The Highland Earl
Page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Jarecki
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover illustration by Craig White
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1602-1 (mass market), 978-1-5387-1601-4 (ebook)
E3-20190513-DANF
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Also by Amy Jarecki
Praise for Amy Jarecki
To the best parents in the world.
They gave me every opportunity they could afford and encouraged me to step outside the norm and stretch my boundaries. Mom wanted me to be an oboist. Dad wanted me to be a professional golfer. Neither wanted me to be an author, but they love me anyway. Both of my parents enjoyed enriching lives and Mom was given the Lifetime Achievement Award by her alma mater, Whitman College, in 2016. Dad was an aerial photographer in the Korean War and an elementary school principal. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2004, yet by strength of mind, his decline has been very slow. Mom fell twice in the past two years, first breaking her hip, then her pelvis. She now has dementia. It is difficult to see one’s parents go into decline, but important to remember and respect their achievements, their strength of character, their support and love. I’ll never forget Dad singing with me at the top of his lungs in the car or Mom taking me to the theater where she was directing a Pirates of Penzance (and I had every word memorized). Thank you, Mom and Dad. You are treasured in my heart always.
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Chapter One
Kensington Palace, London, 1st April 1713
Evelyn hesitated before she accepted the glass of honeyed lemon juice from the Frenchman. A royal ball was no place to demonstrate malcontent, so she held her drink aloft in a halfhearted toast while turning her head away from the crowd. “I wonder how many people suffered to bring us the queen’s latest fancy.”
Mr. Claude Dubois took a drink for himself and returned her gesture with an arch of a wiry eyebrow. “You grow bold, my lady.”
“I am impatient.”
“The bane of youth.” As Dubois spoke, his keen gaze scanned the ballroom. “Tell me, what news from Nottingham?” In truth, the French emissary inquired as to the present status of her father’s corrupt dealings.
Evelyn sipped her drink, the tartness tickling the recesses of her jaw. “Nothing of late. Though I expect mail in a fortnight.” With these words she confirmed a shipment arriving from one of the Duke of Kingston-upon-Hull’s many vessels.
“Are you anticipating anything of particular interest?” he asked, not surprisingly. The Frenchman’s influence in the past year had been instrumental in raising support for the Jacobite cause, which included Evelyn’s particular passion: to end the aristocracy’s misuse of power. She herself had witnessed the devastating effects of her very father’s treachery.
Checking over her shoulder, Evelyn confirmed no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. “Silk.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Dubois snatched a savory pastry from a passing footman’s tray and popped it into his mouth. “At least it is not wool. And thank heavens for your fine work, my lady. If those two ships laden with wool had been smuggled into England without paying import duties, Scottish crofters would have gone hungry for an entire year.”
Buoyed by a sense of achievement, Evelyn followed the emissary’s line of sight to her father—Hull, as his peers called him. Beside Papa stood a well-dressed courtier with whom the duke was deep in conversation. Finding her father’s companion to be an unusually attractive gentleman, she drew in a sharp breath. Truly, he might possibly be the most striking man she’d ever seen. A head taller than Papa, he wore a fashionable blond periwig and an expertly tailored suit of blue silk. And by the breadth of his shoulders, he appeared as if he could challenge any man in the hall to a duel of swords and win. Obviously a peer, the courtier had neither hair nor thread out of place.
“My,” she said, the admiration in her tone unmasked. “Perhaps the ball will not be dull after all.”
Mr. Dubois turned his back to the object of her admiration. “Do you have any clue who that is having a word with your father?”
Evelyn licked the sweet tartness from her lips. “I cannot say I do.”
“Alors, he has been away since your arrival in London. Though now he has returned, I imagine your path will cross with the Secretary of State for Scotland now and again.”
She nearly choked on her next sip. “That is the Earl of Mar?” Yes, John Erskine was oft in the papers—but not in a good way. The Highlander sat on Queen Anne’s cabinet and had to be one of the absolute last men Evelyn would ever trust.
“Bobbin’ John, the Scots call him. I’m surprised to see the man so soon. His wife’s death was a shocking loss.”
“He’s a widower?” Unable to help herself, Evelyn stole another glance at Mar. In fact, it was all she co
uld do not to openly gawk. No, she’d never met a man such as he. Beautiful, yet masculine. His face youthful, yet sophisticated and wise. The inability to put her finger on what made the earl more alluring caused her to stare more. “Poor man.”
“Poor boys.”
“He has children?”
“Two young sons.”
“It must be devastating for them all. And the boys left without a mother.” Attempting to mask her overt staring, Evelyn took another sip of lemon juice and watched the man from behind her glass. “I quite expected the Earl of Mar to be a short, gaunt man of advanced age, but he is rather imposing, is he not?”
Mr. Dubois’s stout stature better reflected her imaginings. “I have no doubt he will soon be the most eligible widower in Britain if he is not already. ’Tis a shame no one knows for certain where his loyalties lie.”
“Hmm.” Evelyn forced herself to look at the French emissary, who now appeared far more wizened than he had two minutes ago. “I was merely appreciating the workmanship of Mar’s tailor. A man with the earl’s vacillating politics could never be of interest to me.”
“I would think no less, though you’d be hard-pressed to find a husband with more influence over the crown.” Mr. Dubois grinned and deviously waggled his gray brows. “Imagine the mischief in which you might embroil yourself under his roof.”
If only they weren’t at a ball with dozens of nobles surrounding them in courtly finery, she might have thwacked the Frenchman with her fan. “Is my father’s roof not enough?”
“Pray, what is your age, my lady? You will have no choice but to marry soon.” Dubois knew her age.
“I’m in no hurry,” she said as Papa nodded at her, his gray periwig shifting with the movement.
“See there, the duke is coming this way. Oh my, that is interesting. Mar is on his heels. I’ll bid you bonsoir.” Mr. Dubois bowed. “My lady.”
She curtsied. “Monsieur.”
“There you are, my dear.” Father approached, grinning as if he had embarked upon a profitable scheme with the nobleman. “Allow me to introduce the Earl of Mar.”
Evelyn’s gaze shifted to the man. With a sharp squeeze of her stomach, a gasp slipped through her lips before she had a chance to suppress her reaction.
Beneath a striking slash of brows, hawkish blue eyes stared at her with the intensity of a pointer homing in on his prey, yet his gaze was guarded, tormented, or wounded by something devastating. That such a tall and braw man might be cut to the quick by anyone was beyond Evelyn’s imagination. He must have truly loved his wife. And yet, if her intuition was right, there appeared to be more underlying this man’s grief. Something layered and complex.
After a pause, which for all Evelyn knew may have lasted ten minutes while she pondered the possibilities of her assessment, the corners of Mar’s lips turned upward—a polite smile but still guarded. He stepped forward, grasped her hand, and applied a well-practiced kiss. A bit of a breeze must have wafted through the air, because she was suddenly bathed in a delicious fragrance. Clean. Masculine. A hint of the sea. Warm lips whispered over the back of her hand, sending tingles up her arm.
And when he straightened, Evelyn leaned forward just to sample his scent once again. “M’lady, ’tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said with a deep, rolling burr. He might be dressed as an Englishman, but there was no questioning this man’s Scottish pedigree.
Evelyn drew her hand from his grasp and quickly snapped open her fan to cool the sudden blast of heat beneath her stomacher. “And yours, my lord. May I be so bold as to express my sympathy for your loss.”
After giving a nod, the earl winced and shifted his gaze aside.
Father rubbed his signet ring on his lapel—a habit which oft expressed his unease. “Mar has returned to London at the queen’s request.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Evelyn said.
“The queen’s business rests for no one.” With his next breath, Mar assumed an air of unreadable pleasantry. “Ah, the orchestra has returned. Would you do me the honor of a dance, m’lady?”
The speed at which she fluttered her fan grew more vigorous. “Dance?” Evelyn didn’t want to dance with the earl. As a queen’s man, he represented everything she despised. Moreover, he must be in his midthirties, perhaps fourteen years her senior. And, bless it, he made her too self-aware.
“Her Ladyship would be delighted,” her father answered, curse him.
Mar slid his fingers down the meticulously embroidered filigree along his doublet. “I wouldn’t want to supplant someone else.”
“This dance is presently not promised to any other gentleman.” Snapping her fan shut, Evelyn tucked it into the hidden pocket designed by her modiste. If nothing else, she might gain a tidbit of useful knowledge. Mr. Dubois said one must draw near those with opposing views and come to know them well. “Shall we?”
“M’lady.”
Reluctantly, she placed her fingers atop Mar’s forearm while he led her to the center of the ballroom. Good Lord, his muscles were like steel beneath his silk doublet. Worse, the silence between them stretched uncomfortably.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. What had he been thinking when he’d signed his name to the Act of Union to subjugate his native Scotland to England? Was he completely oblivious to the needs of the common man? Most likely, he was. Could there be a man more politically flawed? Her father suffered from the same highbrow affliction, after all.
“Are you enjoying the All Fools’ Day Ball?” Mar asked, stepping across from her and joining the men’s line.
She almost laughed aloud at the irony. “I am.” Though enjoy mightn’t be the right word. Amused was more apropos.
An accursed minuet began, one that would ensure they danced hand in hand throughout.
Poised like a man who’d spent the greater part of the past decade at court, he seemed oblivious to her discontent. “Your father tells me this is your first season in London.”
“It is, though Father has brought me to Town many times before.” The eldest of three girls with no living mother, Evelyn had avoided making her debut. But having reached her majority, Papa had insisted this was the year for her to come out. Though expected to marry well, she was in no hurry whatsoever, especially now she was in the employ of Mr. Dubois.
“Do you like Town?” Mar asked.
“I suppose, though if I had to choose, the countryside is more pleasant.”
“How so?”
Goodness, the earl was full of questions. Why couldn’t he simply enjoy the dance or the music or the hall, or do anything aside from make idle chat?
“For starters,” she said, “a woman can breathe deeply in a pastoral setting without enduring the disagreeable odors that come with humanity living in close proximity.”
“I agree with you there.” Together they executed a half turn. “Though I’d think a young lady such as yourself would enjoy the access to the shopping one finds only in London.”
Evelyn touched her palm to his as they promenaded. His hand was a great deal larger than hers. Quite warm as well. “Nottingham has most everything I need. And I prefer my modiste there.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye—not a glance, precisely. It was more like an examination. “A practical woman. I commend you.”
If she’d known he’d reply favorably to her response, Evelyn would have sworn she adored to shop endlessly.
“What is it you enjoy doing most of all?” he asked.
Spying on people like you. A sly grin played on her lips. Aside from her talent at snooping, one of Evelyn’s favorite pastimes was gardening. She loved to dig in the earth and make beautiful flowers grow. “Horticulture.”
“Another surprise.” Mar led her around in a circle. “What is your favorite flower?”
“The dog rose.” Without hesitation, she stared straight ahead and spoke aloud a secret Jacobite symbol. Prolific in the Highlands of Scotland, the dog rose
was far from the most beautiful, but it carried with it great meaning. Pinned to a man’s lapel, the flower told those committed to the Jacobite cause the wearer supported Prince James as the first in the succession and the rightful heir to the throne.
If Mar was aware of the dog rose’s significance, he didn’t let on. “Pink or white?”
She smirked. “White, of course.”
By the grace of God, the minuet came to an end and, hopefully, Mar’s interrogation with it. She curtsied while His Lordship bowed. “Thank you, my lord. Your dancing is truly as polished as your mien.”
John awoke the next morning with a minuet humming in his head, accompanying visions of Lady Evelyn Pierrepont. Though she’d not been what he expected, the memory of the young woman was a pleasant respite from his persistent woes. She seemed such a level-headed lass and her father quite keen to see her wed.
Eleven years ago, John had followed his heart and married a woman with whom he’d fallen deeply and irrevocably in love. Even though his father had left him saddled with debt, John had proposed to Margaret because he couldn’t imagine himself with any other woman. Regrettably, he still could not.
And now she was gone…their two young boys left without a mother.
John sighed and looked to the bed-curtains above.
Lady Evelyn was a handsome woman. Not the beauty Margaret had been, but well proportioned and stately. The daughter of a duke, she would be more than acceptable as a candidate to assume the role of stepmother and countess. A woman who preferred a pastoral life, who was practical and even-tempered, would suit his needs ideally. And Her Ladyship came with a generous dowry. If all went as planned, at last John would be free of his father’s creditors and loosen the chains Queen Anne had around his neck. How he longed to lessen his courtly duties in London and spend more time at his Scottish estate in Alloa. Invest some real capital into his coal mine and improve conditions for clan and kin.
Aye, Lady Evelyn’s brunette locks had shimmered beneath the chandeliers like polished mahogany—quite a change from Margaret’s blonde. Thank heavens. John could never bear to marry anyone who looked like his bonny lass. Her Ladyship posed a picture of everything Margaret was not—full-figured, English, shocking turquoise eyes, a heart-shaped face, and, most importantly, she was the daughter of a wealthy duke.