The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  John’s blood simmered near boiling while they moved along, the coach teetering as they took the corners. The wheels creaked and groaned, the horses’ shod hooves clattering on the cobbles to the tune of the coachman’s cracking whip.

  “Ho!” the coachman hollered, bringing the team to an abrupt halt.

  They all jolted toward the front quarter.

  John slammed his fist against the wall to admonish the driver, though he didn’t dare shout.

  “The Pool of London is swarming with redcoats,” the man’s muffled voice filtered throughout.

  John parted the curtains only wide enough to peer out. “Shite.”

  “Da!”

  Evelyn covered Oliver’s mouth. “Sh.”

  “Where to, m’lord?” asked the driver.

  Her Ladyship pushed the lad’s bonnet away from his eyes. “Tell him to go to my father’s town house. There we will be able to hide the carriage behind the mews.”

  “Och aye? And once your father learns we’re being pursued by Argyll and his band of misled dragoons, your da will throw us to the wolves.”

  Evelyn eyed him. “Not if you tell him you’re pursuing his gold.”

  “Damnation, woman, I have had enough!”

  Gaping at him with defiance, she pounded on the carriage wall. “Head for Kingston-upon-Hull’s mews!”

  John gaped. Was there no end to the wench’s audacity? “Have you ever in your life obeyed anyone?”

  “I beg your pardon? Where else can we flee?”

  “And you think you have all the answers? You have pushed me too far. Because of you I am risking the lives of my children, and my reputation, not to mention putting my lands at risk—because you trusted someone? How deep does this misplaced trust go, Evelyn?”

  The woman lowered her damned gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Right. Fob me off. That’s convenient.”

  She slid Oliver off her lap. “Do you know Sir Kennan Cameron?”

  “Why in God’s name—?”

  “Because his ship is moored at Blackwall. Furthermore, he also has firsthand information on what happened to the Spanish gold.”

  “What?” he shouted so loudly, his voice cracked. John clenched his fists, wishing his fingers were wrapped around Evelyn’s neck. “Ye kent this and yet withheld it from me?”

  “I didn’t think you’d give a damn—until now.”

  “Stop your cursing,” John snapped.

  Thomas leaned over and laced his hands around Evelyn’s arm. “But you cursed as well, Da.”

  “Wheesht.”

  “Anyway…” Evelyn drew her arm around the lad’s shoulders. “My father might be willing to provide us with a safe haven if he knew you had information as to the whereabouts of his gold.”

  John sat back and groaned. He needed to think and Hull’s town house was possibly the best option they had—though he would never admit it to Her Ladyship. “Very well, but I shall speak to His Grace and the rest of you will remain silent.”

  Keeping her lips tightly closed, Evelyn strengthened her hold on the boys’ hands, terrified of what John might say while they met with her father in the drawing room. What if Papa discovered how much she knew about his affairs?

  “I received anonymous information about your gold, which led me to a rather squalid coffeehouse,” John said with a most sober expression. “No sooner had I stepped inside when Argyll and his dragoons barged in and accused me of treason.”

  “Argyll?” Papa thumped the leather-bound Bible atop his writing table. “I knew that man was a backstabber.”

  Evelyn could hold her tongue no longer. “We need a place to hide.”

  John shot her an angry glare, slicing his hand through the air. “Only until I have a moment to explain the situation to Her Majesty.”

  Evelyn was puzzled. John hadn’t mentioned anything about speaking to the queen.

  “Tell the queen about the gold? No, no, no. Such an admission would ruin me.” Papa strode to the sideboard and poured two drams of brandy. “And Argyll is too powerful to subvert by a mere conversation. Moreover, you cannot hide here. As Lady Evelyn’s father, my house is the first place they’ll look. You’ll fare better pleading your case from Scotland—whilst leaving my name out of the matter altogether.”

  John accepted the brandy but he didn’t drink. “Perhaps you’re right. In fact, my servants are shuttering my town house as we speak.”

  Releasing a pent-up breath, Evelyn pulled the boys forward and gave John a very pointed stare, praying he understood her meaning. “If we make haste to Blackwall, I am certain Sir Kennan will—”

  John shook his head vehemently. “There are probably a hundred dragoons scouring the streets between here and the port.”

  Papa tossed back his dram and coughed. “Good heavens, there’s no time to waste.”

  “Send a maid to Phoebe’s chamber.” Still holding the children by their hands, Evelyn started for the door. “I’ll change into Frances’s mourning gown and put a veil over my head, and then we’ll use Phoebe’s clothes to disguise the boys.”

  Thomas stopped and wrenched away. “I’m not dressing like a lass.”

  Oliver did the same. “Me neither.”

  Evelyn planted her fists on her hips. “Do you know the alternative?”

  Thomas hung his head. “Nay.”

  “Your father will be convicted of a crime he did not commit. He could endure a heinous trial, his lands and title stripped, he could be sent to the colonies or worse. Why? Do not let it be because you refused to don a disguise.”

  “It will only take a short while to traverse the city, lads.” John clapped each boy on the shoulder. “Now go along with your stepmother.”

  The boys reluctantly followed her to Phoebe’s room and, after Evelyn opened her sister’s cedar chest, one of the housemaids entered. “Do you need assistance, my lady?”

  “Yes.” Evelyn shook out two old dresses from last season that would work nicely. “Help the lads into these. And find a couple of straw bonnets. The gowns ought to fit over their clothing.” She tossed the dresses at the maid. “I’ll be in Frances’s chamber if you should need me.”

  “I cannot believe we have to wear girls’ clothes,” Thomas mumbled.

  “Aye, whatever happened must be terribly grave,” said Oliver as Evelyn crossed the corridor and opened the door to the other bedchamber.

  Frances’s mourning dress was stowed at the bottom of the chest and needed a good pressing. But it couldn’t be helped. Besides, if she looked a bit disheveled, that would further draw away suspicion. Evelyn tied the skirt over her clothes and shrugged into the top piece. Thank goodness Frances was a tad larger.

  After she found a veil, she dashed back across the corridor and joined the boys. “How is it coming?”

  Thomas turned and stared out from under a straw bonnet with a yellow bow. “I look like a fool.”

  Evelyn clapped a hand over her mouth and forced herself not to laugh. Though it was too small for Phoebe, the gown was easily two inches too long and the hat nearly swallowed him whole.

  “I cannot walk in this,” said Oliver, the bonnet falling into his face while he bent to look at his feet.

  “Goodness, these dresses won’t do.” Evelyn dashed to the toilette, pulled open a drawer, and found a ribbon. “Tie this around Oliver’s waist and cinch up the hem.”

  Shaking her head, the maid took it. “Yes, my lady.”

  “And give me your apron, please. It’ll hide all these hideous wrinkles.”

  By the time they all ventured out to the mews, John had changed into a pair of rough-hewn breeches and an old leather doublet—both of which were a tad small. The only thing that fit was the borrowed tricorn atop his head. He tugged a satchel over his shoulder. “We’ll be taking your father’s coach. It will draw less attention.”

  “Why not hire one?” she asked.

  “Because the only driver in London I trust is mine.” John opened the door, gestured i
nside and, though he offered his hand, he did so with an air of reluctance. “We must haste—and you’d best not be wrong about Cameron.”

  Evelyn sat on the velvet bench while John helped the boys negotiate their skirts. Sir Kennan had offered his assistance at the theater. But why was her throat so tight she couldn’t swallow? Had the sea captain turned pirate?

  Chapter Twenty

  When the odors from the port wafted through the coach, the driver slowed the team to a walk. John peered through the curtain as they ambled along the Thames. The bustle on the wharf was frenzied with men rolling barrels down long gangways. Lads shouted and ran. Laborers toiled, loading wagons. And all along the footpath, merchants peddled their wares.

  Evelyn leaned under him and craned her neck to see out. She pointed downriver. “There it is, the Highland Reel.”

  “She’s moored off the shore,” said Thomas as the boys wrestled for a chance for a peek.

  Two soldiers carrying muskets strode past. Dropping the curtain, John nudged everyone away from the window.

  A thump came from the driver’s seat above. “The place is teeming with redcoats, too.”

  “Turn down a side street. We’ll alight there,” John said loudly enough to be heard.

  As the coach started away, he focused on his sons. “It is very important for you to keep your heads down and pretend you are lassies.”

  “But I hate being a girl,” said Thomas.

  “’Tisn’t for long. And you may as well learn now that we must make compromises. This is a grave matter. One that may see us all killed if we do not play our parts. Do you understand?”

  Squaring his shoulders, Thomas straightened. “Aye, m’lord. But what did you do?”

  “Nothing I cannot set to rights once we reach home.” He turned to the youngest. “Can you pretend to be a lass, Oliver?”

  The boy scratched beneath his hat. “Yes. But this bonnet itches.”

  Evelyn gave him a pat. “You’ll have it off soon enough.”

  The carriage came to a halt. “I’ll do the talking.” John pointedly stared at his wife. “I mean it, Eve.”

  “Of course. I don’t know why you think I would speak out of turn.”

  He snorted. “You did at Hull’s.”

  Her jaw dropped, and then she coughed as if she always portrayed the epitome of acquiescence. “That’s because he’s my father.”

  “Enough talk.”

  The coachman opened the door and, after they alighted, John gathered his family on the footpath. “A bedraggled lot of tinkers we are.”

  “’Tis a good thing, is it not?” Evelyn asked.

  He pointed his finger at her lips. “Wheesht. And I’ll not be reminding you again.”

  Ignoring her exasperated expression, he led them toward the wharf, keeping his eyes on the cobblestones. Disguised, John looked like a common laborer, but if anyone who knew him came close, he risked being arrested on the spot. Ahead, three soldiers blocked the entrance to the port stairs leading to the river.

  John’s back arched against the pressure of the dirk hidden up his spine. At Hull’s he’d hidden daggers in his sleeves and his socks, though his flintlock was in plain view, tucked in his belt.

  When a mob of redcoats approached, he picked up Oliver and coaxed the lad’s head against his shoulder. “Pretend you’re sleepy,” he whispered.

  The boy whimpered, playing his part like a champion.

  While the dragoons marched past, John turned his attention to a fish merchant. “What’s the price of herring today?” he asked, in a practiced English accent, watching out of the corner of his eye.

  “A ha’penny a pound, sir.” The man held up a sample by the gills. “This here’s a beauty—she’d sell for a shilling in Town, but I’ll give her to you for five pence.”

  “Thank you, but I’m just browsing. Perhaps on the morrow.”

  When only three sentries remained at the post, he straightened one arm and coaxed a dagger to slide into his palm. Balancing his son on his forearm, beneath Oliver’s skirts he gripped the handle of his pistol.

  John glanced back to Evelyn and Thomas. “Now’s the time to act your parts,” he growled out of the side of his mouth.

  A corporal removed his musket from his shoulder and held it across his body, blocking the entrance. “State your purpose.”

  “Just looking to hire a skiff to take us across the Thames, governor,” John said, sounding like a local—at least his years in London weren’t for naught. “Taking the family to see my mother afore the minister reads her last rites, we are.”

  “Is that so?” The corporal pinched Oliver’s sleeve between his fingers and rubbed the fabric.

  Jesu, there was enough taffeta to outfit the wee lad with two gowns.

  “This is awfully fine cloth for a—”

  “We put on our best, we did.” Bless it, Evelyn had to bloody open her mouth—and she sounded like a Cockney hen.

  The corporal eyed her. “Mourning clothes already?”

  John took a step in—idle chat would be their end. “If you’ll excuse us—”

  Raising his weapon, the soldier stopped him. “Just a moment.”

  “It’s Dubois!” a dragoon shouted from down the street.

  The corporal grinned and licked his lips. “I want that bastard.” Shouldering his musket, he beckoned his men and started off. “I’ll be the first to applaud when the Frenchman swings from the gallows.”

  John let out a long breath and hastened for the stairs. “Stay on my heels. We’re not out of this yet.”

  “The Highland Reel’s sails are unfurling,” Evelyn whispered.

  Holy everlasting hell, what else might go wrong this day?

  John found a man tying his skiff to a mooring cleat. “How much to take us across the river?”

  “Sorry. I’m heading home for the day.”

  “But we’re—” Evelyn silenced Thomas with a nudge.

  John set Oliver down. “I’ll give you a guinea and you do not even need to take us clear across.”

  “A guinea? That’s more than I earn in a week.”

  “Will you take us?”

  The man held out his palm. “Payment first.”

  John fished a coin out of the satchel and waved it under the sailor’s nose. “Once we’re aboard.”

  The man untied the rope while John helped everyone onto the benches. “We must haste.”

  The sailor sat between the oars and held out his palm. “Why’s that?”

  Slapping the guinea into his hand, John inclined his head toward the Highland Reel. “Because we need to board that ship.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “The Reel? But they’re hoisting her anchor.”

  “Row fast, my friend. If you ferry us to that ship afore she sails, there’ll be another guinea in it for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Crack!

  Before she could stop herself, Evelyn shrieked while ducking over the top of Thomas and shielding him from the musket shot with her body.

  “They’re firing at us!” shouted the oarsman.

  “’Tis but a warning. It missed by three lengths.” Seemingly undaunted, John removed his tricorn and waved it. “Hold the ship!” he hollered. But his efforts were met by another volley from the shore.

  The man pulled an oar, making the skiff veer off course. “That does it. I’m turning back.”

  “Wait,” Evelyn said, removing her veil and standing. “Sir Kennan! We need safe passage.”

  “Bloody Christmas, you’ll capsize the boat,” John growled.

  Evelyn didn’t stop. Sailors darted across the deck waving their arms and shouting. A kilted man moved to the rail and held up a spyglass—good heavens, it was Sir Kennan himself.

  “Please!” she shouted, frantically waving her veil, trying not to rock the boat.

  Muskets cracked behind, but John’s confidence had given her strength. The shots weren’t even coming close.

  Sir Kennan lowered his s
pyglass and circled his arm over his head.

  “He’s waving at us,” shouted Oliver.

  John thumped the oarsman on the shoulder. “Keep on, else I’ll toss you over the side.”

  A boom swung out over the hull and the men lowered a seat that looked like the swing hanging from the big oak tree at Thoresby Hall.

  Once Mar convinced the oarsman to continue, it took no time to reach the Highland Reel. He grabbed for the swing as it sailed past. “Evelyn, you go up first with Thomas on your lap. I’ll follow with Oliver.”

  “But I want to go up by myself,” said Thomas.

  “There’s no time. Do as I say.”

  “Thomas and Oliver?” asked the oarsman. “Those are peculiar names for a pair of girls.”

  Evelyn cringed as she slid onto the seat. They hadn’t thought to use aliases.

  “What are you on about?” John asked the man as if he’d been affronted. “I said Thomasa and Olive. Are you deaf?”

  “Beg your pardon.”

  Once Thomas was on her lap, Evelyn exhaled. “Thank you for remaining silent about your name.”

  “I did it for Da,” the boy whispered. “He said we had to play our parts.”

  “And you were splendid,” Evelyn said, swearing to herself never to mention the names Thomasa or Olive again in her life.

  Three pairs of hands reached to pull them aboard as Sir Kennan’s confused expression came into view. “What the devil has happened, m’lady?”

  “Dubois is a double spy—he’s behind a plot for the French invasion of England.”

  “Aye, we’ve just heard the news as well. ’Tis why I’m setting sail.” He looked to Thomas. “Who’s this?”

  Evelyn removed the frilly hat from the child’s head. “We disguised the boys in my sister Phoebe’s clothing.”

  “Mar kens about Dubois?”

  “Aye!” the earl’s voice resounded from below. “And I need some bloody answers.”

  Sir Kennan pulled Evelyn away from the rail and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “I do not trust him.”

  She patted the captain’s arm reassuringly. “I didn’t initially, either. But I was wrong. Please, I ask you to give Mar a chance.”