was definitely not what she would call first-rate. Some red port wine would be good, as well.

  When the men tasted the stew twenty minutes later, they declared it the best they’d ever had. The ringleader gave her a roguish wink and Roslyn brushed off his improper advances with such practiced good humor that he declared his intention to return the next night to wear down her resolve.

  “Ye say ye need a job?” inquired the innkeeper when she returned to the kitchen. “Ye can have Ellen’s. A lazier lass I never saw. Comes in late more ‘n half the time ‘n sometimes not a’tall.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take Ellen’s position,” Roslyn said. “But I don’t mind helping out for a day or two, until I can find a suitable position. In return for food and a place to sleep,” she added.

  He heartily agreed and she breathed her first sigh of relief in five days.

  It would be too easy for Teryn to find her at the Forfar Inn, whatever name she used. She’d managed to meet her most pressing need—food and lodging—and that was enough for now.

  Chapter Two

  During the night, heavy snow fell, and one of the ostlers, managing to clear a path from the stable in the early morning, stomped his feet in the entryway while loudly prognosticating the advent of more snow, with a strong wind, besides.

  Roslyn, having slept little, had awakened early to stoke the fire and mix up a pot of porridge. She licked her lip with cautious hope that the weather conditions would impede her stepbrother’s search for her. The innkeeper, however, was not so pleased.

  “Likely no travelers in or out today, possibly tomorrow,” he grumbled. “I reckon the lodgers won’t go nowhere, though. Damned fools, these English, tryin’ to go abroad in Scotland this time o’ year.”

  “They’ll want entertaining,” Roslyn suggested, having faced this situation on more than one occasion at her father’s inn. “If you like, I can make up a batch of Banbury cakes, or bread and butter pudding, if there are currants in the larder.”

  The innkeeper raised a brow. “A fancy cook, are ye? My wife, God rest her soul, served good plain fare when she was alive. Never had a complaint.” He heaved a sigh. “But Lizzie’s no cook, and Ellen—well, she has other talents the gentlemen seem to like.”

  Roslyn’s cheeks heated as his meaning set in, and she took a step back. So, this was that type of inn, was it? Her father’s inn had always been run on respectable principles, at least while he lived. She couldn’t say the same about Teryn’s management, but then…Teryn was what he was.

  The innkeeper gave a big belly laugh. “Dinna fash yourself, lass. I took ye for a proper gel from the time you stepped through the door.” He waved a hand toward the kitchen. “The job’s yours. I’ll be glad to charge extra for the finer fare. If ye find the larder wantin’, Fergus will go to the village for ye, unless the snow starts up again.”

  Roslyn spent the next two days at the inn, cooking and baking for the stranded lodgers and the few townspeople who wandered in. The familiar routine so soothed her frayed nerves that she found herself wishing the weather would remain cold and snowy so she could continue indefinitely at the inn. By the third day, however, traffic started to melt the snow and carriage passengers trickled in seeking food or fresh horses. Every vehicle that came to a creaking halt outside the inn that morning grated her nerves raw and she tensed in anticipations of Teryn’s voice in the dining room. The inn work provided food and shelter, but she had no money and thus no prospects for further escape, as the cold weather precluded any attempt to journey on foot.

  As she tended a roast beef, Roslyn jumped when the heavy inn door slammed shut. Carefully, she craned her neck and peered through the partially open kitchen door, then drew a breath of relief to see a middle-aged man with spectacles and not her stepbrother.

  “Welcome, Dr. McTavish. Haven’t seen ye for more ‘n a month.” The innkeeper beckoned Lizzie. “Coffee for the doc, lass. It’s bloomin’ cold out there.”

  The doctor stomped snow off his boots and crossed to the fire, where he removed hi
s coat, scarf, and hat, then handed them to Lizzie. “Not much traffic yet on the Dunnichen. Had a devil of a time making out the road from Kingsmuir. We were nearly stranded in a ditch.”

  “Been up at Balmurray, I reckon,” commented the innkeeper. “What’s the word on his lordship?”

  Dr. McTavish shook his head. “Won’t be long now. Nothing can be done but make him comfortable until the Lord calls him home.” He shrugged. “A pity the housekeeper left last week. Sick mother in Rothiemurcus. Don’t know how a replacement can be found with the roads the way they are.”

  Roslyn’s pulse quickened. An open position? A housekeeper position was well within her range of skills—except for her age. Twenty-year-old misses weren’t generally desired for housekeepers. She could disguise herself with a severe hairstyle and some powder. Flour might do in a pinch.

  It wouldn’t take Teryn—although not generally known for his brilliant mind—much time to connect the disappearance of the young cook at the inn with the sudden appearance of a mysterious older housekeeper at the earl’s estate. All she needed was enough time to earn a few coins to pay for legal help in fighting Teryn for the return of her inheritance. Well, that and enough money to pay for lodging somewhere discreet.

  Roslyn steered clear of the doctor—it wouldn’t do for him to recognize her if she got the position as housekeeper—until she found an opportunity to steal away from the inn.

  An hour later, wrapped in her cloak with the hood shadowing her face, she headed into town where she learned that the grocer made twice-weekly deliveries to Balmurray, the home of the ailing Earl St. Andrews, tomorrow being one of the scheduled deliveries. With any luck, the grocer’s driver would agree to carry along a potential housekeeper.

  Upon her return to the inn, she found the doctor gone, and immediately informed Jack she would leave on the morning coach bound for Dundee ‘to visit her aunt.’

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and eyed her closely. “I’m that sorry to hear it, lassie. Ye’ve been a great help to us here. There’s a permanent job for ye here, if ye want it.”

  Her heart warmed at his kindness toward a stranger, and she wished once again she could stay. “I appreciate the offer, sir, and thank you kindly for taking me in these past days, but I must attend to my aunt.”

  He nodded. “If ye must, ye must.” He pulled a small pouch from his coat pocket and pulled out three coins. “Take this with ye as a token of my appreciation.” He held out the coins.

  Roslyn blinked. “Oh, but you needn’t…” She had offered to work for room and board, and it had been only three days. But the money would solve the problem of paying for the coach fare.

  Jack grasped her hand, opened it, and dropped the coins onto her palm. “Ye’ve earned every bit.” He winked. “But if ye could manage a wee bit of time before ye go to teach Lizzie some of your fancy cookery, I’d be grateful.”

  Roslyn gave him a broad smile. “Of course. I can write down some of the recipes.”

  She tried to tamp down the sadness at the prospect of leaving the good people she’d known for so short a time as she and Lizzie collaborated in the kitchen the remainder of the day.

  “I reckon ye’ll be happy to see your aunt again,” Lizzie remarked.

  “My aunt? Oh, yes, I-I shall, of course,” Roslyn stammered. She hated lying.

  “Has it been a long time?” persisted Lizzie.

  “Yes, no, not terribly long.” Roslyn scanned the room for a reason to change the subject. “Oh dear, I believe I smell something burning. Lizzie, be a dear and stir the stew to keep the vegetables from sticking.”

  Thankfully, with the busy taproom and the cookery lessons, the afternoon flew by, making it easy for her to avoid imparting further information about her plans. When Roslyn finally retreated to her cot in the small garret she shared with a chambermaid, she found sleep difficult to achieve. Her plan to depart for Dundee, disembark not far from Forfar, then return as another person and beg a ride to Balmurray House in order to apply for the housekeeper position depended on her being quick-witted…and a great deal of luck. A great deal of luck and a well-laid plan filled with lies.

  Chapter Three

  That same morning

  The Highlander Inn

  Inverness

  “Mister Murray? Mister William Quinn Murray?”

  Quinn looked up from the paper sitting before him on the breakfast table. A tall, well-dressed, dark-haired gentleman halted beside his table in the public area of the inn where he’d lodged the last fortnight.

  “Yes, I am he,” Quinn replied, a little startled to find three more tables in the public area had filled. He grimaced inwardly. His father used to tease him that when reading the morning paper, the house could burn down around Quinn and he wouldn’t notice.

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” the man said. “The name is James, Sir Stirling James. I am a great admirer of your excellent beer.”

  Quinn stood and offered his hand. “I see you are a man of discriminating taste, Sir Stirling. What can I do for you?”

  “I own several taverns here in Inverness, and your Bonnie Lassie is the singular favorite of our patrons. I heard you were in town, and thought I’d drop by to see if we can agree upon a favorable contract for purchase.”

  The cut of Sir Stirling’s coat and his impeccable speech marked the man a gentleman rather than a tavern owner. Although, these days, dress and fine speech weren’t enough to distinguish a gentleman. The lines between classes had begun to blur. He knew an earl who owned a shipping business and a duke who owned a coal mine. He couldn’t blame them. Crops eventually failed, and vast acres of Scottish timber had disappeared. Even some of the wealthiest landowners occasionally found themselves short. A wise man—gentleman or commoner—anticipated disaster rather than reacted to it.

  “I’m sure we can reach an arrangement.” Quinn gestured toward the seat opposite his. “Perhaps we can discuss the matter over coffee and a bit of breakfast. I have an engagement later in Academy Street.”

  Sir Stirling smiled. “I would welcome a cup of coffee. A frigid morning, but that’s Scotland for you.”

  Sir Stirling removed his coat and handed it to a serving woman, then Quinn ordered porridge, fresh bread and butter, and coffee for Sir Stirling, as well as a refill for himself.

  “Sir Stirling James…” Quinn said when the serving woman left. “I know I’ve heard that name recently. Something to do with finding husbands for a duke’s daughters, perhaps?” Quinn didn’t attend to gossip, but he had dined with the family of one of his best customers several days past, and the lady of the house had expressed a keen interest in Sir Stirling’s remarkable success in matchmaking.

  Sir Stirling flicked something from the edge of his sleeve then lifted his face, eyes alight with mischief. “Aye, it appears I have become notorious.” He shrugged. “It’s not such a difficult business, really. I shouldn’t wonder that any parent could do as well if they were to approach the matter with a bit more logic and finesse.”

  The serving woman returned with invigorating hot coffee and warm food. After she departed, Quinn buttered a roll, ate it and most of his porridge, then took a sip of coffee before wiping his mouth with his serviette and studying his companion.

  “Logic and finesse, you say? Where is the human element, then?”

  Sir Stirling cocked his head. “To be completely frank, yes, it is a bit more complicated than that. One must be a good judge of character. It’s an instinct, I suppose. I’ve always been able to take the measure of a person in short order. A skill I honed when I served on the Continent.”

  Quinn sipped his coffee. “You were a soldier?”

  “Not exactly. I worked with the Home Office.”

  “Ah.” He had been engaged in espionage, then. Not a gentlemanly occupation, but a necessary one. Time to change the subject. “So, tell me about the duke’s daughters. I did not manage to grasp all of the particulars, but it seems you managed to marry off four sisters, despite their
declared intentions to remain single.”

  Sir Stirling grinned. “The matter was quite simple, really. I deduced that the three younger sisters were put off the institution of marriage by their older sister’s determination to avoid it. The duke thought he could resolve the problem by issuing an ultimatum to the eldest daughter to marry. Such edicts seldom succeed, of course. So, I offered her a more palatable solution.”

  Quinn lifted a brow. “And that was…?”

  Sir Stirling drank his coffee. “I promised to find suitable husbands for her younger sisters and, if the three of them were happily settled, she would agree to become my wife.”

  Quinn blinked. The man had nerve. “She agreed? The two of you are now wed?” He took a drink of coffee.

  Sir Stirling’s eyes danced. “She did and we are. Quite happily, I might add.”

  Quinn whistled. “What of the younger ladies?”

  “Married for love, and went to the altar willingly.”

  Quinn shook his head. “Extraordinary.”

  He would have thought the story highly unlikely if he hadn’t heard it from the man himself. Was Sir Stirling’s success with matchmaking only his ability to judge character or did he possess some other-worldly ability?

  The serving woman arrived carrying a steaming pot. “More coffee, gentlemen?”

  Both men nodded. She refilled their cups and, after she left, Sir Stirling said, “I am sorry to hear about your uncle.”

  Quinn frowned. “My uncle?”

  “The Earl St. Andrews.”

  Quinn stiffened before catching himself, then said in a neutral tone, “My uncle and I are not close.” Had the old man died? It was too late for the earl to make amends with Quinn’s father, the earl’s only brother. But it would be like him to go to the grave without making amends with Quinn’s mother.

  Sir Stirling’s expression remained neutral—as it should—but Quinn glimpsed the keen mind at work behind those dark eyes. “Forgive me,” Sir Stirling said. “I assumed…”