Julia London - [Scandalous 02]

by Highland Scandal

  “No’ a hunter?” Dougal asked in a tone that suggested he thought it impossible.

  The Highlander listened with rapt attention as Jack regaled him with tales of the prince. This morning such tales had at least earned him a bit of ham. Jack hoped Dougal might be persuaded to put away that blasted gun.

  Lambourne looked quite cozy with Dougal when Carson rode up the drive to Thorntree with his two men. The earl was leaning against a split rail fence, enjoying a cheroot Dougal must have given him, looking like a vicar in the throes of a philosophical rambling.

  Dougal stood with his legs braced wide apart, a gun held loosely at his side, his attention on Lambourne. Whatever the earl was telling him had him engrossed.

  The earl struck Carson as a glib man, someone who had made his way in this life on the strength of his silver tongue and his ability to ingratiate himself into fine salons.

  When Lambourne spotted him, he gave Carson a derisive smirk.

  As Carson dismounted, Lambourne tossed the end of the cheroot to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot. “And the day grows happier and happier,” he said, bowing low.

  “Spare me false pleasantries, Lambourne,” Carson said, but Lambourne’s smile only widened. He enjoyed annoying him, Carson realized.

  “Rather cold day for riding, is it no’?” Lambourne asked, glancing in the direction from which Carson and his men had come. “What’s down that way?”

  “By the bye, milord,” Carson said, removing his gloves, “I hosted two of the prince’s men at Castle Beal last evening. When they did no’ find you in Crieff as they’d hoped, they backtracked. But they brought along an additional six men—Highlanders all—to help them find you.” He glanced at the earl.

  “Indeed?” Lambourne said, looking damnably casual as his gaze flicked over the men who flanked Carson, their guns clearly evident in their belts.

  “I thought you might like to know that Sir Oliver Wilkes was hanged a fortnight ago for treason and conspiracy,” Carson said. “I understand he was a friend of yours.”

  The earl’s arrogant smile faltered a bit. “Wilkes?”

  “Then he was a friend, aye?” Carson said.

  Lambourne laughed. “I am friend to all, Laird. Even to you.”

  Aye, but the man was smooth. Carson stepped forward and said low, “I know your sort, Lambourne. There are those in London and beyond who believe you had something in common with your friend Wilkes. The bounty has been increased by one hundred pounds. That would feed a man’s family for more than a year, aye? I would suggest you stay close to my niece, lest the same end come to you. Where is she?”

  “Oh, I hardly know,” Lambourne said pleasantly. “Feeding chickens or stomping about the house in her boots, I’d wager.”

  “You are careless, sir,” Carson said with disdain, and walked on, to the house, his men on his heels.

  “You might clean your boots before entering,” Jack called after him. “You’d no’ want to muddy the clean floors, aye?”

  Carson glanced down at his boots. They were covered with mud. He muttered a curse under his breath and continued on.

  Lizzie heard voices through the flue in the library. She kept the hearth cold in this room, as she rarely occupied it for more than an hour or two at a time, and it was not worth the expense of peat. Bundled in her father’s greatcoat as well as her fingerless gloves, she worked and reworked the figures in her account books, trying in vain to find a way to stretch the little money they had and pay the smithy for the repairs to their worn carriage: two new wheels and an axle. She’d had to do it—that carriage was the only means Charlotte had of leaving Thorntree, should the need arise.

  “‘The worth of a thing is known by the want of it,’ as Papa always said,” she muttered to herself. But then she paused and frowned. “Aye, but Grandmama said ‘willful waste makes woeful want.’” She shook her head. There was a Highland saying for everything, and if she looked hard enough, she’d find one to justify what she was doing. She resumed her work, her feet tapping an old Highland tune on top of Red’s body, who had stretched out on the floor beneath the table.

  When Lizzie heard the voices, she assumed they were those of Charlotte and Newton. But when the voices rose, she recognized the faint but unmistakable tones of her uncle. She was instantly on her feet, striding out of the parlor, Red trotting alongside her.

  In the drawing room, Charlotte was sitting near the fire with Bean in her lap. Carson was standing over her.

  “Someone should drown that bloody dog,” Carson growled, glaring at Bean.

  “Why are you here, threatening a small dog, Uncle?” Lizzie asked angrily. “Is there someone else you wish to abduct? Another life you wish to ruin?”

  “And a jolly good day to you as well, Lizzie,” her uncle responded as he unfastened the clasp on his cloak. He tossed it carelessly on a chair and ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “I have come to tell you that I have paid your debt to the smithy.”

  “What?” Lizzie demanded.

  “Why, Uncle,” Charlotte said with false lightness, as she gathered Bean in her arms, “how generous of you.”

  “We are perfectly capable of paying our debts,” Lizzie said angrily.

  “Oh? Then why did you no’ pay it? What did you think would stop him from taking your carriage as payment?”

  A flush of anger heated Lizzie’s neck. Several months ago, a merchant had taken some of the furniture their father had commissioned when that bill went unpaid. “I intended to speak to him,” Lizzie said curtly as she shed the greatcoat, “but I was taken from my home and forced into a handfasting.”

  “Speaking is no’ money, Lizzie. You are a young woman and naïve to the ways of tradesman and merchants. I had to take matters into hand.”

  Oh, but she despised his domineering manner! Their debt to Carson kept mounting, and it was precisely what he wanted: the more they owed him, the tighter his stranglehold on them and Thorntree. “You’ve put us deeper in debt to you.”

  Carson shrugged indifferently. “If you honor your vow to the handfasting and turn that bloody Gordon away, we might find a satisfactory arrangement for you to repay your debt to me.”

  “I’d rather live in debtor’s prison than be beholden to you. I donna understand why you go to such lengths, Uncle! What is Mr. Gordon to you?”

  “A Gordon! The name itself is vile! I’ll no’ have a Gordon on Beal land!”

  “Aye, but this is our land—no’ yours,” Lizzie said evenly.

  “This is Beal land!” he thundered. “I might ask the same question of you, Lizzie—why do you go to such lengths to turn away an earl? He is wealthy and may solve all your troubles. He is titled—”

  “He is wanted to hang and he was coerced into this union.”

  “As most men are,” Carson scoffed. “How fares your husband?”

  “He is no’ my husband.”

  “Are you treating him as you ought? Is he sleeping in your bed?”

  “Uncle!” Lizzie cried. The heat of humiliation spread up her neck, to her face.

  But Carson was ruthless. “Get his seed in you. Carry his child.”

  Lizzie gasped with shock. “Diah!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  “He’ll go off and leave you, aye, he will as soon as he is able, but if you bear his child, he’ll provide for you and all your problems will be solved, no?”

  “You…you are reprehensible,” Lizzie said, her voice shaking. She turned away from him, strode to the door, and yanked it open. “Please go.”

  “No’ so fast,” Carson said. “I have come to tell you that you’ll be hosting a supper party on Friday evening. The McLennans and the Sorley Beals will be your guests. It is near enough to Candlemas that you will use the occasion to end your mourning. Now then, I have chosen the McLennans and the Beals to attend your supper party for they are family, and they will no’ let on to an outsider that the man the prince so desperately wants in his custody is here. But you’d best show your
regard and your happiness at your handfasting, Lizzie.”

  “I will do no such thing!” she cried. “You can no’ command us to entertain and to pretend all is well!”

  “Donna be stupid,” Carson said coldly. “If you donna do as I say, it will no’ be long before someone in this glen believes that a royal bounty is theirs for the taking, and they will justify it by your wretched behavior and disregard for the man. But if they believe one of their own is happily married, they’ll protect his identity and your happiness. That is the way of the Beals, aye? We look after one another.”

  “Do you hear the irony in your own words?” Lizzie asked incredulously.

  But her uncle was not listening. “In other words,” he said, “if you donna want to see the man hang, you’ll do as I say. Every Beal in this glen must believe that your troth has been happily pledged. If you would get yourself with child, that would ensure our secret is safe.”

  Lizzie gaped at him.

  “God in heaven, will you leave us?” Charlotte cried.

  Lizzie opened the door. Carson’s two men, standing just outside, came to attention. Carson’s face mottled with anger and, with a glare for Charlotte, he picked up his coat and walked to the door. He paused there and looked back at them. “You two are awfully high and mighty, eh? Just remember that I am the only one who stands between you and complete ruin.”

  “You’ve done nothing but hasten our ruin!” Lizzie snapped. “And for what? For a tiny estate with nothing to recommend it! How deep your greed runs, Uncle Carson.”

  His face turned darker and he clenched his jaw. “There are things that you are incapable of understanding.” He shifted closer. “I’ll say it once more, Lizzie. If you donna do as I tell you, you will feel the full force of my wrath,” he said menacingly. “If you donna mind yourself and this handfasting, I will personally see to it that you are as incapacitated as your sister.”

  His threat had the desired effect—Lizzie was speechless.

  “I’ll be back,” he said sourly, and quit the room, leaving bits of mud on the carpet.

  Lizzie shut the door behind him and gaped at Charlotte in disbelief.

  “What are we to do?” Charlotte asked helplessly.

  Lizzie angrily removed the fingerless gloves. “Donna allow him to intimidate us, for that is precisely what he aims to do.”

  “He is succeeding,” Charlotte muttered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the library again, Lizzie pored over the books.

  She was worried. They needed food and more candles and proper clothing now that their period of mourning was coming to an end, but as things stood…

  She dropped her pencil and rubbed her forehead in a vain attempt to stave off the headache that was building.

  “Might I help?”

  Startled, Lizzie looked up. Jack stood in the frame of the door, one leg crossed casually over the other, one arm braced against the frame.

  “Diah, but you are forever appearing from the ether like a demon,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said and, walking into the study uninvited, paused to look around.

  She did not need this distraction now, and gestured impatiently to the door. “Perhaps you might amuse yourself elsewhere?”

  He looked at her, then at the ledger. “It is fairly obvious you are troubled, Lizzie. At least allow me to help.”

  “No.” She adamantly shook her head. “This ledger contains our private affairs.”

  “You canna believe your affairs are particularly private any longer, can you, lass?”

  She couldn’t argue, given the handfasting and the gossip that must be flying about the glen. And although Lizzie had longed for someone to look at the old ledger and advise her, she couldn’t bear to show this man of means the perilous state of their finances. “It is…kind of you to offer,” she said, shutting the ledger. “But you’ve no knowledge about the affairs of an estate like this.”

  “Does Lambourne Castle run itself?” he scoffed, and moved closer to the desk.

  “I mean one so triflingly small compared to your…position,” she said carefully.

  “They are all the same. So much comes in, so much goes out for this estate and many other types. I travel to Lambourne Castle once a year precisely to acquaint myself with such affairs.”

  “Only once a year?” she said, curious now. “Why?”

  “Because…because there is little else for me there,” he said. “Come then, let me have a look. You’d be doing me a kindness in giving me an occupation.”

  Desperate for the help he offered, Lizzie toyed with the worn corner of the leather binding. “We’ve no’ a lot of money,” she said stiffly.

  “Well, now,” he said, taking a wooden chair and twirling it around so that it was next to Lizzie’s chair. “It’s rarely the amount but how you’ve got it all arranged.” He flipped the tails of his coat and settled in.

  Lizzie straightened in her chair, her palms pressed against the closed ledger, debating whether or not she should do this.

  Jack looked expectantly at Lizzie.

  She sighed and slowly slid it to him.

  Jack opened the ledger and turned his attention to it.

  Lizzie could not bear to watch him or see his shock at the shambles he might perceive, and popped up out of her seat to pace anxiously beside the desk.

  To his credit, Jack did not look appalled, nor did he laugh. He looked…studious. Quite studious, actually, as if he were very much at home with books and figures. Of course he would be—he was an earl. Where were earls educated, she wondered? What sort of school had he attended? She and Charlotte had had the tutelage of a governess for two years, but their father considered it a luxury and eventually let her go.

  Lizzie looked at Jack. “Where were you educated, if I may ask?”

  “St. Andrews,” he said without taking his eyes from the ledger. “And Cambridge,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Lizzie paused in her pacing. He’d been educated in the best schools of Scotland and England. “And when you were a lad?”

  “A series of tutors. Why do you ask?”

  “Curiosity,” she said. She imagined a boy in short breeches and a cap all alone in a dank nursery at Lambourne Castle. “Have you siblings, then?”

  “A sister, Fiona.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I couldn’t really say. She has been in London of late, but the last I saw her…” He shook his head. “I donna know.”

  “What of your parents?”

  “They are deceased.”

  A lost sister, departed parents. She actually felt a wee bit sad for him. The Highlanders had a saying, naturally: A lonely man has nothing to die for. “What were they like?” she asked.

  Jack looked up, assessing her. “My mother died when I was seventeen years and Fiona only thirteen years. My father…” His face went blank. “He died a year later.” The mention seemed to pain him.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Donna be,” Jack said low as he turned back to the books. “He was no’ a happy man, and he rather enjoyed making everyone around him unhappy.”

  Lizzie allowed a few moments of silence to pass. “What is your age?” she asked almost timidly.

  That caused him to glance up and peer curiously at her. “I’ve enjoyed thirty years on this earth. And you?”

  “Three and twenty,” she muttered.

  “Three and twenty,” he repeated as his gaze flicked over her. “I would say, Miss Beal, that it is high time your knight offered for your hand.” He winked, then turned back to the ledger.

  She thought to tell him that was abominably rude, but that idea was interrupted by the way his hair curled over his collar. It was brushed back from his face, and he was sporting a strong shadow of a beard. He was a handsome man, that could not be denied. Truthfully, he looked a bit more rugged than the first night she’d met him standing on the dais at Castle Beal.

  She
tried to imagine him at the Candlemas celebrations that were held annually at Castle Beal. Candlemas marked the middle of winter and meant that soon thereafter the fields would be readied for sowing. As long as Lizzie could remember there had been a celebration at Castle Beal, marked by a procession of children carrying candles, then sweetmeats for them and whisky for the adults, and a country dance.

  It was impossible to imagine Jack at such a celebration, and frankly, every time she looked at him, she was reminded of the torrid kiss they’d shared. She was amazed the ice had not melted from the tree limbs and caused something of a flood, it had been so heated. One could only wonder how that heat would deepen if…if…

  Jack suddenly looked up and caught her staring at him. He gave her a slightly crooked, slightly knowing smile, then pointed to the ledger. “Is all your livestock recorded here?”

  She nodded as she tried to collect herself from her deviant thoughts.

  “Ah. A pity, that.”

  “Why?” she asked anxiously. “What do you see?”

  “What I see,” he said with a sigh, “is no’ a lot with which to work. Were I you, I’d consider selling a cow.”

  Lizzie gaped at him. “Sell a cow? You’re mad to suggest it!”

  “Are you so attached to your cows? Sell one, and you will bring in more than what you presently owe and perhaps even have a bit to spare.”

  “Aye, and what shall we do for milk and butter?”

  “One cow’s milk can provide for this household if you use the milk wisely. And one can live without butter. Lord knows I have of late,” he said with a sigh. “I think you have no choice,” he added, leaning back, his expression far too superior to suit her. “It’s simple economics.”

  “Is it?” she said, folding her arms. As if she were so daft not to understand that, at least!

  He misunderstood her acerbic tone. “You have more expenses than you have income,” he said patiently, as if he were explaining it to a child.

  “Aha. I had no’ noticed.”